Resurrection, Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy [books to read this summer .txt] 📗

of

tea. “May I? No? Well, just as you like. When you are living here

in Siberia you are too glad to meet an educated person. Our work,

as you know, is the saddest, and when one is used to better

things it is very hard. The idea they have of us is that convoy

officers are coarse, uneducated men, and no one seems to remember

that we may have been born for a very different position.”

 

This officer’s red face, his scents, his rings, and especially

his unpleasant laughter disgusted Nekhludoff very much, but

to-day, as during the whole of his journey, he was in that

serious, attentive state which did not allow him to behave

slightingly or disdainfully towards any man, but made him feel

the necessity of speaking to every one “entirely,” as he

expressed to himself, this relation to men. When he had heard the

officer and understood his state of mind, he said in a serious

manner:

 

“I think that in your position, too, some comfort could be found

in helping the suffering people,” he said.

 

“What are their sufferings? You don’t know what these people

are.”

 

“They are not special people,” said Nekhludoff; “they are just

such people as others, and some of them are quite innocent.”

 

“Of course, there are all sorts among them, and naturally one

pities them. Others won’t let anything off, but I try to lighten

their condition where I can. It’s better that I should suffer,

but not they. Others keep to the law in every detail, even as far

as to shoot, but I show pity. May I?—Take another,” he said, and

poured out another tumbler of tea for Nekhludoff.

 

“And who is she, this woman that you want to see?” he asked.

 

“It is an unfortunate woman who got into a brothel, and was there

falsely accused of poisoning, and she is a very good woman,”

Nekhludoff answered.

 

The officer shook his head. “Yes, it does happen. I can tell you

about a certain Ernma who lived in Kasan. She was a Hungarian by

birth, but she had quite Persian eyes,” he continued, unable to

restrain a smile at the recollection; “there was so much chic

about her that a countess—”

 

Nekhludoff interrupted the officer and returned to the former

topic of conversation.

 

“I think that you could lighten the condition of the people while

they are in your charge. And in acting that way I am sure you

would find great joy!” said Nekhludoff, trying to pronounce as

distinctly as possible, as he might if talking to a foreigner or

a child.

 

The officer looked at Nekhludoff impatiently, waiting for him to

stop so as to continue the tale about the Hungarian with Persian

eyes, who evidently presented herself very vividly to his

imagination and quite absorbed his attention.

 

“Yes, of course, this is all quite true,” he said, “and I do pity

them; but I should like to tell you about Emma. What do you think

she did—?”

 

“It does not interest me,” said Nekhludoff, “and I will tell you

straight, that though I was myself very different at one time, I

now hate that kind of relation to women.”

 

The officer gave Nekhludoff a frightened look.

 

“Won’t you take some more tea?” he said.

 

“No, thank you.”

 

“Bernoff!” the officer called, “take the gentleman to Vakouloff.

Tell him to let him into the separate political room. He may

remain there till the inspection.”

 

CHAPTER IX.

 

THE POLITICAL PRISONERS.

 

Accompanied by the orderly, Nekhludoff went out into the

courtyard, which was dimly lit up by the red light of the lamps.

 

“Where to?” asked the convoy sergeant, addressing the orderly.

 

“Into the separate cell, No. 5.”

 

“You can’t pass here; the boss has gone to the village and taken

the keys.”

 

“Well, then, pass this way.”

 

The soldier led Nekhludoff along a board to another entrance.

While still in the yard Nekhludoff could hear the din of voices

and general commotion going on inside as in a beehive when the

bees are preparing to swarm; but when he came nearer and the door

opened the din grew louder, and changed into distinct sounds of

shouting, abuse and laughter. He heard the clatter of chairs and

smelt the well-known foul air. This din of voices and the clatter

of the chairs, together with the close smell, always flowed into

one tormenting sensation, and produced in Nekhludoff a feeling of

moral nausea which grew into physical sickness, the two feelings

mingling with and heightening each other.

 

The first thing Nekhludoff saw, on entering, was a large,

stinking tub. A corridor into which several doors opened led from

the entrance. The first was the family room, then the bachelors’

room, and at the very end two small rooms were set apart for the

political prisoners.

 

The buildings, which were arranged to hold one hundred and fifty

prisoners, now that there were four hundred and fifty inside,

were so crowded that the prisoners could not all get into the

rooms, but filled the passage, too. Some were sitting or lying on

the floor, some were going out with empty teapots, or bringing

them back filled with boiling water. Among the latter was Taras.

He overtook Nekhludoff and greeted him affectionately. The kind

face of Taras was disfigured by dark bruises on his nose and

under his eye.

 

“What has happened to you?” asked Nekhludoff.

 

“Yes, something did happen,” Taras said, with a smile.

 

“All because of the woman,” added a prisoner, who followed Taras;

“he’s had a row with Blind Fedka.”

 

“And how’s Theodosia?”

 

“She’s all right. Here I am bringing her the water for her tea,”

Taras answered, and went into the family room.

 

Nekhludoff looked in at the door. The room was crowded with women

and men, some of whom were on and some under the bedsteads; it

was full of steam from the wet clothes that were drying, and the

chatter of women’s voices was unceasing. The next door led into

the bachelors’ room. This room was still more crowded; even the

doorway and the passage in front of it were blocked by a noisy

crowd of men, in wet garments, busy doing or deciding something

or other.

 

The convoy sergeant explained that it was the prisoner appointed

to buy provisions, paying off out of the food money what was

owing to a sharper who had won from or lent money to the

prisoners, and receiving back little tickets made of playing

cards. When they saw the convoy soldier and a gentleman, those

who were nearest became silent, and followed them with looks of

ill-will. Among them Nekhludoff noticed the criminal Fedoroff,

whom he knew, and who always kept a miserable lad with a swelled

appearance and raised eyebrows beside him, and also a disgusting,

noseless, pockmarked tramp, who was notorious among the

prisoners because he killed his comrade in the marshes while

trying to escape, and had, as it was rumoured, fed on his flesh.

The tramp stood in the passage with his wet cloak thrown over one

shoulder, looking mockingly and boldly at Nekhludoff, and did not

move out of the way. Nekhludoff passed him by.

 

Though this kind of scene had now become quite familiar to him,

though he had during the last three months seen these four

hundred criminal prisoners over and over again in many different

circumstances; in the heat, enveloped in clouds of dust which

they raised as they dragged their chained feet along the road,

and at the resting places by the way, where the most horrible

scenes of barefaced debauchery had occurred, yet every time he

came among them, and felt their attention fixed upon him as it

was now, shame and consciousness of his sin against them

tormented him. To this sense of shame and guilt was added an

unconquerable feeling of loathing and horror. He knew that,

placed in a position such as theirs, they could not he other than

they were, and yet he was unable to stifle his disgust.

 

“It’s well for them do-nothings,” Nekhludoff heard some one say

in a hoarse voice as he approached the room of the political

prisoners. Then followed a word of obscene abuse, and spiteful,

mocking laughter.

 

CHAPTER X.

 

MAKAR DEVKIN.

 

When they had passed the bachelors’ room the sergeant who

accompanied Nekhludoff left him, promising to come for him before

the inspection would take place. As soon as the sergeant was gone

a prisoner, quickly stepping with his bare feet and holding up

the chains, came close up to Nekhludoff, enveloping him in the

strong, acid smell of perspiration, and said in a mysterious

whisper:

 

“Help the lad, sir; he’s got into an awful mess. Been drinking.

To-day he’s given his name as Karmanoff at the inspection. Take

his part, sir. We dare not, or they’ll kill us,” and looking

uneasily round he turned away.

 

This is what had happened. The criminal Kalmanoff had persuaded a

young fellow who resembled him in appearance and was sentenced to

exile to change names with him and go to the mines instead of

him, while he only went to exile. Nekhludoff knew all this. Some

convict had told him about this exchange the week before. He

nodded as a sign that he understood and would do what was in his

power, and continued his way without looking round.

 

Nekhludoff knew this convict, and was surprised by his action.

When in Ekaterinburg the convict had asked Nekhludoff to get a

permission for his wife to follow him. The convict was a man of

medium size and of the most ordinary peasant type, about thirty

years old. He was condemned to hard labour for an attempt to

murder and rob. His name was Makar Devkin. His crime was a very

curious one. In the account he gave of it to Nekhludoff, he said

it was not his but his devil’s doing. He said that a traveller

had come to his father’s house and hired his sledge to drive him

to a village thirty miles off for two roubles. Makar’s father

told him to drive the stranger. Makar harnessed the horse,

dressed, and sat down to drink tea with the stranger. The

stranger related at the tea-table that he was going to be married

and had five hundred roubles, which he had earned in Moscow, with

him. When he had heard this, Makar went out into the yard and put

an axe into the sledge under the straw. “And I did not myself

know why I was taking the axe,” he said. “‘Take the axe,’ says

he, and I took it. We got in and started. We drove along all

right; I even forgot about the axe. Well, we were getting near

the village; only about four miles more to go. The way from the

cross-road to the high road was up hill, and I got out. I walked

behind the sledge and he whispers to me, ‘What are you thinking

about? When you get to the top of the hill you will meet people

along the highway, and then there will be the village. He will

carry the money away. If you mean to do it, now’s the time.’ I

stooped over the sledge as if to arrange the straw, and the axe

seemed to jump into my hand of itself. The man turned round.

‘What are you doing?’ I lifted the axe and tried to knock him

down, but he was quick, jumped out, and took hold of my hands.

‘What are you doing, you villain?’ He threw me down into the

snow, and I did not even struggle, but gave in at once. He bound

my