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

the shoulder, and said: “I say, old

fellow, is it true that Karmanoff wishes to exchange?”

 

Bousovkin’s kindly, gentle face turned suddenly sad and a veil

seemed to dim his eyes.

 

“We have heard nothing—hardly,” he said, and with the same

dimness still over his eyes he turned to the child.

 

“Well, Aksutka, it seems you’re to make yourself comfortable with

the ladies,” and he hurried away.

 

“It’s true about the exchange, and he knows it very well,” said

Nabatoff.

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

“I shall tell the authorities in the next town. I know both

prisoners by sight,” said Nekhludoff.

 

All were silent, fearing a recommencement of the dispute.

 

Simonson, who had been lying with his arms thrown back behind his

head, and not speaking, rose, and determinately walked up to

Nekhludoff, carefully passing round those who were sitting.

 

“Could you listen to me now?”

 

“Of course,” and Nekhludoff rose and followed him.

 

Katusha looked up with an expression of suspense, and meeting

Nekhludoff’s eyes, she blushed and shook her head.

 

“What I want to speak to you about is this,” Simonson began, when

they had come out into the passage. In the passage the din of the

criminal’s voices and shouts sounded louder. Nekhludoff made a

face, but Simonson did not seem to take any notice.

 

“Knowing of your relations to Katerina Maslova,” he began

seriously and frankly, with his kind eyes looking straight into

Nekhludoff’s face, “I consider it my duty”—He was obliged to

stop because two voices were heard disputing and shouting, both

at once, close to the door.

 

“I tell you, blockhead, they are not mine,” one voice shouted.

 

“May you choke, you devil,” snorted the other.

 

At this moment Mary Pavlovna came out into the passage.

 

“How can one talk here?” she said; “go in, Vera is alone there,”

and she went in at the second door, and entered a tiny room,

evidently meant for a solitary cell, which was now placed at the

disposal of the political women prisoners, Vera Doukhova lay

covered up, head and all, on the bed.

 

“She has got a headache, and is asleep, so she cannot hear you,

and I will go away,” said Mary Pavlovna.

 

“On the contrary, stay here,” said Simonson; “I have no secrets

from any one, certainly none from you.”

 

“All right,” said Mary Pavlovna, and moving her whole body from

side to side, like a child, so as to get farther back on to the

bed, she settled down to listen, her beautiful hazel eyes seeming

to look somewhere far away.

 

“Well, then, this is my business,” Simonson repeated. “Knowing of

your relations to Katerina Maslova, I consider myself bound to

explain to you my relations to her.”

 

Nekhludoff could not help admiring the simplicity and

truthfulness with which Simonson spoke to him.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I mean that I should like to marry Katerina Maslova—”

 

“How strange!” said Mary Pavlovna, fixing her eyes on Simonson.

 

“—And so I made up my mind to ask her to be my wife,” Simonson

continued.

 

“What can I do? It depends on her,” said Nekhludoff.

 

“Yes; but she will not come to any decision without you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because as long as your relations with her are unsettled she

cannot make up her mind.”

 

“As far as I am concerned, it is finally settled. I should like

to do what I consider to be my duty and also to lighten her fate,

but on no account would I wish to put any restraint on her.”

 

“Yes, but she does not wish to accept your sacrifice.”

 

“It is no sacrifice.”

 

“And I know that this decision of hers is final.”

 

“Well, then, there is no need to speak to me,” said Nekhludoff.

 

“She wants you to acknowledge that you think as she does.”

 

“How can I acknowledge that I must not do what I consider to be

my duty? All I can say is that I am not free, but she is.”

 

Simonson was silent; then, after thinking a little, he said:

“Very well, then, I’ll tell her. You must not think I am in love

with her,” he continued; “I love her as a splendid, unique,

human being who has suffered much. I want nothing from her. I

have only an awful longing to help her, to lighten her posi—”

 

Nekhludoff was surprised to hear the trembling in Simonson’s

voice.

 

“—To lighten her position,” Simonson continued. “If she does not

wish to accept your help, let her accept mine. If she consents, I

shall ask to be sent to the place where she will be imprisoned.

Four years are not an eternity. I would live near her, and

perhaps might lighten her fate—” and he again stopped, too

agitated to continue.

 

“What am I to say?” said Nekhludoff. “I am very glad she has

found such a protector as you—”

 

“That’s what I wanted to know,” Simonson interrupted.

 

“I wanted to know if, loving her and wishing her happiness, you

would consider it good for her to marry me?”

 

“Oh, yes,” said Nekhludoff decidedly.

 

“It all depends on her; I only wish that this suffering soul

should find rest,” said Simonson, with such childlike tenderness

as no one could have expected from so morose-looking a man.

 

Simonson rose, and stretching his lips out to Nekhludoff, smiled

shyly and kissed him.

 

“So I shall tell her,” and he went away.

 

CHAPTER XVII.

 

“I HAVE NOTHING MORE TO SAY.”

 

“What do you think of that?” said Mary Pavlovna. “In love—quite

in love. Now, that’s a thing I never should have expected, that

Valdemar Simonson should be in love, and in the silliest, most

boyish manner. It is strange, and, to say the truth, it is sad,”

and she sighed.

 

“But she? Katusha? How does she look at it, do you think?”

Nekhludoff asked.

 

“She?” Mary Pavlovna waited, evidently wishing to give as exact

an answer as possible. “She? Well, you see, in spite of her past

she has one of the most moral natures—and such fine feelings.

She loves you—loves you well, and is happy to be able to do you

even the negative good of not letting you get entangled with her.

Marriage with you would be a terrible fall for her, worse than

all that’s past, and therefore she will never consent to it. And

yet your presence troubles her.”

 

“Well, what am I to do? Ought I to vanish?”

 

Mary Pavlovna smiled her sweet, childlike smile, and said, “Yes,

partly.”

 

“How is one to vanish partly?”

 

“I am talking nonsense. But as for her, I should like to tell you

that she probably sees the silliness of this rapturous kind of

love (he has not spoken to her), and is both flattered and afraid

of it. I am not competent to judge in such affairs, you know,

still I believe that on his part it is the most ordinary man’s

feeling, though it is masked. He says that this love arouses his

energy and is Platonic, but I know that even if it is

exceptional, still at the bottom it is degrading.”

 

Mary Pavlovna had wandered from the subject, having started on

her favourite theme.

 

“Well, but what am I to do?” Nekhludoff asked.

 

“I think you should tell her everything; it is always best that

everything should be clear. Have a talk with her; I shall call

her. Shall I?” said Mary Pavlovna.

 

“If you please,” said Nekhludoff, and Mary Pavlovna went.

 

A strange feeling overcame Nekhludoff when he was alone in the

little room with the sleeping Vera Doukhova, listening to her

soft breathing, broken now and then by moans, and to the

incessant dirt that came through the two doors that separated him

from the criminals. What Simonson had told him freed him from the

self-imposed duty, which had seemed hard and strange to him in

his weak moments, and yet now he felt something that was not

merely unpleasant but painful.

 

He had a feeling that this offer of Simonson’s destroyed the

exceptional character of his sacrifice, and thereby lessened its

value in his own and others’ eyes; if so good a man who was not

bound to her by any kind of tie wanted to join his fate to hers,

then this sacrifice was not so great. There may have also been an

admixture of ordinary jealousy. He had got so used to her love

that he did not like to admit that she loved another.

 

Then it also upset the plans he had formed of living near her

while she was doing her term. If she married Simonson his

presence would be unnecessary, and he would have to form new

plans.

 

Before he had time to analyse his feelings the loud din of the

prisoners’ voices came in with a rush (something special was

going on among them to-day) as the door opened to let Katusha in.

 

She stepped briskly close up to him and said, “Mary Pavlovna has

sent me.”

 

“Yes, I must have a talk with you. Sit down. Valdemar Simonson

has been speaking to me.”

 

She sat down and folded her hands in her lap and seemed quite

calm, but hardly had Nekhludoff uttered Simonson’s name when she

flushed crimson.

 

“What did he say?” she asked.

 

“He told me he wanted to marry you.”

 

Her face suddenly puckered up with pain, but she said nothing and

only cast down her eyes.

 

“He is asking for my consent or my advice. I told him that it all

depends entirely on you—that you must decide.”

 

“Ah, what does it all mean? Why?” she muttered, and looked in

his eyes with that peculiar squint that always strangely affected

Nekhludoff.

 

They sat silent for a few minutes looking into each other’s eyes,

and this look told much to both of them.

 

“You must decide,” Nekhludoff repeated.

 

“What am I to decide? Everything has long been decided.”

 

“No; you must decide whether you will accept Mr. Simonson’s

offer,” said Nekhludoff.

 

“What sort of a wife can I be—I, a convict? Why should I ruin

Mr. Simonson, too?” she said, with a frown.

 

“Well, but if the sentence should be mitigated.”

 

“Oh, leave me alone. I have nothing more to say,” she said, and

rose to leave the room.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.

 

NEVEROFF’S FATE.

 

When, following Katusha, Nekhludoff returned to the men’s room,

he found every one there in agitation. Nabatoff, who went about

all over the place, and who got to know everybody, and noticed

everything, had just brought news which staggered them all. The

news was that he had discovered a note on a wall, written by the

revolutionist Petlin, who had been sentenced to hard labour, and

who, every one thought, had long since reached the Kara; and now

it turned out that he had passed this way quite recently, the

only political prisoner among criminal convicts.

 

“On the 17th of August,” so ran the note, “I was sent off alone

with the criminals. Neveroff was with me, but hanged himself in

the lunatic asylum in Kasan. I am well and in good spirits and

hope for the best.”

 

All were discussing Petlin’s position and the possible reasons of

Neveroff’s suicide. Only Kryltzoff sat silent and preoccupied,

his glistening eyes gazing fixedly in front of him.

 

“My husband told me that Neveroff had a vision while still in the

Petropavlovski prison,” said Rintzeva.

 

“Yes, he was a poet, a dreamer; this sort