Resurrection by Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (portable ebook reader txt) 📕

“Oh, dear no; it’s finished.”

Nekhludoff looked at the prisoners. They whose fate was being

decided still sat motionless behind the grating in front of the

soldiers. Maslova was smiling. Another feeling stirred in

Nekhludoff’s soul. Up to now, expecting her acquittal and

thinking she would remain in the town, he was uncertain how to

act towards her. Any kind of relations with her would be so very

difficult. But Siberia and penal servitude at once cut off every

possibility of any kind of relations with her. The wounded bird

would stop struggling in the game-bag, and no longer remind him

of its existence.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE TRIAL—THE SENTENCE.

Peter Gerasimovitch’s assumption was correct. The president came

back from the debating room with a paper, and read as

follows:—“April 28th, 188-. By His Imperial Majesty’s ukase No.

–— The Criminal Court, on the strength of the decision of the

jury, in accordance with Section 3 of Statute 771, Section 3 of

Statutes 770 and 777, decrees that the peasant, Simeon Kartinkin,

33 years of age, and the meschanka Katerina Maslova, 27 years of

age, are to be deprived of all property rights and to be sent to

penal servitude in Siberia, Kartinkin for eight, Maslova for four

years, with the consequences stated in Statute 25 of the code.

The meschanka Botchkova, 43 years of age, to be deprived of all

special personal and acquired rights, and to be imprisoned for

three years with consequences in accord with Statute 48 of the

code. The costs of the case to be borne equally by the prisoners;

and, in the case of their being without sufficient property, the

costs to be transferred to the Treasury. Articles of material

evidence to be sold, the ring to be returned, the phials

destroyed.” Botchkova was condemned to prison, Simeon Kartinken

and Katerina Maslova to the loss of all special rights and

privileges and to penal servitude in Siberia, he for eight and

she for four years.

Kartinkin stood holding his arms close to his sides and moving

his lips. Botchkova seemed perfectly calm. Maslova, when she

heard the sentence, blushed scarlet. “I’m not guilty, not

guilty!” she suddenly cried, so that it resounded through the

room. “It is a sin! I am not guilty! I never wished—I never

thought! It is the truth I am saying—the truth!” and sinking on

the bench she burst into tears and sobbed aloud. When Kartinkin

and Botchkova went out she still sat crying, so that a gendarme

had to touch the sleeve of her cloak.

“No; it is impossible to leave it as it is,” said Nekhludoff to

himself, utterly forgetting his bad thoughts. He did not know why

he wished to look at her once more, but hurried out into the

corridor. There was quite a crowd at the door. The advocates and

jury were going out, pleased to have finished the business, and

he was obliged to wait a few seconds, and when he at last got out

into the corridor she was far in front. He hurried along the

corridor after her, regardless of the attention he was arousing,

caught her up, passed her, and stopped. She had ceased crying and

only sobbed, wiping her red, discoloured face with the end of the

kerchief on her head. She passed without noticing him. Then he

hurried back to see the president. The latter had already left

the court, and Nekhludoff followed him into the lobby and went up

to him just as he had put on his light grey overcoat and was

taking the silver-mounted walking-stick which an attendant was

handing him.

“Sir, may I have a few words with you concerning some business I

have just decided upon?” said Nekhludoff. “I am one of the jury.”

“Oh, certainly, Prince Nekhludoff. I shall be delighted. I think

we have met before,” said the president, pressing Nekhludoff’s

hand and recalling with pleasure the evening when he first met

Nekhludoff, and when he had danced so gaily, better than all the

young people. “What can I do for you?”

“There is a mistake in the answer concerning Maslova. She is not

guilty of the poisoning and yet she is condemned to penal

servitude,” said Nekhludoff, with a preoccupied and gloomy air.

“The Court passed the sentence in accordance with the answers you

yourselves gave,” said the president, moving towards the front

door; “though they did not seem to be quite in accord.” And he

remembered that he had been going to explain to the jury that a

verdict of “guilty” meant guilty of intentional murder unless the

words “without intent to take life” were added, but had, in his

hurry to get the business over, omitted to do so.

“Yes, but could not the mistake be rectified?”

“A reason for an appeal can always be found. You will have to

speak to an advocate,” said the president, putting on his hat a

little to one side and continuing to move towards the door.

“But this is terrible.”

“Well, you see, there were two possibilities before Maslova,”

said the president, evidently wishing to be as polite and

pleasant to Nekhludoff as he could. Then, having arranged his

whiskers over his coat collar, he put his hand lightly under

Nekhludoff’s elbow, and, still directing his steps towards the

front door, he said, “You are going, too?”

“Yes,” said Nekhludoff, quickly getting his coat, and following

him.

They went out into the bright, merry sunlight, and had to raise

their voices because of the rattling of the wheels on the

pavement.

“The situation is a curious one, you see,” said the president;

“what lay before this Maslova was one of two things: either to be

almost acquitted and only imprisoned for a short time, or, taking

the preliminary confinement into consideration, perhaps not at

all—or Siberia. There is nothing between. Had you but added the

words, ‘without intent to cause death,’ she would have been

acquitted.”

“Yes, it was inexcusable of me to omit that,” said Nekhludoff.

“That’s where the whole matter lies,” said the president, with a

smile, and looked at his watch. He had only three-quarters of an

hour left before the time appointed by his Clara would elapse.

“Now, if you like to speak to the advocates you’ll have to find a

reason for an appeal; that can be easily done.” Then, turning to

an isvostchik, he called out, “To the Dvoryanskaya 30 copecks; I

never give more.” “All right, your honour; here you are.”

“Good-afternoon. If I can be of any use, my address is House

Dvornikoff, on the Dvoryanskaya; it’s easy to remember.” And he

bowed in a friendly manner as he got into the trap and drove off.

CHAPTER XXV.

NEKHLUDOFF CONSULTS AN ADVOCATE.

His conversation with the president and the fresh air quieted

Nekhludoff a little. He now thought that the feelings experienced

by him had been exaggerated by the unusual surroundings in which

he had spent the whole of the morning, and by that wonderful and

startling coincidence. Still, it was absolutely necessary to take

some steps to lighten Maslova’s fate, and to take them quickly.

“Yes, at once! It will be best to find out here in the court

where the advocate Fanarin or Mikishin lives.” These were two

well-known advocates whom Nekhludoff called to mind. He returned

to the court, took off his overcoat, and went upstairs. In the

first corridor he met Fanarin himself. He stopped him, and told

him that he was just going to look him up on a matter of

business.

Fanarin knew Nekhludoff by sight and name, and said he would be

very glad to be of service to him.

“Though I am rather tired, still, if your business will not take

very long, perhaps you might tell me what it is now. Will you

step in here?” And he led Nekhludoff into a room, probably some

judge’s cabinet. They sat down by the table.

“Well, and what is your business?”

“First of all, I must ask you to keep the business private. I do

not want it known that I take an interest in the affair.”

“Oh, that of course. Well?”

“I was on the jury to-day, and we have condemned a woman to

Siberia, an innocent woman. This bothers me very much.”

Nekhludoff, to his own surprise, blushed and became confused.

Fanarin glanced at him rapidly, and looked down again, listening.

“Well?”

“We have condemned a woman, and I should like to appeal to a

higher court.”

“To the Senate, you mean,” said Fanarin, correcting him.

“Yes, and I should like to ask you to take the case in hand.”

Nekhludoff wanted to get the most difficult part over, and added,

“I shall take the costs of the case on myself, whatever they may

be.”

“Oh, we shall settle all that,” said the advocate, smiling with

condescension at Nekhludoff’s inexperience in these matters.

“What is the case?”

Nekhludoff stated what had happened.

“All right. I shall look the case through tomorrow or the day

after—no—better on Thursday. If you will come to me at six

o’clock I will give you an answer. Well, and now let us go; I

have to make a few inquiries here.”

Nekhludoff took leave of him and went out. This talk with the

advocate, and the fact that he had taken measures for Maslova’s

defence, quieted him still further. He went out into the street.

The weather was beautiful, and he joyfully drew in a long breath

of spring air. He was at once surrounded by isvostchiks offering

their services, but he went on foot. A whole swarm of pictures

and memories of Katusha and his conduct to her began whirling in

his brain, and he felt depressed and everything appeared gloomy.

“No, I shall consider all this later on; I must now get rid of

all these disagreeable impressions,” he thought to himself.

He remembered the Korchagin’s dinner and looked at his watch. It

was not yet too late to get there in time. He heard the ring of a

passing tramcar, ran to catch it, and jumped on. He jumped off

again when they got to the market-place, took a good isvostchik,

and ten minutes later was at the entrance of the Korchagins’ big

house.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE HOUSE OF KORCHAGIN.

“Please to walk in, your excellency,” said the friendly, fat

doorkeeper of the Korchagins’ big house, opening the door, which

moved noiselessly on its patent English hinges; “you are

expected. They are at dinner. My orders were to admit only you.”

The doorkeeper went as far as the staircase and rang.

“Are there any strangers?” asked Nekhludoff, taking off his

overcoat.

“Mr. Kolosoff and Michael Sergeivitch only, besides the family.”

A very handsome footman with whiskers, in a swallow-tail coat and

white gloves, looked down from the landing.

“Please to walk up, your excellency,” he said. “You are expected.”

Nekhludoff went up and passed through the splendid large

dancing-room, which he knew so well, into the dining-room. There

the whole Korchagin family—except the mother, Sophia Vasilievna,

who never left her cabinet—were sitting round the table. At the

head of the table sat old Korchagin; on his left the doctor, and

on his right, a visitor, Ivan Ivanovitch Kolosoff, a former

Marechal de Noblesse, now a bank director, Korchagin’s friend and

a Liberal. Next on the left side sat Miss Rayner, the governess

of Missy’s little sister, and the four-year-old girl herself.

Opposite them, Missy’s brother, Petia, the only son of the

Korchagins, a public-school boy of the Sixth Class. It was

because of his examinations that the whole family were still in

town. Next to him sat