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

breathing in together with the dust which the cold wind blew

towards him the air filled with the smell of rank oil and fresh

paint.

In one street he met a row of carts loaded with something made of

iron, that rattled so on the uneven pavement that it made his

ears and head ache. He started walking still faster in order to

pass the row of carts, when he heard himself called by name. He

stopped and saw an officer with sharp pointed moustaches and

shining face who sat in the trap of a swell isvostchik and waved

his hand in a friendly manner, his smile disclosing unusually

long, white teeth.

“Nekhludoff! Can it be you?”

Nekhludoff’s first feeling was one of pleasure. “Ah, Schonbock!”

he exclaimed joyfully; but he knew the next moment that there was

nothing to be joyful about.

This was that Schonbock who had been in the house of Nekhludoff’s

aunts that day, and whom Nekhludoff had quite lost out of sight,

but about whom he had heard that in spite of his debts he had

somehow managed to remain in the cavalry, and by some means or

other still kept his place among the rich. His gay, contented

appearance corroborated this report.

“What a good thing that I have caught you. There is no one in

town. Ah, old fellow; you have grown old,” he said, getting out

of the trap and moving his shoulders about. “I only knew you by

your walk. Look here, we must dine together. Is there any place

where they feed one decently?”

“I don’t think I can spare the time,” Nekhludoff answered,

thinking only of how he could best get rid of his companion

without hurting him.

“And what has brought you here?” he asked.

“Business, old fellow. Guardianship business. I am a guardian

now. I am managing Samanoff’s affairs—the millionaire, you know.

He has softening of the brain, and he’s got fifty-four thousand

desiatins of land,” he said, with peculiar pride, as if he had

himself made all these desiatins. “The affairs were terribly

neglected. All the land was let to the peasants. They did not pay

anything. There were more than eighty thousand roubles debts. I

changed it all in one year, and have got 70 per cent. more out of

it. What do you think of that?” he asked proudly.

Nekhludoff remembered having heard that this Schonbock, just

because, he had spent all he had, had attained by some special

influence the post of guardian to a rich old man who was

squandering his property—and was now evidently living by this

guardianship.

“How am I to get rid of him without offending him?” thought

Nekhludoff, looking at this full, shiny face with the stiffened

moustache and listening to his friendly, good-humoured chatter

about where one gets fed best, and his bragging about his doings

as a guardian.

“Well, then, where do we dine?”

“Really, I have no time to spare,” said Nekhludoff, glancing at

his watch.

“Then, look here. To-night, at the races—will you be there?”

“No, I shall not be there.”

“Do come. I have none of my own now, but I back Grisha’s horses.

You remember; he has a fine stud. You’ll come, won’t you? And

we’ll have some supper together.”

“No, I cannot have supper with you either,” said Nekhludoff with

a smile.

“Well, that’s too bad! And where are you off to now? Shall I give

you a lift?”

“I am going to see an advocate, close to here round the corner.”

“Oh, yes, of course. You have got something to do with the

prisons—have turned into a prisoners’ mediator, I hear,” said

Schonbock, laughing. “The Korchagins told me. They have left town

already. What does it all mean? Tell me.”

“Yes, yes, it is quite true,” Nekhludoff answered; “but I cannot

tell you about it in the street.”

“Of course; you always were a crank. But you will come to the

races?”

“No. I neither can nor wish to come. Please do not be angry with

me.”

“Angry? Dear me, no. Where do you live?” And suddenly his face

became serious, his eyes fixed, and he drew up his brows. He

seemed to be trying to remember something, and Nekhludoff noticed

the same dull expression as that of the man with the raised brows

and pouting lips whom he had seen at the window of the

eating-house.

“How cold it is! Is it not? Have you got the parcels?” said

Schonbock, turning to the isvostchik.

“All right. Goodbye. I am very glad indeed to have met you,” and

warmly pressing Nekhludoff’s hand, he jumped into the trap and

waved his white-gloved hand in front of his shiny face, with his

usual smile, showing his exceptionally white teeth.

“Can I have also been like that?” Nekhludoff thought, as he

continued his way to the advocate’s. “Yes, I wished to be like

that, though I was not quite like it. And I thought of living my

life in that way.”

CHAPTER XI.

AN ADVOCATE’S VIEWS ON JUDGES AND PROSECUTORS.

Nekhludoff was admitted by the advocate before his turn. The

advocate at once commenced to talk about the Menshoffs’ case,

which he had read with indignation at the inconsistency of the

accusation.

“This case is perfectly revolting,” he said; “it is very likely

that the owner himself set fire to the building in order to get

the insurance money, and the chief thing is that there is no

evidence to prove the Menshoffs’ guilt. There are no proofs

whatever. It is all owing to the special zeal of the examining

magistrate and the carelessness of the prosecutor. If they are

tried here, and not in a provincial court, I guarantee that they

will be acquitted, and I shall charge nothing. Now then, the next

case, that of Theodosia Birukoff. The appeal to the Emperor is

written. If you go to Petersburg, you’d better take it with you,

and hand it in yourself, with a request of your own, or else they

will only make a few inquiries, and nothing will come of it. You

must try and get at some of the influential members of the Appeal

Committee.”

“Well, is this all?”

“No; here I have a letter … I see you have turned into a

pipe—a spout through which all the complaints of the prison are

poured,” said the advocate, with a smile. “It is too much; you’ll

not be able to manage it.”

“No, but this is a striking case,” said Nekhludoff, and gave a

brief outline of the case of a peasant who began to read the

Gospels to the peasants in the village, and to discuss them with

his friends. The priests regarded this as a crime and informed

the authorities. The magistrate examined him and the public

prosecutor drew up an act of indictment, and the law courts

committed him for trial.

“This is really too terrible,” Nekhludoff said. “Can it be true?”

“What are you surprised at?”

“Why, everything. I can understand the police-officer, who simply

obeys orders, but the prosecutor drawing up an act of that kind.

An educated man …”

“That is where the mistake lies, that we are in the habit of

considering that the prosecutors and the judges in general are

some kind of liberal persons. There was a time when they were

such, but now it is quite different. They are just officials,

only troubled about pay-day. They receive their salaries and want

them increased, and there their principles end. They will accuse,

judge, and sentence any one you like.”

“Yes; but do laws really exist that can condemn a man to Siberia

for reading the Bible with his friends?”

“Not only to be exiled to the less remote parts of Siberia, but

even to the mines, if you can only prove that reading the Bible

they took the liberty of explaining it to others not according to

orders, and in this way condemned the explanations given by the

Church. Blaming the Greek orthodox religion in the presence of

the common people means, according to Statute … the mines.”

“Impossible!”

“I assure you it is so. I always tell these gentlemen, the

judges,” the advocate continued, “that I cannot look at them

without gratitude, because if I am not in prison, and you, and

all of us, it is only owing to their kindness. To deprive us of

our privileges, and send us all to the less remote parts of

Siberia, would be an easy thing for them.”

“Well, if it is so, and if everything depends on the Procureur

and others who can, at will, either enforce the laws or not, what

are the trials for?”

The advocate burst into a merry laugh. “You do put strange

questions. My dear sir, that is philosophy. Well, we might have a

talk about that, too. Could you come on Saturday? You will meet

men of science, literary men, and artists at my house, and then

we might discuss these general questions,” said the advocate,

pronouncing the words “general questions” with ironical pathos.

“You have met my wife? Do come.”

“Thank you; I will try to,” said Nekhludoff, and felt that he was

saying an untruth, and knew that if he tried to do anything it

would be to keep away froth the advocate’s literary evening, and

the circle of the men of science, art, and literature.

The laugh with which the advocate met Nekhludoff’s remark that

trials could have no meaning if the judges might enforce the laws

or not, according to their notion, and the tone with which he

pronounced the words “philosophy” and “general questions” proved

to Nekhludoff how very differently he and the advocate and,

probably, the advocate’s friends, looked at things; and he felt

that in spite of the distance that now existed between himself

and his former companions, Schonbock, etc., the difference

between himself and the circle of the advocate and his friends

was still greater.

CHAPTER XII.

WHY THE PEASANTS FLOCK TO TOWN.

The prison was a long way off and it was getting late, so

Nekhludoff took an isvostchik. The isvostchik, a middleaged man

with an intelligent and kind face, turned round towards

Nekhludoff as they were driving along one of the streets and

pointed to a huge house that was being built there.

“Just see what a tremendous house they have begun to build,” he

said, as if he was partly responsible for the building of the

house and proud of it. The house was really immense and was being

built in a very original style. The strong pine beams of the

scaffolding were firmly fixed together with iron bands and a

plank wall separated the building from the street.

On the boards of the scaffolding workmen, all bespattered with

plaster, moved hither and thither like ants. Some were laying

bricks, some hewing stones, some carrying up the heavy hods and

pails and bringing them down empty. A fat and finely-dressed

gentleman—probably the architect—stood by the scaffolding,

pointing upward and explaining something to a contractor, a

peasant from the Vladimir Government, who was respectfully

listening to him. Empty carts were coming out of the gate by

which the architect and the contractor were standing, and loaded

ones were going in. “And how sure they all are—those that do the

work as well as those that make them do it—that it ought to be;

that while their wives at home, who are with child, are labouring

beyond their strength, and their children with the patchwork

caps, doomed soon to the cold grave, smile with suffering and

contort their little