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

his getting a better salary. And now he was considering what a

new light to posterity this chapter would shed on events.

“Yes, certainly,” he said, in reply to the words addressed to him

by Wolf, without listening to them.

Bay was listening to Wolf with a sad face and drawing a garland

on the paper that lay before him. Bay was a Liberal of the very

first water. He held sacred the Liberal traditions of the sixth

decade of this century, and if he ever overstepped the limits of

strict neutrality it was always in the direction of Liberalism.

So in this case; beside the fact that the swindling director, who

was prosecuting for libel, was a bad lot, the prosecution of a

journalist for libel in itself tending, as it did, to restrict

the freedom of the press, inclined Bay to reject the appeal.

When Wolf concluded his arguments Bay stopped drawing his garland

and began in a sad and gentle voice (he was sad because he was

obliged to demonstrate such truisms) concisely, simply and

convincingly to show how unfounded the accusation was, and then,

bending his white head, he continued drawing his garland.

Skovorodnikoff, who sat opposite Wolf, and, with his fat fingers,

kept shoving his beard and moustaches into his mouth, stopped

chewing his beard as soon as Bay was silent, and said with a

loud, grating voice, that, notwithstanding the fact of the

director being a terrible scoundrel, he would have been for the

repeal of the sentence if there were any legal reasons for it;

but, as there were none, he was of Bay’s opinion. He was glad to

put this spoke in Wolf’s wheel.

The chairman agreed with Skovorodnikoff, and the appeal was

rejected.

Wolf was dissatisfied, especially because it was like being

caught acting with dishonest partiality; so he pretended to be

indifferent, and, unfolding the document which contained

Maslova’s case, he became engrossed in it. Meanwhile the Senators

rang and ordered tea, and began talking about the event that,

together with the duel, was occupying the Petersburgers.

It was the case of the chief of a Government department, who was

accused of the crime provided for in Statute 995.

“What nastiness,” said Bay, with disgust.

“Why; where is the harm of it? I can show you a Russian book

containing the project of a German writer, who openly proposes

that it should not be considered a crime,” said Skovorodnikoff,

drawing in greedily the fumes of the crumpled cigarette, which he

held between his fingers close to the palm, and he laughed

boisterously.

“Impossible!” said Bay.

“I shall show it you,” said Skovorodnikoff, giving the full title

of the book, and even its date and the name of its editor.

“I hear he has been appointed governor to some town in Siberia.”

“That’s fine. The archdeacon will meet him with a crucifix. They

ought to appoint an archdeacon of the same sort,” said

Skovorodnikoff. “I could recommend them one,” and he threw the

end of his cigarette into his saucer, and again shoved as much of

his beard and moustaches as he could into his mouth and began

chewing them.

The usher came in and reported the advocate’s and Nekhludoff’s

desire to be present at the examination of Maslova’s case.

“This case,” Wolf said, “is quite romantic,” and he told them

what he knew about Nekhludoff’s relations with Maslova. When they

had spoken a little about it and finished their tea and

cigarettes, the Senators returned into the Senate Chamber and

proclaimed their decision in the libel case, and began to hear

Maslova’s case.

Wolf, in his thin voice, reported Maslova’s appeal very fully,

but again not without some bias and an evident wish for the

repeal of the sentence.

“Have you anything to add?” the chairman said, turning to

Fanarin. Fanarin rose, and standing with his broad white chest

expanded, proved point by point, with wonderful exactness and

persuasiveness, how the Court had in six points strayed from the

exact meaning of the law; and besides this he touched, though

briefly, on the merits of the case, and on the crying injustice

of the sentence. The tone of his speech was one of apology to the

Senators, who, with their penetration and judicial wisdom, could

not help seeing and understanding it all better than he could. He

was obliged to speak only because the duty he had undertaken

forced him to do so.

After Fanarin’s speech one might have thought that there could

not remain the least doubt that the Senate ought to repeal the

decision of the Court. When he had finished his speech, Fanarin

looked round with a smile of triumph, seeing which Nekhludoff

felt certain that the case was won. But when he looked at the

Senators he saw that Fanarin smiled and triumphed all alone. The

Senators and the Public Prosecutor did not smile nor triumph, but

looked like people wearied, and who were thinking “We have often

heard the like of you; it is all in vain,” and were only too glad

when he stopped and ceased uselessly detaining them there.

Immediately after the end of the advocate’s speech the chairman

turned to the Public Prosecutor. Selenin briefly and clearly

expressed himself in favour of leaving the decision of the Court

unaltered, as he considered all the reasons for appealing

inadequate. After this the Senators went out into the

debating-room. They were divided in their opinions. Wolf was in

favour of altering the decision. Bay, when he had understood the

case, took up the same side with fervour, vividly presenting the

scene at the court to his companions as he clearly saw it

himself. Nikitin, who always was on the side of severity and

formality, took up the other side. All depended on

Skovorodnikoff’s vote, and he voted for rejecting the appeal,

because Nekhludoff’s determination to marry the woman on moral

grounds was extremely repugnant to him.

Skovorodnikoff was a materialist, a Darwinian, and counted every

manifestation of abstract morality, or, worse still, religion,

not only as a despicable folly, but as a personal affront to

himself. All this bother about a prostitute, and the presence of

a celebrated advocate and Nekhludoff in the Senate were in the

highest degree repugnant to him. So he shoved his beard into his

mouth and made faces, and very skilfully pretended to know

nothing of this case, excepting that the reasons for an appeal

were insufficient, and that he, therefore, agreed with the

chairman to leave the decision of the Court unaltered.

So the sentence remained unrepealed.

CHAPTER XXII.

AN OLD FRIEND.

“Terrible,” said Nekhludoff, as he went out into the waiting-room

with the advocate, who was arranging the papers in his portfolio.

“In a matter which is perfectly clear they attach all the

importance to the form and reject the appeal. Terrible!”

“The case was spoiled in the Criminal Court,” said the advocate.

“And Selenin, too, was in favour of the rejection. Terrible!

terrible!” Nekhludoff repeated. “What is to be done now?”

“We will appeal to His Majesty, and you can hand in the petition

yourself while you are here. I will write it for you.”

At this moment little Wolf, with his stars and uniform, came out

into the waiting-room and approached Nekhludoff. “It could not be

helped, dear Prince. The reasons for an appeal were not

sufficient,” he said, shrugging his narrow shoulders and closing

his eyes, and then he went his way.

After Wolf, Selenin came out too, having heard from the Senators

that his old friend Nekhludoff was there.

“Well, I never expected to see you here,” he said, coming up to

Nekhludoff, and smiling only with his lips while his eyes

remained sad. “I did not know you were in Petersburg.”

“And I did not know you were Public Prosecutor-in-Chief.”

“How is it you are in the Senate?” asked Selenin. “I had heard,

by the way, that you were in Petersburg. But what are you doing

here?”

“Here? I am here because I hoped to find justice and save a woman

innocently condemned.”

“What woman?”

“The one whose case has just been decided.”

“Oh! Maslova’s case,” said Selenin, suddenly remembering it. “The

appeal had no grounds whatever.”

“It is not the appeal; it’s the woman who is innocent, and is

being punished.”

Selenin sighed. “That may well be, but–-”

“Not may be, but is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was on the jury. I know how we made the mistake.”

Selenin became thoughtful. “You should have made a statement at

the time,” he said.

“I did make the statement.”

“It should have been put down in an official report. If this had

been added to the petition for the appeal—”

“Yes, but still, as it is, the verdict is evidently absurd.”

“The Senate has no right to say so. If the Senate took upon

itself to repeal the decision of the law courts according to its

own views as to the justice of the decisions in themselves, the

verdict of the jury would lose all its meaning, not to mention

that the Senate would have no basis to go upon, and would run the

risk of infringing justice rather than upholding it,” said

Selenin, calling to mind the case that had just been heard.

“All I know is that this woman is quite innocent, and that the

last hope of saying her from an unmerited punishment is gone. The

grossest injustice has been confirmed by the highest court.”

“It has not been confirmed. The Senate did not and cannot enter

into the merits of the case in itself,” said Selenin. Always busy

and rarely going out into society, he had evidently heard nothing

of Nekhludoff’s romance. Nekhludoff noticed it, and made up his

mind that it was best to say nothing about his special relations

with Maslova.

“You are probably staying with your aunt,” Selenin remarked,

apparently wishing to change the subject. “She told me you were

here yesterday, and she invited me to meet you in the evening,

when some foreign preacher was to lecture,” and Selenin again

smiled only with his lips.

“Yes, I was there, but left in disgust,” said Nekhludoff angrily,

vexed that Selenin had changed the subject.

“Why with disgust? After all, it is a manifestation of religious

feeling, though one-sided and sectarian,” said Selenin.

“Why, it’s only some kind of whimsical folly.”

“Oh, dear, no. The curious thing is that we know the teaching of

our church so little that we see some new kind of revelation in

what are, after all, our own fundamental dogmas,” said Selenin,

as if hurrying to let his old friend know his new views.

Nekhludoff looked at Selenin scrutinisingly and with surprise,

and Selenin dropped his eyes, in which appeared an expression not

only of sadness but also of ill-will.

“Do you, then, believe in the dogmas of the church?” Nekhludoff

asked.

“Of course I do,” replied Selenin, gazing straight into

Nekhludoff’s eyes with a lifeless look.

Nekhludoff sighed. “It is strange,” he said.

“However, we shall have a talk some other time,” said Selenin.

“I am coming,” he added, in answer to the usher, who had

respectfully approached him. “Yes, we must meet again,” he went

on with a sigh. “But will it be possible for me to find you? You

will always find me in at seven o’clock. My address is

Nadejdinskaya,” and he gave the number. “Ah, time does not stand

still,” and he turned to go, smiling only with his lips.

“I will come if I