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

Nekhludoff had a strong antipathy towards him because of the

vulgarity of his feelings, his assurance and narrowness, but

chiefly because of Nathalie, who managed to love him in spite of

the narrowness of his nature, and loved him so selfishly, so

sensually, and stifled for his sake all the good that had been in

her.

It always hurt Nekhludoff to think of Nathalie as the wife of

that hairy, self-assured man with the shiny, bald patch on his

head. He could not even master a feeling of revulsion towards

their children, and when he heard that she was again going to

have a baby, he felt something like sorrow that she had once more

been infected with something bad by this man who was so foreign

to him. The Rogozhinskys had come to Moscow alone, having left

their two children—a boy and a girl—at home, and stopped in the

best rooms of the best hotel. Nathalie at once went to her

mother’s old house, but hearing from Agraphena Petrovna that her

brother had left, and was living in a lodging-house, she drove

there. The dirty servant met her in the stuffy passage, dark but

for a lamp which burnt there all day. He told her that the Prince

was not in.

Nathalie asked to be shown into his rooms, as she wished to leave

a note for him, and the man took her up.

Nathalie carefully examined her brother’s two little rooms. She

noticed in everything the love of cleanliness and order she knew

so well in him, and was struck by the novel simplicity of the

surroundings. On his writing-table she saw the paper-weight with

the bronze dog on the top which she remembered; the tidy way in

which his different portfolios and writing utensils were placed

on the table was also familiar, and so was the large, crooked

ivory paper knife which marked the place in a French book by

Tard, which lay with other volumes on punishment and a book in

English by Henry George. She sat down at the table and wrote a

note asking him to be sure to come that same day, and shaking her

head in surprise at what she saw, she returned to her hotel.

Two questions regarding her brother now interested Nathalie: his

marriage with Katusha, which she had heard spoken about in their

town—for everybody was speaking about it—and his giving away

the land to the peasants, which was also known, and struck many

as something of a political nature, and dangerous. The Carriage

with Katusha pleased her in a way. She admired that resoluteness

which was so like him and herself as they used to be in those

happy times before her marriage. And yet she was horrified when

she thought her brother was going to marry such a dreadful woman.

The latter was the stronger feeling of the two, and she decided

to use all her influence to prevent him from doing it, though she

knew how difficult this would be.

The other matter, the giving up of the land to the peasants, did

not touch her so nearly, but her husband was very indignant about

it, and expected her to influence her brother against it.

Rogozhinsky said that such an action was the height of

inconsistency, flightiness, and pride, the only possible

explanation of which was the desire to appear original, to brag,

to make one’s self talked about.

“What sense could there be in letting the land to the peasants,

on condition that they pay the rent to themselves?” he said. “If

he was resolved to do such a thing, why not sell the land to them

through the Peasants’ Bank? There might have been some sense in

that. In fact, this act verges on insanity.”

And Rogozhinsky began seriously thinking about putting Nekhludoff

under guardianship, and demanded of his wife that she should

speak seriously to her brother about his curious intention.

CHAPTER XXXII.

NEKHLUDOFF’S ANARCHISM.

As soon as Nekhludoff returned that evening and saw his sister’s

note on the table he started to go and see her. He found Nathalie

alone, her husband having gone to take a rest in the next room.

She wore a tightly-fitting black silk dress, with a red bow in

front. Her black hair was crimped and arranged according to the

latest fashion.

The pains she took to appear young, for the sake of her husband,

whose equal she was in years, were very obvious.

When she saw her brother she jumped up and hurried towards him,

with her silk dress rustling. They kissed, and looked smilingly

at each other. There passed between them that mysterious exchange

of looks, full of meaning, in which all was true, and which

cannot be expressed in words. Then came words which were not

true. They had not met since their mother’s death.

“You have grown stouter and younger,” he said, and her lips

puckered up with pleasure.

“And you have grown thinner.”

“Well, and how is your husband?” Nekhludoff asked.

“He is taking a rest; he did not sleep all night.” There was much

to say, but it was not said in words; only their looks expressed

what their words failed to say.

“I went to see you.”

“Yes, I know. I moved because the house is too big for me. I was

lonely there, and dull. I want nothing of all that is there, so

that you had better take it all—the furniture, I mean, and

things.”

“Yes, Agraphena Petrovna told me. I went there. Thanks, very

much. But—”

At this moment the hotel waiter brought in a silver tea-set.

While he set the table they were silent. Then Nathalie sat down

at the table and made the tea, still in silence. Nekhludoff also

said nothing.

At last Nathalie began resolutely. “Well, Dmitri, I know all

about it.” And she looked at him.

“What of that? l am glad you know.”

“How can you hope to reform her after the life she has led?” she

asked.

He sat quite straight on a small chair, and listened attentively,

trying to understand her and to answer rightly. The state of mind

called forth in him by his last interview with Maslova still

filled his soul with quiet joy and good will to all men.

“It is not her but myself I wish to reform,” he replied.

Nathalie sighed.

“There are other means besides marriage to do that.”

“But I think it is the best. Besides, it leads me into that world

in which I can be of use.”

“I cannot believe you will be happy,” said Nathalie.

“It’s not my happiness that is the point.”

“Of course, but if she has a heart she cannot be happy—cannot

even wish it.”

“She does not wish it.”

“I understand; but life—”

“Yes—life?”

“Demands something different.”

“It demands nothing but that we should do what is right,” said

Nekhludoff, looking into her face, still handsome, though

slightly wrinkled round eyes and mouth.

“I do not understand,” she said, and sighed.

“Poor darling; how could she change so?” he thought, calling back

to his mind Nathalie as she had been before her marriage, and

feeling towards her a tenderness woven out of innumerable

memories of childhood. At that moment Rogozhinsky entered the

room, with head thrown back and expanded chest, and stepping

lightly and softly in his usual manner, his spectacles, his bald

patch, and his black beard all glistening.

“How do you do? How do you do?” he said, laying an unnatural and

intentional stress on his words. (Though, soon after the

marriage, they had tried to be more familiar with each other,

they had never succeeded.)

They shook hands, and Rogozhinsky sank softly into an easy-chair.

“Am I not interrupting your conversation?”

“No, I do not wish to hide what I am saying or doing from any

one.”

As soon as Nekhludoff saw the hairy hands, and heard the

patronising, self-assured tones, his meekness left him in a

moment.

“Yes, we were talking about his intentions,” said Nathalie.

“Shall I give you a cup of tea?” she added, taking the teapot.

“Yes, please. What particular intentions do you mean?”

“That of going to Siberia with the gang of prisoners, among whom

is the woman I consider myself to have wronged,” uttered

Nekhludoff.

“I hear not only to accompany her, but more than that.”

“Yes, and to marry her if she wishes it.”

“Dear me! But if you do not object I should like to ask you to

explain your motives. I do not understand them.”

“My motives are that this woman—that this woman’s first step on

her way to degradation—” Nekhludoff got angry with himself, and

was unable to find the right expression. “My motives are that I

am the guilty one, and she gets the punishment.”

“If she is being punished she cannot be innocent, either.”

“She is quite innocent.” And Nekhludoff related the whole

incident with unnecessary warmth.

“Yes, that was a case of carelessness on the part of the

president, the result of which was a thoughtless answer on the

part of the jury; but there is the Senate for cases like that.”

“The Senate has rejected the appeal.”

“Well, if the Senate has rejected it, there cannot have been

sufficient reasons for an appeal,” said Rogozhinsky, evidently

sharing the prevailing opinion that truth is the product of

judicial decrees. “The Senate cannot enter into the question on

its merits. If there is a real mistake, the Emperor should be

petitioned.”

“That has been done, but there is no probability of success. They

will apply to the Department of the Ministry, the Department will

consult the Senate, the Senate will repeat its decision, and, as

usual, the innocent will get punished.”

“In the first place, the Department of the Ministry won’t consult

the Senate,” said Rogozhinsky, with a condescending smile; “it

will give orders for the original deeds to be sent from the Law

Court, and if it discovers a mistake it will decide accordingly.

And, secondly, the innocent are never punished, or at least in

very rare, exceptional cases. It is the guilty who are punished,”

Rogozhinsky said deliberately, and smiled self-complacently.

“And I have become fully convinced that most of those condemned

by law are innocent.”

“How’s that?”

“Innocent in the literal sense. Just as this woman is innocent of

poisoning any one; as innocent as a peasant I have just come to

know, of the murder he never committed; as a mother and son who

were on the point of being condemned for incendiarism, which was

committed by the owner of the house that was set on fire.”

“Well, of course there always have been and always will be

judicial errors. Human institutions cannot be perfect.”

“And, besides, there are a great many people convicted who are

innocent of doing anything considered wrong by the society they

have grown up in.”

“Excuse me, this is not so; every thief knows that stealing is

wrong, and that we should not steal; that it is immoral,” said

Rogozhinsky, with his quiet, self-assured, slightly contemptuous

smile, which specially irritated Nekhludoff.

“No, he does not know it; they say to him ‘don’t steal,’ and he

knows that the master of the factory steals his labour by keeping

back his wages; that the Government, with its officials, robs him

continually by taxation.”

“Why, this is anarchism,” Rogozhinsky said, quietly defining his

brother-in-law’s words.

“I don’t know what it is; I am only telling you the truth,”

Nekhludoff continued. “He