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

me straight to the police station. I was imprisoned and tried.

The commune gave me a good character, said that I was a good man,

and that nothing wrong had been noticed about me. The masters for

whom I worked also spoke well of me, but we had no money to

engage a lawyer, and so I was condemned to four years’ hard

labour.”

It was this man who, wishing to save a fellow-villager, knowing

that he was risking his life thereby, told Nekhludoff the

prisoner’s secret, for doing which (if found out) he should

certainly be throttled.

CHAPTER XI.

MASLOVA AND HER COMPANIONS.

The political prisoners were kept in two small rooms, the doors

of which opened into a part of the passage partitioned off from

the rest. The first person Nekhludoff saw on entering into this

part of the passage was Simonson in his rubber jacket and with a

log of pine wood in his hands, crouching in front of a stove, the

door of which trembled, drawn in by the heat inside.

When he saw Nekhludoff he looked up at him from under his

protruding brow, and gave him his hand without rising.

“I am glad you have come; I want to speak to you,” he said,

looking Nekhludoff straight in the eyes with an expression of

importance.

“Yes; what is it?” Nekhludoff asked.

“It will do later on; I am busy just now,” and Simonson turned

again towards the stove, which he was heating according to a

theory of his own, so as to lose as little heat energy as

possible.

Nekhludoff was going to enter in at the first door, when Maslova,

stooping and pushing a large heap of rubbish and dust towards the

stove with a handleless birch broom, came out of the other. She

had a white jacket on, her skirt was tucked up, and a kerchief,

drawn down to her eyebrows, protected her hair from the dust.

When she saw Nekhludoff, she drew herself up, flushing and

animated, put down the broom, wiped her hands on her skirt, and

stopped right in front of him. “You are tidying up the

apartments, I see,” said Nekhludoff, shaking hands.

“Yes; my old occupation,” and she smiled. “But the dirt! You

can’t imagine what it is. We have been cleaning and cleaning.

Well, is the plaid dry?” she asked, turning to Simonson.

“Almost,” Simonson answered, giving her a strange look, which

struck Nekhludoff.

“All right, I’ll come for it, and will bring the cloaks to dry.

Our people are all in here,” she said to Nekhludoff, pointing to

the first door as she went out of the second.

Nekhludoff opened the door and entered a small room dimly lit by

a little metal lamp, which was standing low down on the shelf

bedstead. It was cold in the room, and there was a smell of the

dust, which had not had time to settle, damp and tobacco smoke.

Only those who were close to the lamp were clearly visible, the

bedsteads were in the shade and wavering shadows glided over the

walls. Two men, appointed as caterers, who had gone to fetch

boiling water and provisions, were away; most of the political

prisoners were gathered together in the small room. There was

Nekhludoff’s old acquaintance, Vera Doukhova, with her large,

frightened eyes, and the swollen vein on her forehead, in a grey

jacket with short hair, and thinner and yellower than ever.. She

had a newspaper spread out in front of her, and sat rolling

cigarettes with a jerky movement of her hands.

Emily Rintzeva, whom Nekhludoff considered to be the pleasantest

of the political prisoners, was also here. She looked after the

housekeeping, and managed to spread a feeling of home comfort

even in the midst of the most trying surroundings. She sat beside

the lamp, with her sleeves rolled up, wiping cups and mugs, and

placing them, with her deft, red and sunburnt hands, on a cloth

that was spread on the bedstead. Rintzeva was a plain-looking

young woman, with a clever and mild expression of face, which,

when she smiled, had a way of suddenly becoming merry, animated

and captivating. It was with such a smile that she now welcomed

Nekhludoff.

“Why, we thought you had gone back to Russia,” she said.

Here in a dark corner was also Mary Pavlovna, busy with a little,

fair-haired girl, who kept prattling in her sweet, childish

accents.

“How nice that you have come,” she said to Nekhludoff.

“Have you seen Katusha? And we have a visitor here,” and she

pointed to the little girl.

Here was also Anatole Kryltzoff with felt boots on, sitting in a

far corner with his feet under him, doubled up and shivering, his

arms folded in the sleeves of his cloak, and looking at

Nekhludoff with feverish eyes. Nekhludoff was going up to him,

but to the right of the door a man with spectacles and reddish

curls, dressed in a rubber jacket, sat talking to the pretty,

smiling Grabetz. This was the celebrated revolutionist

Novodvoroff. Nekhludoff hastened to greet him. He was in a

particular hurry about it, because this man was the only one

among all the political prisoners whom he disliked. Novodvoroff’s

eyes glistened through his spectacles as he looked at Nekhludoff

and held his narrow hand out to him.

“Well, are you having a pleasant journey?” he asked, with

apparent irony.

“Yes, there is much that is interesting,” Nekhludoff answered, as

if he did not notice the irony, but took the question for

politeness, and passed on to Kryltzoff.

Though Nekhludoff appeared indifferent, he was really far from

indifferent, and these words of Novodvoroff, showing his evident

desire to say or do something unpleasant, interfered with the

state of kindness in which Nekhludoff found himself, and he felt

depressed and sad.

“Well, how are you?” he asked, pressing Kryltzoff’s cold and

trembling hand.

“Pretty well, only I cannot get warm; I got wet through,”

Kryltzoff answered, quickly replacing his hands into the sleeves

of his cloak. “And here it is also beastly cold. There, look, the

window-panes are broken,” and he pointed to the broken panes

behind the iron bars. “And how are you? Why did you not come?”

“I was not allowed to, the authorities were so strict, but to-day

the officer is lenient.”

“Lenient indeed!” Kryltzoff remarked. “Ask Mary what she did this

morning.”

Mary Pavlovna from her place in the corner related what had

happened about the little girl that morning when they left the

halting station.

“I think it is absolutely necessary to make a collective

protest,” said Vera Doukhova, in a determined tone, and yet

looking now at one, now at another, with a frightened, undecided

look. “Valdemar Simonson did protest, but that is not

sufficient.”

“What protest!” muttered Kryltzoff, cross and frowning. Her want

of simplicity, artificial tone and nervousness had evidently been

irritating him for a long time.

“Are you looking for Katusha?” he asked, addressing Nekhludoff.

“She is working all the time. She has cleaned this, the men’s

room, and now she has gone to clean the women’s! Only it is not

possible to clean away the fleas. And what is Mary doing there?”

he asked, nodding towards the corner where Mary Pavlovna sat.

“She is combing out her adopted daughter’s hair,” replied

Rintzeva.

“But won’t she let the insects loose on us?” asked Kryltzoff.

“No, no; I am very careful. She is a clean little girl now. You

take her,” said Mary, turning to Rintzeva, “while I go and help

Katusha, and I will also bring him his plaid.”

Rintzeva took the little girl on her lap, pressing her plump,

bare, little arms to her bosom with a mother’s tenderness, and

gave her a bit of sugar. As Mary Pavlovna left the room, two men

came in with boiling water and provisions.

CHAPTER XII.

NABATOFF AND MARKEL.

One of the men who came in was a short, thin, young man, who had

a cloth-covered sheepskin coat on, and high top-boots. He stepped

lightly and quickly, carrying two steaming teapots, and holding a

loaf wrapped in a cloth under his arm.

“Well, so our prince has put in an appearance again,” he said, as

he placed the teapot beside the cups, and handed the bread to

Rintzeva. “We have bought wonderful things,” he continued, as he

took off his sheepskin, and flung it over the heads of the others

into the corner of the bedstead. “Markel has bought milk and

eggs. Why, we’ll have a regular ball to-day. And Rintzeva is

spreading out her aesthetic cleanliness,” he said, and looked

with a smile at Rintzeva, “and now she will make the tea.”

The whole presence of this man—his motion, his voice, his

look—seemed to breathe vigour and merriment. The other newcomer

was just the reverse of the first. He looked despondent and sad.

He was short, bony, had very prominent cheek bones, a sallow

complexion, thin lips and beautiful, greenish eyes, rather far

apart. He wore an old wadded coat, top-boots and goloshes, and

was carrying two pots of milk and two round boxes made of birch

bark, which he placed in front of Rintzeva. He bowed to

Nekhludoff, bending only his neck, and with his eyes fixed on

him. Then, having reluctantly given him his damp hand to shake,

he began to take out the provisions.

Both these political prisoners were of the people; the first was

Nabatoff, a peasant; the second, Markel Kondratieff, a factory

hand. Markel did not come among the revolutionists till he was

quite a man, Nabatoff only eighteen. After leaving the village

school, owing to his exceptional talents Nabatoff entered the

gymnasium, and maintained himself by giving lessons all the time

he studied there, and obtained the gold medal. He did not go to

the university because, while still in the seventh class of the

gymnasium, he made up his mind to go among the people and

enlighten his neglected brethren. This he did, first getting the

place of a Government clerk in a large village. He was soon

arrested because he read to the peasants and arranged a

co-operative industrial association among them. They kept him

imprisoned for eight months and then set him free, but he

remained under police supervision. As soon as he was liberated he

went to another village, got a place as schoolmaster, and did the

same as he had done in the first village. He was again taken up

and kept fourteen months in prison, where his convictions became

yet stronger. After that he was exiled to the Perm Government,

from where he escaped. Then he was put to prison for seven months

and after that exiled to Archangel. There he refused to take the

oath of allegiance that was required of them and was condemned to

be exiled to the Takoutsk Government, so that half his life since

he reached manhood was passed in prison and exile. All these

adventures did not embitter him nor weaken his energy, but rather

stimulated it. He was a lively young fellow, with a splendid

digestion, always active, gay and vigorous. He never repented of

anything, never looked far ahead, and used all his powers, his

cleverness, his practical knowledge to act in the present. When

free he worked towards the aim he had set himself, the

enlightening and the uniting of the working men, especially the

country labourers. When in prison he was just as energetic and

practical in finding means to come in contact with the outer

world, and in arranging his own life and the life of his group as

comfortably as