Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕

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. Rántzeva 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 Nekhlúdoff.

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

Here in a dark corner was also Mary Pávlovna, busy with a little, fair-haired girl, who kept prattling in her sweet, childish accents.

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

“Have you seen Katúsha? And we have a visitor here,” and she pointed to the little girl.

Here was also Anatole Kryltzóff 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 Nekhlúdoff with feverish eyes. Nekhlúdoff 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 Grábetz. This was the celebrated revolutionist Novódvoroff. Nekhlúdoff 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. Novódvoroff’s eyes glistened through his spectacles as he looked at Nekhlúdoff 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,” Nekhlúdoff answered, as if he did not notice the irony, but took the question for politeness, and passed on to Kryltzóff.

Though Nekhlúdoff appeared indifferent, he was really far from indifferent, and these words of Novódvoroff, showing his evident desire to say or do something unpleasant, interfered with the state of kindness in which Nekhlúdoff found himself, and he felt depressed and sad.

“Well, how are you?” he asked, pressing Kryltzóff’s cold and trembling hand.

“Pretty well, only I cannot get warm; I got wet through,” Kryltzóff answered, quickly replacing his hands into the sleeves of his cloak. “And here it is also beastly cold. There, look, the windowpanes 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 today the officer is lenient.”

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

Mary Pávlovna 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 Véra Doúkhova, in a determined tone, and yet looking now at one, now at another, with a frightened, undecided look. “Vóldemar Símonson did protest, but that is not sufficient.”

“What protest!” muttered Kryltzóff, cross and frowning. Her want of simplicity, artificial tone and nervousness had evidently been irritating him for a long time.

“Are you looking for Katúsha?” he asked, addressing Nekhlúdoff. “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 Pávlovna sat.

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

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

“No, no; I am very careful. She is a clean little girl now. You take her,” said Mary, turning to Rántzeva, “while I go and help Katúsha, and I will also bring him his plaid.”

Rántzeva 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 Pávlovna left the room, two men came in with boiling water and provisions.

XII

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 Rántzeva. “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. “Markél has bought milk and eggs. Why, we’ll have a regular ball today. And Rántzeva is spreading out her aesthetic cleanliness,” he said, and looked with a smile at Rántzeva, “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 Rántzeva. He bowed to Nekhlúdoff, 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 Nabátoff, a peasant; the second, Markél Kondrátieff, a factory hand. Markél did not come among the revolutionists till he was quite a man, Nabátoff only eighteen. After leaving the village school, owing to his exceptional talents Nabátoff entered the gymnasium, and maintained himself by giving lessons all the time he studied there,