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

“Why stupid?” replied the isvóstchik, in an offended tone. “Thanks to it, the people get work; it’s not stupid.”

“But the work is useless.”

“It can’t be useless, or why should it be done?” said the isvóstchik. “The people get bread by it.”

Nekhlúdoff was silent, and it would have been difficult to talk because of the clatter the wheels made.

When they came nearer the prison, and the isvóstchik turned off the paved on to the macadamised road, it became easier to talk, and he again turned to Nekhlúdoff.

“And what a lot of these people are flocking to the town nowadays; it’s awful,” he said, turning round on the box and pointing to a party of peasant workmen who were coming towards them, carrying saws, axes, sheepskins, coats, and bags strapped to their shoulders.

“More than in other years?” Nekhlúdoff asked.

“By far. This year every place is crowded, so that it’s just terrible. The employers just fling the workmen about like chaff. Not a job to be got.”

“Why is that?”

“They’ve increased. There’s no room for them.”

“Well, what if they have increased? Why do not they stay in the village?”

“There’s nothing for them to do in the village⁠—no land to be had.”

Nekhlúdoff felt as one does when touching a sore place. It feels as if the bruised part was always being hit; yet it is only because the place is sore that the touch is felt.

“Is it possible that the same thing is happening everywhere?” he thought, and began questioning the isvóstchik about the quantity of land in his village, how much land the man himself had, and why he had left the country.

“We have a desiatin per man, sir,” he said. “Our family have three men’s shares of the land. My father and a brother are at home, and manage the land, and another brother is serving in the army. But there’s nothing to manage. My brother has had thoughts of coming to Moscow, too.”

“And cannot land be rented?”

“How’s one to rent it nowadays? The gentry, such as they were, have squandered all theirs. Men of business have got it all into their own hands. One can’t rent it from them. They farm it themselves. We have a Frenchman ruling in our place; he bought the estate from our former landlord, and won’t let it⁠—and there’s an end of it.”

“Who’s that Frenchman?”

“Dufour is the Frenchman’s name. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He makes wigs for the actors in the big theatre; it is a good business, so he’s prospering. He bought it from our lady, the whole of the estate, and now he has us in his power; he just rides on us as he pleases. The Lord be thanked, he is a good man himself; only his wife, a Russian, is such a brute that⁠—God have mercy on us. She robs the people. It’s awful. Well, here’s the prison. Am I to drive you to the entrance? I’m afraid they’ll not let us do it, though.”

When he rang the bell at the front entrance Nekhlúdoff’s heart stood still with horror as he thought of the state he might find Máslova in today, and at the mystery that he felt to be in her and in the people that were collected in the prison. He asked the jailer who opened the door for Máslova. After making the necessary inquiry the jailer informed him that she was in the hospital. Nekhlúdoff went there. A kindly old man, the hospital doorkeeper, let him in at once and, after asking Nekhlúdoff whom he wanted, directed him to the children’s ward. A young doctor saturated with carbolic acid met Nekhlúdoff in the passage and asked him severely what he wanted. This doctor was always making all sorts of concessions to the prisoners, and was therefore continually coming into conflict with the prison authorities and even with the head doctor. Fearing lest Nekhlúdoff should demand something unlawful, and wishing to show that he made no exceptions for anyone, he pretended to be cross. “There are no women here; it is the children’s ward,” he said.

“Yes, I know; but a prisoner has been removed here to be an assistant nurse.”

“Yes, there are two such here. Then whom do you want?”

“I am closely connected with one of them, named Máslova,” Nekhlúdoff answered, “and should like to speak to her. I am going to Petersburg to hand in an appeal to the Senate about her case and should like to give her this. It is only a photo,” Nekhlúdoff said, taking an envelope out of his pocket.

“All right, you may do that,” said the doctor, relenting, and turning to an old woman with a white apron, he told her to call the prisoner⁠—Nurse Máslova.

“Will you take a seat, or go into the waiting-room?”

“Thanks,” said Nekhlúdoff, and profiting by the favourable change in the manner of the doctor towards him asked how they were satisfied with Máslova in the hospital.

“Oh, she is all right. She works fairly well, if you take the conditions of her former life into account. But here she is.”

The old nurse came in at one of the doors, followed by Máslova, who wore a blue striped dress, a white apron, a kerchief that quite covered her hair. When she saw Nekhlúdoff her face flushed, and she stopped as if hesitating, then frowned, and with downcast eyes went quickly towards him along the strip of carpet in the middle of the passage. When she came up to Nekhlúdoff she did not wish to give him her hand, and then gave it, growing redder still. Nekhlúdoff had not seen her since the day when she begged forgiveness for having been in a passion, and he expected to find her the same as she was then. But today she was quite different. There was something new in the expression of her face, reserve and shyness, and, as it seemed to him, animosity towards him. He