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Title: The Awakening

Author: graf Leo Tolstoy

Translator: William E. Smith

Release date: December 19, 2005 [eBook #17352]
Most recently updated: October 16, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/17352

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the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
AWAKENING ***

E-text prepared by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Diane Monico,
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at https://www.pgdp.net/

COUNT LEO TOLSTOI.

The Awakening
(THE RESURRECTION)

BY

COUNT LEO TOLSTOI
AUTHOR OF
"WAR AND PEACE," "THE KREUTZER SONATA,"
"ANNA KARENINA," ETC.

Translated by WILLIAM E. SMITH

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street

Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1900
By Street & Smith
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.

"Then came Peter to Him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my
brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times?"—
Matthew, c. xviii.; v. 21.
"Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but
until seventy times seven."—Idem, v. 22.

"And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye,
but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye!"—Idem, c.
vii.; v. 3.
"He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at
her."—John, c. viii.; v. 7.
"The disciple is not above his master: but every one that is
perfect shall be as his master."—Luke, c. vi.; v. 40.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART FIRST.

CHAPTER I.5
CHAPTER II.8
CHAPTER III.13
CHAPTER IV.18
CHAPTER V.20
CHAPTER VI.23
CHAPTER VII.26
CHAPTER VIII.29
CHAPTER IX.32
CHAPTER X.36
CHAPTER XI.39
CHAPTER XII.45
CHAPTER XIII.49
CHAPTER XIV.52
CHAPTER XV.55
CHAPTER XVI.60
CHAPTER XVII.63
CHAPTER XVIII.65
CHAPTER XIX.67
CHAPTER XX.70
CHAPTER XXI.73
CHAPTER XXII.78
CHAPTER XXIII.80
CHAPTER XXIV.87
CHAPTER XXV.90
CHAPTER XXVI.92
CHAPTER XXVII.97
CHAPTER XXVIII.101
CHAPTER XXIX.107
CHAPTER XXX.110

CHAPTER XXXI.113
CHAPTER XXXII.116
CHAPTER XXXIII.120
CHAPTER XXXIV.124
CHAPTER XXXV.127
CHAPTER XXXVI.130
CHAPTER XXXVII.132
CHAPTER XXXVIII.135
CHAPTER XXXIX.137
CHAPTER XL.142
CHAPTER XLI.145
CHAPTER XLII.149
CHAPTER XLIII.151
CHAPTER XLIV.156
CHAPTER XLV.159
CHAPTER XLVI.161
CHAPTER XLVII.165
CHAPTER XLVIII.168
CHAPTER XLIX.171
CHAPTER L.175
CHAPTER LI.177
CHAPTER LII.179
CHAPTER LIII.181
CHAPTER LIV.183
CHAPTER LV.185
CHAPTER LVI.189
CHAPTER LVII.191

PART SECOND.

CHAPTER I.196
CHAPTER II.201
CHAPTER III.203
CHAPTER IV.207
CHAPTER V.210
CHAPTER VI.215
CHAPTER VII.219

CHAPTER VIII.220
CHAPTER IX.226
CHAPTER X.231
CHAPTER XI.235
CHAPTER XII.238
CHAPTER XIII.241
CHAPTER XIV.244
CHAPTER XV.248
CHAPTER XVI.250
CHAPTER XVII.254
CHAPTER XVIII.260
CHAPTER XIX.264
CHAPTER XX.266
CHAPTER XXI.271
CHAPTER XXII.274
CHAPTER XXIII.279
CHAPTER XXIV.282
CHAPTER XXV.287

PART THIRD.

CHAPTER I.290
CHAPTER II.292
CHAPTER III.294
CHAPTER IV.295
CHAPTER V.297
CHAPTER VI.301
CHAPTER VII.304
CHAPTER VIII.311
CHAPTER IX.314
CHAPTER X.316

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
COUNT LEO TOLSTOI.

PRINCE NEKHLUDOFF.

THE PRISONERS.

EASTER SERVICES.

WARDEN AND MATRON.

THE AWAKENING.

PART FIRST.

CHAPTER I.
All the efforts of several hundred thousand people, crowded in a small
space, to disfigure the land on which they lived; all the stone they covered it
with to keep it barren; how so diligently every sprouting blade of grass was
removed; all the smoke of coal and naphtha; all the cutting down of trees
and driving off of cattle could not shut out the spring, even from the city.
The sun was shedding its light; the grass, revivified, was blooming forth,
where it was left uncut, not only on the greenswards of the boulevard, but
between the flag-stones, and the birches, poplars and wild-berry trees were
unfolding their viscous leaves; the limes were unfolding their buds; the
daws, sparrows and pigeons were joyfully making their customary nests,
and the flies were buzzing on the sun-warmed walls. Plants, birds, insects
and children were equally joyful. Only men—grown-up men—continued
cheating and tormenting themselves and each other. People saw nothing
holy in this spring morning, in this beauty of God's world—a gift to all
living creatures—inclining to peace, good-will and love, but worshiped
their own inventions for imposing their will on each other.
The joy of spring felt by animals and men did not penetrate the office of the
county jail, but the one thing of supreme importance there was a document
received the previous evening, with title, number and seal, which ordered
the bringing into court for trial, this 28th day of April, at nine o'clock in the
morning, three prisoners—two women and one man. One of the women, as
the more dangerous criminal, was to be brought separately. So, in pursuance
of that order, on the 28th day of April, at eight o'clock in the morning, the
jail warden entered the dingy corridor of the woman's ward. Immediately
behind him came a woman with weary countenance and disheveled gray
hair, wearing a crown-laced jacket, and girdled with a blue-edged sash. She
was the matron.
"You want Maslova?" she asked the warden, as they neared one of the cells
opening into the corridor.

The warden, with a loud clanking of iron, unlocked and opened the door of
the cell, releasing an even fouler odor than permeated the corridor, and
shouted:
"Maslova to the court!" and again closing the door he waited for her
appearance.
The fresh, vivifying air of the fields, carried to the city by the wind, filled
even the court-yard of the jail. But in the corridor the oppressive air, laden
with the smell of tar and putrescence, saddened and dejected the spirit of
every new-comer. The same feeling was experienced by the jail matron,
notwithstanding she was accustomed to bad air. On entering the corridor
she suddenly felt a weariness coming over her that inclined her to slumber.
There was a bustling in the cell; women's voices and steps of bare feet were
heard.
"Hurry up, Maslova! Come on, I say!" shouted the warden into the cell-
door.
Presently at the cell-door appeared a middle-sized, full-breasted young
woman, dressed in a long, gray coat over a white waist and skirt. She
approached with firm step, and, facing about, stood before the warden. Over
her linen stockings she wore jail shoes; her head was covered with a white
'kerchief, from under which black curls were evidently purposely brushed
over the forehead. The face of the woman was of that whiteness peculiar to
people who have been a long time in confinement, and which reminds one
of potato-sprouts in a cellar. Her small, wide hands, her white, full neck,
showing from under the large collar of the coat, were of a similar hue. On
the dull pallor of that face the most striking feature was the black, sparkling
eyes, somewhat swollen, but very bright eyes, one of which slightly
squinted. She held herself erect, putting forth her full chest. Emerging into
the corridor, throwing her head back a little, she looked into the eyes of the
warden and stood ready to do his bidding. The warden was about to shut the
door, when a pale, severe, wrinkled face of an old woman with disheveled
hair was thrust out. The old woman began to say something to Maslova. But
the warden pressed the door against the head of the woman, and she
disappeared. In the cell a woman's voice burst into laughter. Maslova also

smiled, and turned to the grated little opening in the door. The old woman
pressed her forehead to the grating, and said in a hoarse voice:
"Above all, don't speak too much; stick to one thing, and that is all."
"Of course. It cannot be any worse," said Maslova.
"You certainly cannot stick to two things," said the chief warden, with
official assurance of his own wit. "Follow me, now! Forward! March!"
The eye looking from behind the grating disappeared, and Maslova took to
the middle of the corridor, and with short, but rapid strides, followed the
warden. They descended the stone stairway, and as they passed the men's
ward, noisy and more noisome even than the woman's ward, scores of eyes
followed them from behind the gratings. They entered the office, where an
armed escort of two soldiers stood. The clerk handed one of the soldiers a
document, reeking of tobacco smoke, and, pointing to the prisoner, said:
"Take her."
The soldier, a Nijhni peasant with a red and pock-marked face, placed the
paper into the cuff of his coat sleeve, and, smiling, winked to his muscular
comrade. The soldiers and prisoner descended the stairs and went in the
direction of the main entrance.
A small door in the gate opened, and, crossing the threshold, they passed
through the inclosure and took the middle of the paved street.
Drivers, shop-keepers, kitchen maids, laborers and officials halted and
gazed with curiosity at the prisoner. Some shook their heads and thought:
"There is the result of evil conduct—how unlike ours!" Children looked
with horror at the cut-throat, but the presence of the soldiers reassured
them, for she was now powerless to do harm. A villager, returning from the
mart, where he had disposed of his charcoal and visited an inn, offered her a
kopeck. The prisoner blushed, drooped her head and murmured something.
Conscious of the attention that was shown her, without turning her head she
looked askance at the onlookers and rather enjoyed it. She also enjoyed the
comparatively pure spring air, but the walking on the cobblestones was
painful to her feet, unused as they were to walking, and shod in clumsy

prison shoes. She looked at her feet and endeavored to step as lightly as
possible. Passing by a food store, in front of which some pigeons were
picking grain, she came near striking with her foot a dove-colored bird. It
rose with a flutter of its wings, and flew past the very ear of the prisoner,
fanning her face with its wings. She smiled, then sighed deeply,
remembering her own condition.

CHAPTER II.
The history of the prisoner Maslova was a very common one. Maslova was
the daughter of an unmarried menial who lived with her mother, a cowherd,
on the estate of two spinsters. This unmarried woman gave birth to a child
every year, and, as is the custom in the villages, baptized them; then
neglected the troublesome newcomers, and they finally starved to death.
Thus five children died. Every one of these was baptized, then it starved
and finally died. The sixth child, begotten of a passing gypsy, was a girl,
who would have shared the same fate, but it happened that one of the two
old maidens entered the cow-shed to reprimand the milkmaids for
carelessness in skimming the cream, and there saw the mother with the
healthy and beautiful child. The old maiden chided them for the cream and
for permitting the woman to lie in the cow-shed, and was on the point of
departing, but noticing the child, was moved to pity, and afterward
consented to stand godmother to the child. She baptized the child, and in
pity for her god-daughter, furnished her with milk, gave the mother some
money, and the babe thrived. Wherefore the old maidens called it "the saved
one."
The child was three years old when the mother fell ill and died. She was a
great burden to her grandmother, so the old maidens adopted her. The dark-
eyed girl became unusually lively and pretty, and her presence cheered
them.
Of the two old maidens, the younger one—Sophia Ivanovna—was the
kindlier, while the older one—Maria Ivanovna—was of austere disposition.
Sophia Ivanovna kept the girl in decent clothes, taught her to read and
intended to give her an education. Maria Ivanovna said that the girl ought to
be taught to work that she might become a useful servant, was exacting,
punished, and even beat her when in bad humor. Under such conditions the
girl grew up half servant, half lady. Her position was reflected even in her
name, for she was not called by the gentle Katinka, nor yet by the disdainful
Katka, but Katiousha, which stands sentimentally between the two. She

sewed, cleaned the rooms, cleaned the ikons with chalk, ground, cooked
and served coffee, washed, and sometimes she read for the ladies.
She was wooed, but would marry no one, feeling that life with any one of
her wooers would be hard, spoiled, as she was, more or less, by the
comparative ease she enjoyed in the manor.
She had just passed her sixteenth year when the ladies were visited by their
nephew, a rich student, and Katiousha, without daring to confess it to him,
or even to herself, fell in love with him. Two years afterward, while on his
way to the war, he again visited his aunts, and during his four days' stay,
consummated her ruin. Before his departure he thrust a hundred ruble bill
into her hand.
Thenceforward life ceased to have any charms for her, and her only thought
was to escape the shame which awaited her, and not only did she become
lax in her duties, but—and she did not know herself how it happened—all
of a sudden she gave vent to her ill temper. She said some rude things to the
ladies, of which she afterward repented, and left them.
Dissatisfied with her behavior, they did not detain her. She then obtained
employment as servant in the house of the commissary of rural police, but
was obliged to give up the position at the end of the third month, for the
commissary, a fifty-year old man, pursued her with his attentions, and
when, on one occasion, he became too persistent, she flared up, called him
an old fool, and threw him to the ground. Then she was driven from the
house. She was now so far advanced on the road to maternity that to look
for a position was out of the question. Hence she took lodgings with an old
midwife, who was also a wine dealer. The confinement came off painlessly.
But the midwife was attending a sick woman in the village, infected
Katiousha with puerperal fever, and the child, a boy, was taken to a
foundling asylum where, she was told, he died immediately after his arrival
there.
When Katiousha took lodgings with the midwife she had 127 rubles; 27
rubles of which she had earned, and 100 rubles which had been given her
by her seducer. When she left her she had but six rubles left. She was not
economical, and spent on herself as well as others. She paid 40 rubles to the
midwife for two months' board; 25 rubles it cost her to have the child taken

away; 40 rubles the midwife borrowed of her to buy a cow with; the
balance was spent on dresses, presents, etc., so that after the confinement
she was practically penniless, and was compelled to look for a position. She
was soon installed in the house of a forester who was married, and who,
like the commissary, began to pay court to her. His wife became aware of it,
and when, on one occasion, she found them both in the room, she fell on
Katiousha and began to beat her. The latter resented it, and the result was a
scrimmage, after which she was driven out of the house, without being paid
the wages due her. Katiousha went to the city, where she stopped with her
aunt. Her aunt's husband was a bookbinder. Formerly he used to earn a
competence, but had lost his customers, and was now given to drink,
spending everything that came into his hands.
With the aid of a small laundry she was keeping, her aunt supported her
children as well as her husband. She offered Maslova work as a
washerwoman, but seeing what a hard life the washerwomen at her aunt's
establishment were leading, she searched through the intelligence offices
for a position as servant. She found such a place with a lady who was living
with her two student boys. A week after she had entered upon her duties, the
oldest son neglected his studies and made life miserable for Maslova. The
mother threw all blame upon Maslova and discharged her. She was some
time without any occupation. In one of these intelligence offices she once
met a lady richly dressed and adorned with diamonds. This lady, learning of
the condition of Maslova, who was looking for a position, gave her her card
and invited her to call. The lady received Maslova affectionately, treated her
to choice cakes and sweet wine, while she dispatched her servant
somewhere with a note. In the evening a tall man with long hair just turning
gray, and gray beard, came into the room. The old man immediately seated
himself beside Maslova and began to jest. The hostess called him into an
adjoining room, and Maslova overheard her say: "As fresh as a rose; just
from the country." Then the hostess called in Maslova and told her that the
man was an author, very rich, and will be very generous if he takes a liking
to her. He did take a liking to her, gave her twenty-five rubles, and
promised to call on her often. The money was soon spent in settling for her
board at her aunt's, for a new dress, hat and ribbons. A few days afterward
the author sent for her a second time. She called. He gave her another

twenty-five ruble bill and offered to rent apartments for her where she could
reside separately.
While living in the apartments rented by the author, Maslova became
infatuated with a jolly clerk living in the same house. She herself told the
author of her infatuation, and moved into a smaller apartment. The clerk,
who had promised to marry her, without saying anything, left for Nijhni,
evidently casting her off, and Maslova remained alone. She wished to
remain in the apartment, but the landlord would not permit a single woman
to occupy it, and she returned to her aunt. Her fashionable dress, cape and
hat won her the respect of her aunt, who no longer dared to offer her work
as a washerwoman, considering her present position far above it. The
question of working in the laundry did not even occur to Maslova now. She
looked with compassion on the life of drudgery led by these pale, emaciated
washerwomen, some of whom showed symptoms of consumption, washing
and ironing in a stifling, steam-laden atmosphere with the windows open
summer and winter, and she was horrified at the thought that she, too, might
be driven to such drudgery.
Maslova had for a long time been addicted to cigarette smoking, but of late
she had been getting more and more accustomed to drink. The wine
attracted her, not because of its taste, but because it enabled her to forget
her past life, to comfort herself with ease, and the confidence of her own
worth that it gave her. Without wine she was despondent and abashed.
There was the choice of two things before her; either the humiliating
occupation of a servant, with the certain unwelcome attentions of the men,
or a secure, quiet and legitimatized position of everybody's mistress. She
wished to revenge herself on her seducer, as well as the clerk, and all those
that brought misfortune upon her. Besides, she could not withstand the
temptation of having all the dresses her heart desired—dresses made of
velvet, gauze and silk—ball dresses, with open neck and short sleeves. And
when Maslova imagined herself in a bright yellow silk dress, with velvet
trimmings, decolette, she made her choice.
From this day on Maslova began to lead a life to which hundreds of
thousands of women are driven, and which, in nine cases out of ten, ends in
painful disease, premature decrepitude and death.

After a night's orgies there would come a deep slumber till three or four
o'clock in the afternoon; then the weary rising from a dirty couch; seltzer-
water to remove the effect of excessive drinking, coffee. Then came the
sauntering through the rooms in dressing-gown, looking through the
windows; the languid quarrels; then the perfuming of her body and hair, the
trying on of dresses, and the quarrels with the mistress which they
occasioned; contemplating herself in the mirror, rouging her face, darkening
her eyebrows. Then came the sweet, rich food, the bright silk dress, the
entry into the brightly lighted parlor, the arrival of the guests, music,
dancing, confectionery, wine and cigarettes.
Thus Maslova lived for seven years. On the eighth, when she had reached
her twenty-sixth year, there happened that for which she had been jailed,
and for which she was now led to the court, after six months of confinement
among thieves and murderers.

CHAPTER III.
At the time when Maslova, exhausted by the long walk, was approaching
with the armed convoy the building in which court was held, the same
nephew of the ladies that brought her up, Prince Dmitri Ivanovitch
Nekhludoff, who deceived her, lay on his high, soft, spring feather-bed, in
spotless Holland linen, smoking a cigarette. He was gazing before him,
contemplating the events of the previous day and considering what he had
before him for that day. As he thought of the previous evening, spent at the
Korchagins, a wealthy and influential family, whose daughter, rumor had it,
he was to marry, he sighed, and throwing away the butt of his cigarette, he
was on the point of taking another from the silver cigarette holder, but
changed his mind. Half rising, he slipped his smooth, white feet into the
slippers, threw a silk morning gown over his broad shoulders, and with
quick and heavy stride, walked into the adjoining dressing-room, which was
permeated with the artificial odors of elixirs, perfumes, cosmetics. There he
washed his partly gold-filled teeth with a tooth-powder, rinsed them with a
perfumed mouth-wash, then began to sponge himself and dry his body with
Turkish towels. After washing his hands with perfumed soap, carefully
brushing his trimmed nails and washing his face and stout neck in a marble
basin, he walked into a third room, where a shower-bath was ready. Here he
received a cold-water douche, and after rubbing his white and muscular
body with coarse towels and donning his white linen, he seated himself
before the mirror and began to brush his short, curly beard and the thinning
curls of his forehead.
Everything used by him—the linen, clothing, shoes, scarfs, scarf-pins, cuff-
buttons, were of the very best quality, simple, tasteful and expensive.
He then picked out the first of a dozen scarfs and pins that came into his
hand—it was no more novel and amusing, as it used to be—and he was
quite indifferent as to which he put on. He dressed himself in his brushed
clothes which lay on the chair and went out, though not quite refreshed, yet
clean and fragrant. In the oblong dining-room, the inlaid floor of which had
been polished by three of his men the day before, and containing a massive

oaken sideboard and a similar extension table, the legs of which were
carved in the shape of lion's paws, giving it a pompous appearance,
breakfast stood ready for him. A fine, starched cloth with large monograms
was spread on the table, on which stood a silver coffee-pot, containing
fragrant, steaming coffee, a sugar bowl and cream pitcher to match, fresh
rolls and various kinds of biscuits. Beside them lay the last number of the
"Revue des deux Mondes," newspapers and his mail. Nekhludoff was about
to open the letters, when a middle-aged woman, with a lace head-gear over
her unevenly parted hair, glided into the room. This was Agrippina
Petrovna, servant of his mother, who died in this very house. She was now
stewardess to the son.
Agrippina Petrovna had traveled many years abroad with Nekhludoff's
mother, and had acquired the manners of a lady. She had lived in the house
of the Nekhludoffs since childhood, and knew Dmitri Ivanovitch when he
was called by the diminutive Mitenka.
"Good-morning, Dmitri Ivanovitch."
"How do you do, Agrippina Petrovna? What's the news?" asked
Nekhludoff, jesting.
"A letter from the old Princess, or the young one, perhaps. The maid
brought it long ago, and is now waiting in my room," said Agrippina
Petrovna, handing him the letter with a significant smile.
"Very well; I will attend to it immediately," said Nekhludoff, taking the
letter and then, noticing the smile on Agrippina's face, he frowned.
The smile on Agrippina's face signified that the letter came from Princess
Korchagin, whom, according to Agrippina Petrovna, he was to marry. And
this supposition, expressed by her smile, displeased Nekhludoff.
"Then I will bid her wait," and Agrippina Petrovna glided out of the dining-
room, first replacing the crumb-brush, which lay on the table, in its holder.
Nekhludoff opened the perfumed letter and began to read:
"In fulfillment of the duty I assumed of being your memory," the
letter ran, "I call to your mind that you have been summoned to

serve as juror to-day, the 28th of April, and that, therefore, you
cannot accompany us and Kolosoff to the art exhibition, as you
promised yesterday in your customary forgetfulness; à moins
que vous ne soyez disposé à payer à la cour d'assises les 300
rubles d'amende que vous vous refusez pour votre cheval, for
your failure to appear in time. I remembered it yesterday, when
you had left. So keep it in mind.
"Princess M. Korchagin."
On the other side was a postscript:
"Maman vous fait dire que votre couvert vous attendra jusqu' à
la nuit. Venez absolument à quelle heure que cela soit. M. K."
Nekhludoff knit his brows. The note was the continuation of a skillful
strategem whereby the Princess sought, for the last two months, to fasten
him with invisible bonds. But Nekhludoff, besides the usual irresoluteness
before marriage of people of his age, and who are not passionately in love,
had an important reason for withholding his offer of marriage for the time
being. The reason was not that ten years before he had ruined and
abandoned Katiousha, which incident he had entirely forgotten, but that at
this very time he was sustaining relations with a married woman, and
though he now considered them at an end, they were not so considered by
her.
In the presence of women, Nekhludoff was very shy, but it was this very
shyness that determined the married woman to conquer him. This woman
was the wife of the commander of the district in which Nekhludoff was one
of the electors. She led him into relations with her which held him fast, and
at the same time grew more and more repulsive to him. At first Nekhludoff
could not resist her wiles, then, feeling himself at fault, he could not break
off the relations against her will. This was the reason why Nekhludoff
considered that he had no right, even if he desired, to ask for the hand of
Korchagin. A letter from the husband of that woman happened to lay on the
table. Recognizing the handwriting and the stamp, Nekhludoff flushed and
immediately felt an influx of that energy which he always experienced in
the face of danger. But there was no cause for his agitation; the husband, as
commander of the district where Nekhludoff's estates were situated,

informed the latter of a special meeting of the local governing body, and
asked him to be present without fail, and donner un coup d'épaule in the
important measures to be submitted concerning the schools and roads, and
that the reactionary party was expected to offer strong opposition.
The commander was a liberal-minded man, entirely absorbed with the
struggles, and knew nothing about his wretched family life.
Nekhludoff recalled all the tortures this man had occasioned him; how on
one occasion he thought that the husband had discovered all, and he was
preparing to fight a duel with him, intending to use a blank cartridge, and
the ensuing scene where she, in despair, ran to the pond, intending to drown
herself, while he ran to search for her. "I cannot go now, and can undertake
nothing until I have heard from her," thought Nekhludoff. The preceding
week he had written to her a decisive letter, acknowledging his guilt, and
expressing his readiness to redeem it in any manner she should suggest, but
for her own good, considered their relations ended. It is to this letter that he
expected a reply. He considered it a favorable sign that no reply came. If
she had not consented to a separation, she would have answered long ago,
or would have come personally, as she often did before. Nekhludoff had
heard that an army officer was courting her, and while he was tormented by
jealousy, he was at the same time gladdened by the hope of release from the
oppressive lie.
The other letter was from the steward in charge of his estates. Nekhludoff
was requested to return and establish his right to the inheritance and also to
decide on the future management of the estates; whether the same system of
letting out to the peasants, which prevailed during the lifetime of his
mother, was to be continued, or, as the steward had strongly advised the
deceased Princess, and now advised the young Prince, to augment the stock
and work all the land himself. The steward wrote that the land could thus
best be exploited. He also apologized for his failure to send the three
thousand rubles due on the first of the month, which he would send by the
next mail, explaining it by the difficulty of collecting the rents from the
peasants whose bad faith had reached a point where it became necessary to
resort to the courts to collect them. This letter was partly agreeable and
partly disagreeable to Nekhludoff. It was agreeable to feel the power of
authority over so vast an estate, and it was disagreeable, because in his

youth he was an enthusiastic adherent of Herbert Spencer, and being
himself a large land owner, was struck by the proposition in Social Statics
that private ownership of land is contrary to the dictates of justice. With the
frankness and boldness of youth, he not only then spoke of the injustice of
private ownership of land; not only did he compose theses in the university
on the subject, but he actually distributed among the peasants the few
hundred acres of land left him by his father, not desiring to own land
contrary to his convictions. Now that he found himself the owner of vast
estates, he was confronted by two alternatives: either to waive his
ownership in favor of the peasants, as he did ten years ago with the two
hundred acres, or, by tacit acquiescence, confess that all his former ideas
were erroneous and false.
He could not carry out the first, because he possessed no resources outside
of the land. He did not wish to go into service, and yet he had luxurious
habits of life which he thought he could not abandon. Indeed, there was no
necessity of abandoning these habits, since he had lost the strength of
conviction as well as the resolution, the vanity and the desire to astonish
people that he had possessed in his youth. The other alternative—to reject
all the arguments against private ownership of land which he gathered from
Spencer's Social Statics, and of which he found confirmation in the works
of Henry George—he could follow even less.
For this reason the steward's letter was disagreeable to him.

CHAPTER IV.
Having breakfasted, Nekhludoff went to the cabinet to see for what hour he
was summoned to appear at court, and to answer the Princess' note. In the
work-room stood an easel with a half-finished painting turned face
downward, and on the wall hung studies in drawing. On seeing that
painting, on which he had worked two years, and those drawings, he called
to mind the feeling of impotence, which he experienced of late with greatest
force, to make further advance in the art. He explained this feeling by the
development of a fine aesthetic taste, and yet this consciousness caused him
unpleasant sensations.
Seven years before he had retired from active service he decided that his
true vocation in life was painting, and from the height of his artistic activity
he looked down upon all other occupations. And now it appeared that he
had no right to do so, and every recollection of it was disagreeable to him.
He looked on all the luxurious appointments of the work-room with heavy
heart, and walked into the cabinet in ill humor. The cabinet was a high
room, profusely ornamented, and containing every imaginable device of
comfort and necessity.
He produced from one of the drawers of a large table the summons, and,
ascertaining that he must appear at eleven o'clock, he sat down and wrote to
the Princess, thanking her for the invitation, and saying that he should try to
call for dinner. The tone of the note seemed to him too intimate, and he tore
it up; he wrote another, but that was too formal, almost offensive. Again he
tore it up, and touched a button on the wall. A servant, morose, with flowing
side-whiskers and in a gray apron, entered.
"Please send for a carriage."
"Yes, sir."
"And tell the Korchagins' maid that I thank them; I will try to call."
"Yes, sir."

"It is impolite, but I cannot write. But I will see her to-day," thought
Nekhludoff, and started to dress himself.
When he emerged from the house a carriage with rubber tires awaited him.
"You had scarcely left Prince Korchagin's house yesterday when I called for
you," said the driver, half-turning his stout, sun-burned neck in the white
collar of his shirt, "and the footman said that you had just gone."
"Even the drivers know of my relations to the Korchagins," thought
Nekhludoff, and the unsolved question which continually occupied his mind
of late—whether or not he ought to marry Princess Korchagin—again
occurred to him, and, like most questions that he was called upon to decide
at that time, it remained unsolved.
He had many reasons for, and as many against, marriage. There was the
pleasure of domestic life, which made it possible to lead a moral life, as he
called married life; then, and principally, the family and children would
infuse his present aimless life with a purpose. This was for marriage
generally. On the other hand there was, first, the loss of freedom which all
elderly bachelors fear so much; and, second, an unconscious awe of that
mysterious creature, woman.
However, in favor of marrying Missy in particular (Korchagin's name was
Maria, but, as usual in families of the higher classes, she received a
nickname) there was, first, the fact that she came of good stock, and was in
everything, from her dress to her manner of speaking, walking and
laughing, distinguished not by any exceptional qualities, but by "good
breeding"—he knew no other expression for the quality which he prized
very highly. Second, she valued him above all other men, hence, he thought
she understood him. And this appreciation of him, that is, acknowledging
his high qualities, was proof to Nekhludoff of her intelligence and correct
judgment. Finally, against marrying Missy in particular, was, first, the
extreme probability of his finding a girl of much better qualities than Missy,
and, consequently, more worthy of him; and, second, Missy was twenty-
seven years old and had probably loved other men before him. This thought
tormented him. His pride could not reconcile itself to the thought that she
could love some one else, even in the past. Of course, she could not be

expected to know that she would meet him, but the very thought that she
could have loved some one else before offended him.
So that there were as many reasons for as there were against marriage in
general and marrying Missy in particular. At all events the arguments were
equally strong on both sides, and Nekhludoff laughed as he compared
himself to the ass in the fable who, while deciding which of the two bales of
hay before him he should have his meal from, starved himself.
"However, until I have heard from Maria Vasilieona, the wife of the
commander, and have done with her for good, I can do nothing," he said to
himself.
And the consciousness that he could and must defer his decision pleased
him.
"Ah, but I will consider it all later," he said to himself, as his cabriolet
silently approached the asphalt pavement of the court-house.
"And now I must do my duty to the community conscientiously, as I always
do, and think it one's duty to do. Besides, it is often interesting," he said,
and went past the door-keeper into the vestibule of the court.

CHAPTER V.
There was great commotion in the corridors of the court when Nekhludoff
entered.
The attendants flitted to and fro breathlessly, delivering orders and
documents. Police captains, lawyers and clerks passed now one way, now
the other; complainants and defendants under bail leaned sadly against the
walls, or were sitting and waiting.
"Where is the Circuit Court?" asked Nekhludoff of one of the attendants.
"Which one? There is a civil division and a criminal one."
"I am a juror."
"Criminal division. You should have said so. This way, to the right, then
turn to your left. The second door."
Nekhludoff went as directed.
At the door two men stood waiting. One was a tall, stout merchant, a good-
natured man, who had evidently partaken of some liquor and was in very
high spirits; the other was a clerk of Jewish extraction. They were talking
about the price of wool when Nekhludoff approached them and asked if that
was the jury's room.
"Here, sir, here. Are you also one of the jurymen?" mirthfully winking his
eyes, the good-natured merchant asked.
"Well, we will drudge together, I suppose," he continued in response to
Nekhludoff's affirmative answer. "My name is Baklashoff, merchant of the
second guild," he introduced himself, extending his soft, broad hand; "we
must do our duty. Whom have I the honor of addressing?"
Nekhludoff gave his name and passed into the jury-room.

In the small jury-room there were about ten men of every description. They
had just arrived; some were sitting, others walked about, eyeing, and
making each other's acquaintance. One was a retired officer in uniform;
others were in short coats, and but one in peasant garb.
Notwithstanding that they were all complaining that the jury duty was
burdensome, and was taking them away from their business, they all
seemed to be pleased with the consciousness of performing an important
civic duty.
The jurymen talked among themselves of the weather, of the premature
spring, of the business before them. Those who were not acquainted with
Nekhludoff hastened to become so, evidently considering it an honor. And
Nekhludoff, as was usual with him among strangers, received it as his due.
If he were asked why he considered himself above the majority of people he
would not be able to answer, as there was nothing in his life transcending
the commonplace. The fact that he spoke English, French and German
fluently; that his linen, clothing, scarf and cuff-buttons were of superior
make would not be sufficient reason for assuming his superiority, as he
himself well understood. And yet he doubtless acknowledged in himself this
superiority, and regarded the respect shown him as his due, and was
offended when it was not forthcoming. It just happened that in the jury-
room Nekhludoff experienced this disagreeable feeling of being treated
with disrespect. Among the jurymen there was an acquaintance of
Nekhludoff. This was Peter Gerasimovitch (Nekhludoff never knew, and
even boasted of the fact that he did not know his surname), who was at one
time tutor to his sister's children. Peter Gerasimovitch was now teacher in a
college. Nekhludoff could never bear his familiarity, his self-satisfied
laughter—in a word, his "communizing," as Nekhludoff's sister used to put
it.
"Ha, ha! So you are also trapped?" he greeted Nekhludoff with a loud burst
of laughter. "You did not escape it?"
"I never intended to evade my duty," sternly and gloomily said Nekhludoff.
"That I call civic virtue. But wait till you are hungry and sleepy, you will
sing another tune," Peter Gerasimovitch said, laughing still louder.

"This son of an archdeacon will soon begin to 'thou' me," thought
Nekhludoff, with an expression of sadness on his face, as though he had just
learned of a grievous loss in his family. He turned from the ex-tutor and
approached a group of people that had formed around a clean-faced, tall
man, of dignified carriage, who were holding a spirited conversation. The
man was speaking of a case that was being tried in the civil division,
showing his familiarity with the judges and the famous lawyers by referring
to them by name. He was telling them of the remarkable turn given to the
probable result of the case by the dexterity of a famous lawyer, by which an
old lady, who was in the right, would be obliged to pay an enormous sum to
the adverse side.
"He is a most ingenious attorney," he said.
He was listened to with respect, and some attempted to interrupt him with
some remarks, but he cut them short as if he alone knew the true facts.
Although Nekhludoff arrived late, there was a long wait before him, which
was caused by the failure of one of the judges to appear.

CHAPTER VI.
The presiding justice arrived early. He was a tall, stout man, with long,
grayish side-whiskers. He was married, but, like his wife, led a very
dissolute life. They did not interfere with each other. On the morning in
question he received a note from a Swiss governess, who had lived in his
house during the summer, and was now passing on her way from the South
to St. Petersburg. She wrote that she would be in town between three and
six o'clock p. m., and wait for him at the "Hotel Italia." He was, therefore,
anxious to end his day's sitting before six o'clock, that he might meet the
red-haired Clara Vasilievna.
Entering his private chamber, and locking the door behind him, he produced
from the lower shelf of a book-case two dumb-bells, made twenty motions
upward, forward, sidewise and downward, and three times lowered himself,
holding the bells above his head.
"Nothing so refreshes one as a cold-water bath and exercise," he thought,
feeling with his left hand, on the fourth finger of which was a gold ring, the
biceps of his right arm. He had to go through two more movements (these
exercises he went through every day before court opened), when the door
rattled. Some one was attempting to open it. The judge quickly replaced the
dumb-bells and opened the door.
"I beg your pardon," he said.
One of the members of the court, wearing gold eye-glasses, of medium
height, with high shoulders and frowning countenance, entered.
"Matvei Nikitich is late again," said the newcomer, with an air of
displeasure.
"Yes," said the presiding judge, donning his robes. "He is always late."
"It is a shame," said the member, and sat down angrily, then lighted a
cigarette.

This member of the court, a very punctilious man, had this morning had an
unpleasant encounter with his wife, which was caused by her spending her
monthly allowance before the month was up. She asked for a sum of money
in advance, and he refused. The result was a quarrel. She said that unless he
gave her the money there would be no dinner that night, and that he would
have to dine outside. He departed in fear that she would carry out her threat,
as anything might be expected from her.
"Is it worth while leading a good, moral life?" he thought, as he looked at
the beaming, healthy, joyful and good-natured presiding justice, who,
spreading his elbows, stroked his long, gray whiskers; "he is always
contented and cheerful, while I am suffering."
The secretary entered and handed the presiding justice a document.
"Thank you," he said, and lighted a cigarette. "Which case shall be taken up
first?"
"The poison case, I think," the secretary answered, with feigned
indifference.
"Very well; so let it be the poison case," said the justice, considering that
that case could be disposed of by four o'clock and make it possible for him
to keep the appointment. "Has Matvei Nikitich arrived?"
"Not yet."
"Is Breae here?"
"Yes," answered the secretary.
"Then tell him that we shall try the poisoning case."
Breae was an assistant prosecuting attorney and was assigned to this term of
the court.
The secretary met Breae in the corridor. With uplifted shoulders, his robe
unbuttoned, and portfolio under his arm, he almost ran, his heels clattering
on the floor, and his disengaged hand outstretched in the direction in which
he was going.

"Michael Petrovich desires to know if you are ready," said the secretary.
"Certainly; I am always ready," said the assistant prosecutor; "which is the
first case?"
"The poisoning case."
"Very well," said the assistant prosecutor, but he did not consider it well at
all—he had not slept all night. A send-off had been given to a departing
friend, and he drank and played till two in the morning, so that he was
entirely unfamiliar with this case, and now hastened to glance over the
indictment. The secretary had purposely suggested the case, knowing that
the prosecutor had not read it. The secretary was a man of liberal, even
radical, ideas. Breae was conservative, and the secretary disliked him, and
envied his position.

"And what about the Skoptzy?"[A]
"I have already said that I cannot prosecute them in the absence of
witnesses," said the assistant prosecutor, "and I will so declare to the court."
"But you don't need——"
"I cannot," said the assistant prosecutor, and waving his hand, ran to his
office.
He was postponing the case against the Skoptzy, although the absent
witness was an entirely unnecessary one. The real reason of the
postponement was that the prosecutor feared that their trial before an
intelligent jury might end in their acquittal. By an understanding with the
presiding justice their case was to be transferred to the session of the
District Court, where the preponderance of peasants on the jury would
insure their conviction.
The commotion in the corridor increased. The greatest crowd was before
the Civil Court, where the case of which the portly gentleman was telling
the jurymen was being tried. During a recess the same old lady from whom
the ingenious attorney managed to win her property in favor of his shrewd
client, came out of the court-room. That he was not entitled to the property
was known to the judges as well as to the claimant and his attorney, but the

mode of their procedure was such that it was impossible to dismiss their
claim. The old lady was stout, in smart attire, and with large flowers on her
hat. As she passed into the corridor she stopped, and turning to her lawyer,
kept repeating:
"How can it be? Great heavens! I don't understand it!"
The lawyer did not listen to her, but looked at the flowers on her hat,
making mental calculations.
Behind the old lady, beaming in his wide-open vest, and with a self-
sufficient smile on his face, came that same famous lawyer who so
managed the case that the lady with the large flowers lost all her property,
while his shrewd client, who paid him ten thousand rubles, received over a
hundred thousand. All eyes were directed toward him. He was conscious of
it and seemed to say by his demeanor:
"Never mind your expressions of devotion," and brushed past the crowd.

FOOTNOTES:
[A] A sect of eunuchs.

CHAPTER VII.
Finally Matvei Nikitich arrived, and the usher, a long-necked and lean man,
with a sideling gait and protruding lower lip, entered the jury-room.
The usher was an honest man, with a university education, but he could not
hold any employment on account of his tippling habit. A countess, his wife's
patroness, had obtained him his present position three months ago; he still
retained it, and was exceedingly glad.
"Are you all here, gentlemen?" he asked, putting on his pince-nez and
looking through it.
"I think so," said the cheerful merchant.
"Let us see," said the usher, and drawing a sheet of paper from his pocket,
began to call the names of the jury, looking at those that responded to their
names now through his pince-nez, now over it.
"Counsilor of State E. M. Nikiforoff."
"Here," said the portly gentleman, who was familiar with all the litigations.
"Retired Colonel Ivan Semionovich Ivanoff."
"Present," answered a lank man in the uniform of a retired officer.
"Merchant of the second guild, Peter Baklashoff."
"Here," said the good-natured merchant, smiling from ear to ear. "We are
ready."
"Lieutenant of the Guards, Prince Dmitri Nekhludoff."
"Here," answered Nekhludoff.
The usher, looking politely and pleasantly through his pince-nez, bowed,
thereby distinguishing him from the rest, as it were.

"Captain Uri Dmitrievich Danchenko; merchant Gregory Ephimovich
Kouleshoff," etc., etc., etc.
There were but two missing from the panel.
"You will now, gentlemen, walk into the court," said the usher, pointing to
the door with a polite sweep of the hand.
They all rose from their seats, and passing each other through the door,
made their way through the corridor to the court-room.
The court was held in a large, oblong room. At one end was a platform,
reached by three steps. In the middle of the platform stood a table, covered
with green cloth, which was fringed with a dark-green lace. Behind the
table stood three arm-chairs with high, carved backs. In an image-case
suspended in the right corner was a representation of Christ with a crown of
thorns, and beneath it a reading-desk, and on the same side stood the
prosecutor's desk. To the left, opposite this desk, was the secretary's table,
and dividing these from the seats reserved for spectators was a carved
railing, along which stood the prisoners' bench, as yet unoccupied.
On an elevation to the right were two rows of chairs, also with high backs,
reserved for the jury; below these were tables for the attorneys. All this was
in the front part of the court-room, which was divided in two by a railing. In
the rear part of the room benches in lines extended to the wall. In the front
row sat four women, either servants or factory employees, and two men,
also workmen, who were evidently awed by the grandeur of the
ornamentations, and were timidly whispering to each other.
Soon after the jurymen came the usher, who, walking sidewise to the
middle of the room, shouted, as if he meant to frighten those present:
"The court is coming!"
Everybody stood up, and the judges ascended the platform. First came the
presiding judge with his muscles and beautiful whiskers. Then came the
gold-spectacled, gloomy member of the court—now even more gloomy, for
before the opening of the session he met his brother-in-law, a candidate for
a judicial office, who told him that he had seen his sister, and that she
declared that there would be no dinner at home this day.

"So that, it seems, we will have to dine at an inn," said the brother-in-law,
laughing.
"What is there droll about it?" said the gloomy member of the court, and
sank into a still deeper gloom.
And last of all came the third member of the court, that same Matvei
Nikitich, who was always late. He wore a long beard, and had large, kindly
eyes, with drooping eyelids. He suffered from catarrh of the stomach, and
by the advice of his physician had adopted a new regimen, and this new
regimen detained him this morning longer than usual. When he ascended
the platform he seemed to be wrapped in thought, but only because he had
the habit of making riddles of every question that occurred to him. At this
moment he was occupied with the following enigmatical proposition:
If the number of steps in the distance between the cabinet-door and the arm-
chair will divide by three without a remainder, then the new regimen will
cure him; but if it does not so divide, then it will not. There were twenty-six
steps, but he made one short step and reached the chair with the twenty-
seventh.
As the judges ascended the elevation in their uniforms, with gold-laced
collars, they presented an imposing array. They themselves felt it, and all
three, as if confused by their own greatness, modestly lowered their eyes,
and hastily seated themselves behind the table on which clean paper and
freshly-pointed lead pencils of all sizes had been placed. The prosecutor,
who entered with the judges, also hastily walked to his place near the
window, his portfolio still under his arm, and waving his hand he began to
read the papers in the case, utilizing every moment to prepare himself.
This was his fifth case as prosecuting attorney. He was ambitious, and was
determined to make his career, and hence he endeavored to obtain a
conviction in every case he prosecuted. He knew the main points of the
poisoning case, and had already planned his speech; but he needed to know
some particulars of which he was now making extracts from the papers.
The secretary sat on the opposite side of the elevation, and, having prepared
all the papers that might be necessary to produce on trial, was glancing over
a newspaper article, which he had obtained and read the day before. He was

anxious to talk to the member of the court with the long beard, who shared
his views, and before doing so wished to better familiarize himself with it.

CHAPTER VIII.
The presiding justice looked over the papers, asked some questions of the
usher, and receiving affirmative answers, ordered that the prisoners be
brought into court. Immediately a door beyond the grating opened, and two
gendarmes with unsheathed swords and caps on their heads, stepped into
the court-room. Behind them came a freckled, red-haired man and two
women. The man was dressed in prisoner's garb which was too long and too
wide for him. As he entered the court-room he held up with outspread
fingers the sleeves which were too long. Without looking at the judges or
the spectators, his attention was absorbed by the bench around which he
was led. When he had passed around he carefully seated himself on the
edge, and making room for the others, began to stare at the presiding
justice, the muscles of his cheeks moving as if he were whispering
something. He was followed by a middle-aged woman, also dressed in a
prisoner's coat. A white prison cap covered her head; her face was grayish,
and her eyes were devoid of either eye-lashes or eyebrows. She seemed
quite composed. As she was passing the railing to take her seat, her coat
caught at something; without haste, she carefully disengaged it, then
smoothed it and took her seat.
The third prisoner was Maslova.
No sooner did she enter than all the male spectators turned their eyes
toward her, attracted by her white face, lustrous black eyes and high breast.
Even the gendarme whom she passed gazed at her until she seated herself;
then, as if feeling himself guilty, he quickly turned his head from her and
straightening himself, he began to gaze into the window directly in front of
him.
The presiding justice waited until all the prisoners took their places, and as
soon as Maslova was seated, he turned to the secretary.
Then commenced the customary proceeding; calling of the jurymen, fining
the absent ones, listening to the claims of exemption from jury duty and
filling the panel from a number of reserves. Then the presiding justice

folded the slips of paper, placed them in a glass vase, and turning up his
gold-laced sleeve drew the slips one by one, unrolled them and read them
aloud. Then he straightened his sleeve and called on the priest to swear in
the jury.
An old little priest with a swollen, pale yellow face, in a brown cassock and
gold cross on his breast and some small badges pinned to the cassock,
slowly moving his swollen feet under the cassock, approached the reading
desk under the image.
The jury rose and, crowding each other, came forward.
"Come nearer, please," said the priest, touching with his swollen hand the
cross on his breast, and waiting until all the jury were near him.
While the jury were mounting the steps to the elevation where the desk
stood, the priest wriggled his bald, hoary head through the opening of the
stole, then rearranging his scanty hair, he turned to the jury:
"Raise your right hands and keep your fingers thus," he said, in a slow,
feeble voice, raising his bloated hand and pointing at his forehead with the
first three of its dimpled fingers. "Now repeat after me: 'I promise and
swear by the Almighty God, His Holy Gospel, and by the life-giving cross
of our Lord, that in the case'"—he continued, resting after each phrase.
"Don't drop your hand; hold it thus," he turned to a young man who let his
hand fall—"'that in the case which——'"
The portly, whiskered gentleman, the colonel, merchant and others held
their hands as directed by the priest, and seemed to do so with particular
pleasure, holding their hands quite high, and their fingers most proper;
others seemed to do it against their will, and carelessly. Some repeated the
words too loudly, in a provoking manner, with an expression on the face
which seemed to say: "I will repeat as I please;" others whispered, fell
behind the priest and then, as if frightened, hastened to catch up with him.
Some held their fingers tightly closed, as if challenging anyone to part
them; others, again, loosened them, now closed them again. After the jury
was sworn, the presiding justice directed them to choose a foreman. They
arose and, crowding each other, went into the consultation room, where
almost every one produced cigarettes and began to smoke. Some one

proposed the portly gentleman, who was immediately chosen, then they
threw away their cigarettes and returned to the court. The gentleman
declared to the presiding justice that he was chosen foreman, and stepping
over the feet of each other, the jury again seated themselves in the two rows
of high-backed chairs.
Everything proceeded smoothly, quickly and not without solemnity, and the
regularity, order and solemnity evidently pleased the participants,
confirming their sense of rendering important public service. Nekhludoff
also experienced this feeling.
As soon as the jury seated themselves the presiding justice instructed them
in their rights, duties and responsibilities. While speaking, he was
constantly changing his attitude; now he leaned on his right hand, now on
his left; then he reclined in his chair, or rested his hands on the arms of the
chair, smoothed the corners of the paper on the table, polished the paper-
knife or clutched the lead pencil.
Their rights, according to him, consisted in that they were allowed to
question prisoners, through the presiding justice; they might keep pencils
and paper, and might also view exhibits. Their duties consisted in not giving
a false verdict. And their responsibilities consisted in that if they failed to
keep secret their deliberations, or spoke to outsiders, they would be liable to
punishment.
They all listened with respectful attention. The merchant, from whom the
fumes of wine spread through the jury box, and who was suppressing the
noisy rising of gases in his stomach, approvingly nodded at every sentence.

CHAPTER IX.
After he had finished the instructions, the presiding justice turned to the
prisoners.
"Simon Kartinkin, rise!" he said.
Simon sprang up nervously. The muscles of his cheeks began to twitch still
quicker.
"What is your name?"
"Simon Petroff Kartinkin," he said quickly, in a sharp voice, evidently
prepared for the question.
"What estate?"
"Peasant."
"What government, district?"
"Government of Tula, district of Krapivensk, Kupian township, village of
Borki."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-four; born in eighteen hundred——"
"What faith?"
"Of the Russian orthodox faith."
"Are you married?"
"O, no!"
"What is your occupation?"
"I was employed in the Hotel Mauritania."

"Were you ever arrested before?"
"I was never arrested before, because where I lived——"
"You were not arrested?"
"God forbid! Never!"
"Have you received a copy of the indictment?"
"Yes."
"Sit down. Euphemia Ivanovna Bochkova!" The presiding justice turned to
the next prisoner.
But Simon remained standing in front of Bochkova.
"Kartinkin, sit down!"
Kartinkin still remained standing.
"Kartinkin, sit down!"
But Kartinkin stood still until the usher, his head leaning to the side, and
with wide-open eyes, whispered to him in a tragic tone:
"Sit down, sit down!"
Kartinkin sat down as quickly as he rose, and wrapping himself in his coat
began to move his cheeks.
"Your name?" With a sigh of weariness the presiding justice turned to the
next prisoner without looking at her, and consulted a paper before him. He
was so accustomed to the business that to expedite matters he could try two
cases at once.
Bochkova was forty-two years old, a burgess of the town of Koloma; by
occupation a servant—in the same Hotel Mauritania. Was never arrested
before, and had received a copy of the indictment. She gave the answers
very boldly and with an intonation which seemed to add to every answer.
"Yes, Bochkova, Euphemia, have received a copy, and am proud of it, and
will permit no one to laugh at me."

Without waiting to be told to sit down, Bochkova sat down immediately
after the questioning ceased.
"Your name?" asked the presiding justice of the third prisoner. "You must
rise," he added, gently and courteously, seeing Maslova still in her seat.
With quick movement Maslova rose with an air of submissiveness, and
throwing back her shoulders, looked into the face of the presiding justice
with her smiling, somewhat squinting black eyes.
"What are you called?"
"They used to call me Lubka," she answered, rapidly.
Meanwhile Nekhludoff put on his pince-nez and examined the prisoners
while they were questioned.
"It is impossible," he thought, looking intently at the prisoner. "But her
name is Lubka," he thought, as he heard her answer.
The presiding justice was about to continue his interrogation when the
member with the eye-glasses, angrily whispering something, stopped him.
The presiding justice nodded his assent and turned to the prisoner.
"You say 'Lubka,' but a different name is entered here."
The prisoner was silent.
"I ask you what is your real name?"
"What name did you receive at baptism?" asked the angry member.
"Formerly I was called Katherine."
"It is impossible," Nekhludoff continued to repeat, although there was no
doubt in his mind now that it was she, that same servant ward with whom
he had been in love at one time—yes, in love, real love, and whom in a
moment of mental fever he led astray, then abandoned, and to whom he
never gave a second thought, because the recollection of it was too painful,
revealed too manifestly that he, who prided himself of his good breeding,
not only did not treat her decently, but basely deceived her.

Yes, it was she. He saw plainly the mysterious peculiarity that distinguishes
every individual from every other individual. Notwithstanding the unnatural
whiteness and fullness of her face, this pleasant peculiarity was in the face,
in the lips, in the slightly squinting eyes, and, principally, in the naive,
smiling glance, and in the expression of submissiveness not only in the
face, but in the whole figure.
"You should have said so," again very gently said the presiding justice.
"What is your patronymic?"
"I am illegitimate," said Maslova.
"But yet you were named after your godfather?"
"Michailova."
"What crime could she have committed?" Nekhludoff thought meanwhile,
his breath almost failing him.
"What is your surname—your family name?" continued the presiding
justice.
"Maslova—after my mother."
"Your estate?"
"Burgess."
"Of the orthodox faith?"
"Yes."
"Your occupation? What was your occupation?"
Maslova was silent.
"What was your occupation?" repeated the justiciary.
"You know!" said Maslova. She smiled and quickly glanced around, then
looked squarely at the justiciary.
There was something so unusual in the expression of her face—something
so terrible and piteous in the meaning of her words, in that smile, that quick

glance which she cast over the court-room—that the justiciary hung his
head, and for a moment there was perfect silence.
A burst of laughter from some spectator interrupted the silence. Some one
hissed. The justiciary raised his head and continued the interrogation.
"Were you ever arrested?"
"No." Maslova said in an undertone, sighing.
"Have you received a copy of the indictment?"
"Yes."
"Sit down."
The prisoner raised her skirt with the customary movement of a fashionable
lady, arranging her train, and sat down, folding her hands in the sleeves of
her coat, and still looking at the justiciary.
Then began the recounting of witnesses, their removal to a separate room,
the decision on the evidence of the medical expert. Then the secretary arose
and began to read the indictment, loud and with distinctness, but so rapidly
that his incorrect sounding of the letters l and r turned his reading into one
continuous, weary drone. The judges leaned now on one side, now on the
other side of their arm-chairs, then on the table, and again on the backs of
the chairs, or closed their eyes, or opened them and whispered to each other.
One of the gendarmes several times stifled a yawn.
The convulsions of Kartinkin's cheeks did not cease. Bochkova sat quietly
and erect, now and then scratching with her finger under her cap.
Maslova sat motionless, listening to the reading, and looking at the clerk; at
times she shuddered and made a movement as if desiring to object, blushed,
then sighed deeply, changed the position of her hands, glanced around and
again looked at the clerk.
Nekhludoff sat on the high-backed chair in the front row, second to the
aisle, and without removing his pince-nez looked at Maslova, while his soul
was being racked by a fierce and complicated struggle.

CHAPTER X.
The indictment read as follows:
"On the 17th of January, 18—, suddenly died in the Hotel Mauritania,
merchant of the second guild, Therapont Emelianovich Smelkoff.
"The local police physician certified that the cause of death of said
Smelkoff was rupture of the heart, caused by excessive use of liquor.
"The body of Smelkoff was interred.
"On the 21st day of January, a townsman and comrade of Smelkoff, on
returning from St. Petersburg, and hearing of the circumstances of his death,
declared his suspicion that Smelkoff was poisoned with a view of robbing
him of the money he carried about his person.
"This suspicion was confirmed at the preliminary inquest, by which it was
established: 1. That Smelkoff had drawn from the bank, some time before
his death, three thousand eight hundred rubles; that, after a due and careful
inventory of the money of the deceased, only three hundred and twelve
rubles and sixteen kopecks were found. 2. That the entire day and evening
preceding his death deceased passed in the company of a girl named Lubka
(Katherine Maslova) in the Hotel Mauritania, whither said Maslova came at
the request of Smelkoff for money; that she obtained the money from
Smelkoff's trunk, first unlocking it with a key intrusted to her by Smelkoff;
that the money was thus taken in the presence of two servants of the said
hotel—Euphemia Bochkova and Simon Kartinkin; that at the opening of
said trunk by the said Maslova in the presence of the aforementioned
Bochkova and Kartinkin, there were rolls of hundred ruble bills. 3. That on
the return of said Smelkoff and Maslova to the said hotel, the said Maslova,
on the advice of the said servant Kartinkin, administered to the deceased a
glass of brandy, in which she put a white powder given her by said
Kartinkin. 4. That on the following morning Lubka (Katherine Maslova)
sold to her mistress, Rosanova, a diamond ring belonging to Smelkoff, said
ring she alleged to have been presented to her by said Smelkoff. 5. That the

servant of said Hotel Mauritania, Euphemia Bochkova, deposited in her
name in the local Bank of Commerce the sum of eighteen hundred rubles.
"At the autopsy held on the body of Smelkoff, and after the removal of the
intestines, the presence of poison was readily discovered, leaving no doubt
that death was caused by poisoning.
"The prisoners, Maslova, Bochkova and Kartinkin pleaded not guilty.
Maslova declared that she did go to the Hotel Mauritania, as stated, for the
purpose of fetching some money for the merchant, and that opening the
trunk with the key given to her by the merchant, she took only forty rubles,
as she was directed, but took no more, which fact can be substantiated by
Bochkova and Kartinkin, in whose presence she took the money and locked
the trunk. She further testified that during her second visit to the room of
the merchant she gave him, at the instigation of Kartinkin, several powders
in a glass of brandy, which she considered to be narcotic, in order that she
might get away from him. The ring was presented to her by Smelkoff when
she cried and was about to leave him after he had beaten her.
"Euphemia Bochkova testified that she knew nothing about the missing
money, never entered the merchant's room, which Lubka herself kept in
order, and that if anything was stolen from the merchant, it was done by
Lubka when she came to the room for the money."
At this point Maslova shuddered, and with open mouth looked at Bochkova.
"And when Euphemia Bochkova was shown her bank account of eighteen
hundred rubles," continued the secretary, "and asked how she came by the
money, she testified that the money was saved from their earnings by
herself and Simon Kartinkin, whom she intended to marry.
"Simon Kartinkin, on his part, at the first examination, confessed that, at the
instigation of Maslova, who brought the key to the trunk, he and Bochkova
stole the money, which was afterwards divided between the three."
At this Maslova shuddered again, sprang to her feet, turned red in the face,
and began to say something, but the usher bade her be quiet.
"Finally," continued the secretary, "Kartinkin also confessed to giving
Maslova the powders to put the merchant to sleep. On the second

examination, however, he denied having either stolen the money, or given
Maslova the powders, but charged Maslova with both. As to the money
placed by Bochkova in the bank, he declared, in accordance with
Bochkova's testimony, that they had saved it during their twelve years'
service in the hotel."
The indictment wound up as follows:
"In view of the aforesaid the defendants, Simon Kartinkin, peasant of the
village of Borkoff, thirty-three years of age; burgess Euphemia Ivanova
Bochkova, forty-two years of age, and burgess Katherine Maslova, twenty-
seven years of age, conspired on the 17th day of January, 188—, to
administer poison to merchant Smelkoff with intent to kill and rob him, and
did on said day administer to said Smelkoff poison, from which poison the
said Smelkoff died, and did thereafter rob him of a diamond ring and
twenty-five hundred rubles, contrary to the laws in such cases made and
provided. Chapter 1453, sections 4 and 5, Penal Code.
"Wherefore, in accordance with chapter 201 of the Code of Criminal
Procedure, the said peasant, Simon Kartinkin, burgess Euphemia Bochkova
and burgess Katherine Maslova are subject to trial by jury, the case being
within the jurisdiction of the Circuit Court."
The clerk having finished the reading of the long indictment, folded the
papers, seated himself at his desk and began to arrange his long hair. Every
one present gave a sigh of relief, and with the consciousness that the trial
had already begun, everything would be cleared up and justice would
finally be done, leaned back on their chairs.
Nekhludoff alone did not experience this feeling. He was absorbed in the
horrible thought that the same Maslova, whom he knew as an innocent and
beautiful girl ten years ago, could be guilty of such a crime.

CHAPTER XI.
When the reading of the indictment was finished, the justiciary, having
consulted with his associates, turned to Kartinkin with an expression on his
face which plainly betokened confidence in his ability to bring forth all the
truth.
"Simon Kartinkin," he called, leaning to the left.
Simon Kartinkin rose, put out his chest, incessantly moving his cheeks.
"You are charged, together with Euphemia Bochkova and Katherine
Maslova, with stealing from the trunk of the merchant Smelkoff money
belonging to him, and subsequently brought arsenic and induced Maslova to
administer it to Smelkoff, by reason of which he came to his death. Are you
guilty or not guilty?" he said, leaning to the right.
"It is impossible, because our business is to attend the guests——"
"You will speak afterwards. Are you guilty or not?"
"No, indeed. I only——"
"You can speak later. Do you admit that you are guilty?" calmly but firmly
repeated the justiciary.
"I cannot do it because——"
Again the usher sprang toward Simon and with a tragic whisper stopped
him.
The justiciary, with an expression showing that the questioning was at an
end, moved the hand in which he held a document to another place, and
turned to Euphemia Bochkova.
"Euphemia Bochkova, you, with Kartinkin and Maslova, are charged with
stealing, on the 17th day of January, 188—, at the Hotel Mauritania, from
the trunk of the merchant Smelkoff, money and a ring, and dividing the

same among yourselves, and with a view of hiding your crime,
administered poison to him, from the effects of which he died. Are you
guilty?"
"I am not guilty of anything," boldly and firmly answered the prisoner. "I
never entered the room—and as that scurvy woman did go into the room,
she, then, did the business——"
"You will speak afterwards," again said the justiciary, with the same
gentleness and firmness. "So you are not guilty?"
"I did not take the money, did not give him the poison, did not go into the
room. If I were in the room I should have thrown her out."
"You are not guilty, then?"
"Never."
"Very well."
"Katherine Maslova," began the justiciary, turning to the third prisoner.
"The charge against you is that, having come to the Hotel Mauritania with
the key to Smelkoff's trunk, you stole therefrom money and a ring," he said,
like one repeating a lesson learned by rote, and leaning his ear to the
associate sitting on his left, who said that he noticed that the phial
mentioned in the list of exhibits was missing. "Stole therefrom money and a
ring," repeated the justiciary, "and after dividing the money again returned
with the merchant Smelkoff to the Hotel Mauritania, and there administered
to him poison, from the effects of which he died. Are you guilty or not
guilty?"
"I am not guilty of anything," she answered, quickly. "As I said before, so I
repeat now: I never, never, never took the money; I did not take anything,
and the ring he gave me himself."
"You do not plead guilty of stealing twenty-five hundred rubles?" said the
justiciary.
"I say I didn't take anything but forty rubles."

"And do you plead guilty to the charge of giving the merchant Smelkoff
powders in his wine?"
"To that I plead guilty. Only I thought, as I was told, that they would put
him to sleep, and that no harm could come from them. I did not wish, nor
thought of doing him any harm. Before God, I say that I did not," she said.
"So you deny that you are guilty of stealing the money and ring from the
merchant Smelkoff," said the justiciary, "but you admit that you gave him
the powders?"
"Of course, I admit, only I thought that they were sleeping powders. I only
gave them to him that he might fall asleep—never wished, nor thought
——"
"Very well," said the justiciary, evidently satisfied with the results of the
examinations. "Now tell us how it happened," he said, leaning his elbows
on the arms of the chair and putting his hands on the table. "Tell us
everything. By confessing frankly you will improve your present
condition."
Maslova, still looking straight at the justiciary, was silent.
"Tell us what took place."
"What took place?" suddenly said Maslova. "I came to the hotel; I was
taken to the room; he was there, and was already very drunk." (She
pronounced the word "he" with a peculiar expression of horror and with
wide-open eyes.) "I wished to depart; he would not let me."
She became silent, as if she had lost the thread of the story, or thought of
something else.
"What then?"
"What then? Then I remained there awhile and went home."
At this point the assistant public prosecutor half rose from his seat,
uncomfortably resting on one elbow.

"Do you wish to question the prisoner?" asked the justiciary, and receiving
an affirmative answer, motioned his assent.
"I would like to put this question: Has the prisoner been acquainted with
Simon Kartinkin before?" asked the assistant prosecutor without looking at
Maslova.
And having asked the question he pressed his lips and frowned.
The justiciary repeated the question. Maslova looked with frightened eyes
at the prosecutor.
"With Simon? I was," she said.
"I would like to know now, what was the character of the acquaintance that
existed between them. Have they met often?"
"What acquaintance? He invited me to meet guests; there was no
acquaintance," answered Maslova, throwing restless glances now at the
prosecutor, now at the justiciary.
"I would like to know why did Kartinkin invite Maslova only, and not other
girls?" asked the prosecutor, with a Mephistophelian smile, winking his
eyes.
"I don't know. How can I tell?" answered Maslova, glancing around her,
frightened, and for a moment resting her eyes on Nekhludoff. "He invited
whomever he wished."
"Is it possible that she recognized me?" Nekhludoff thought, with horror.
He felt his blood rising to his head, but Maslova did not recognize him. She
turned away immediately, and with frightened eyes gazed at the prosecutor.
"Then the prisoner denies that she had intimate relations with Kartinkin?
Very well. I have no more questions to ask."
He removed his elbow from the desk, and began to make notes. In reality,
instead of making notes, he merely drew lines across his notes, having seen
prosecutors and attorneys, after an adroit question, making memoranda of
questions which were to crush their opponents.

The justiciary did not turn immediately to the prisoner, because he was at
the moment asking his associate in the eye-glasses whether he consented to
the questions previously outlined and committed to writing.
"What followed?" the justiciary continued.
"I came home," Maslova continued, looking somewhat bolder, "and went to
sleep. As soon as I was asleep our girl, Bertha, came and woke me. 'Your
merchant is here again. Wake up.' Then he"—again she pronounced it with
evident horror—"he wished to send for wine, but was short of money. Then
he sent me to the hotel, telling me where the money was and how much to
take, and I went."
The justiciary was whispering at the time to his associate on the left, and
did not listen to Maslova, but to make it appear that he had heard everything
he repeated her last words.
"And you went. Well, what else?" he asked.
"I came there and did as he told me. I went to his room. I did not enter it
alone, but called Simon Michaelovich and her," she said, pointing to
Bochkova.
"She lies; I never entered——" Bochkova began, but she was stopped.
"In their presence I took four ten ruble bills," she continued.
"And while taking this money, did the prisoner see how much money there
was?" asked the prosecutor.
Maslova shuddered as soon as the prosecutor began to speak. She could not
tell why, but she felt that he was her enemy.
"I did not count it, but I saw that it was all hundred ruble bills."
"The prisoner saw hundred ruble bills. I have no other questions."
"Well, did you bring back the money?" asked the justiciary, looking at the
clock.
"I did."

"Well, what then?"
"Then he again took me with him," said Maslova.
"And how did you give him the powder in the wine?" asked the justiciary.
"How? Poured it into the wine and gave it to him."
"Why did you give it to him?"
Without answering, she sighed deeply. After a short silence she said:
"He would not let me go. He exhausted me. I went into the corridor and
said to Simon Michaelovich: 'If he would only let me go; I am so tired.' And
Simon Michaelovich said: 'We are also tired of him. We intend to give him
sleeping powders. When he is asleep you can go.' 'All right,' I said. I
thought that it was a harmless powder. He gave me a package. I entered. He
lay behind the partition, and ordered me to bring him some brandy. I took
from the table a bottle of feen-champagne, poured into two glasses—for
myself and him—threw the powder into his glass and handed it to him. I
would not have given it to him if I had known it."
"And how did you come by the ring?" asked the justiciary.
"He presented it to me."
"When did he present it to you?"
"When we reached his room. I wished to depart. Then he struck me on the
head and broke my comb. I was angered, and wished to go. Then he took
the ring from his finger and gave it to me, asking me to stay," she said.
Here the assistant prosecutor again rose, and with a dissimulating naiveness
asked permission to ask a few more questions, which was granted, and
leaning his head on his gold-embroidered collar, he asked:
"I would like to know how long was the prisoner in the room with
Smelkoff?"
Maslova was again terror-stricken, and with her frightened eyes wandering
from the prosecutor to the justiciary, she answered, hurriedly:

"I do not remember how long."
"And does the prisoner remember entering another part of the hotel after
she had left Smelkoff?"
Maslova was thinking.
"Into the next room—an empty one," she said.
"Why did you enter that room?" said the assistant prosecutor, impulsively.
"To wait for a cabriolet."
"Was not Kartinkin in the room with the prisoner?"
"He also came in."
"Why did he come in?"
"There was the merchant's feen-champagne left, and we drank it together."
"Oh, drank together. Very well."
"And did the prisoner have any conversation with Simon, and what was the
subject of the conversation?"
Maslova suddenly frowned, her face turned red, and she quickly answered:
"What I said? I know nothing more. Do what you please with me. I am
innocent, and that is all. I did not say anything. I told everything that
happened."
"I have no more questions to ask," said the prosecutor to the court, and
uplifting his shoulders he began to add to the memorandums of his speech
that the prisoner herself confessed to entering an empty room with Simon.
There was a short silence.
"Have you anything else to say?"
"I have told everything," she said, sighing, and took her seat.

The justiciary then made some notes, and after he had listened to a
suggestion whispered by the associate on the left, declared a recess of ten
minutes, and, hastily rising, walked out of the court-room.
After the judges had risen, the jury, lawyers and witness also rose, and with
the pleasant feeling of having already performed part of an important work,
began to move hither and thither.
Nekhludoff walked into the jury-room and took a seat near the window.

CHAPTER XII.
Yes, it was Katiousha.
The relations of Nekhludoff to Katiousha were the following:
Nekhludoff first met Katiousha when he went to stay one summer out at the
estate of his aunts in order that he might quietly prepare his thesis on the
private ownership of land. Ordinarily he lived on the estate of his mother,
near Moskow, with his mother and sister. But that year his sister married,
and his mother went abroad. Nekhludoff had to write a composition in the
course of his university studies, and decided to pass the summer at his
aunts'. There in the woods it was quiet, and there was nothing to distract
him from his studies. Besides, the aunts loved their nephew and heir, and he
loved them, loved their old-fashioned way of living.
During that summer Nekhludoff experienced that exaltation which youth
comes to know not by the teaching of others, but when it naturally begins to
recognize the beauty and importance of life, and man's serious place in it;
when it sees the possibility of infinite perfection of which the world is
capable, and devotes itself to that endeavor, not only with the hope, but with
a full conviction of reaching that perfection which it imagines possible.
While in the university he had that year read Spencer's Social Statics, and
Spencer's reasoning bearing on private ownership of land produced a strong
impression on him, especially because he was himself the son of a landed
proprietress. His father was not rich, but his mother received as her
marriage portion ten thousand acres of land. He then for the first time
understood all the injustice of private ownership of land, and being one of
those to whom any sacrifice in the name of moral duty was a lofty spiritual
enjoyment, he forthwith divided the land he had inherited from his father
among the peasants. On this subject he was then composing a disquisition.
His life on the estate of his aunts was ordered in the following way: He rose
very early, some times at three o'clock, and till sunrise bathed in the river
under a hill, often in the morning mist, and returned when the dew was yet
on the grass and flowers. Some mornings he would, after partaking of

coffee, sit down to write his composition, or read references bearing on the
subject. But, above all, he loved to ramble in the woods. Before dinner he
would lie down in the woods and sleep; then, at dinner, he made merry,
jesting with his aunts; then went out riding or rowing. In the evening he
read again, or joined his aunts, solving riddles for them. On moonlit nights
he seldom slept, because of the immense joy of life that pervaded him, and
instead of sleeping, he sometimes rambled in the garden till daylight,
absorbed in his thoughts and phantasies.
Thus he lived happily the first month under the roof of his aunts' dwelling,
paying no attention to the half-servant, half-ward, the black-eyed, nimble-
footed Katiousha.
Nekhludoff, raised under the protecting wing of his mother, was at nineteen
a perfectly innocent youth. He dreamed of woman, but only as wife. All
those women who, according to his view, could not be considered as likely
to become his wife, were to him not women, but people. But it happened on
Ascension Day that there was visiting his aunts a lady from the
neighborhood with her two young daughters, her son and a local artist who
was staying with them.
After tea had been served the entire company, as usual, repaired to the
meadow, where they played blind man's buff. Katiousha went with them.
After some exchanges came Nekhludoff's turn to run with Katiousha.
Nekhludoff always liked to see Katiousha, but it had never occurred to him
that their relations could ever be any but the most formal.
"It will be difficult to catch them now," said the cheerful artist, whose short
and curved legs carried him very swiftly, "unless they stumble."
"You could not catch them."
"One, two, three!"
They clapped their hands three times. Almost bursting into laughter,
Katiousha quickly changed places with Nekhludoff, and pressing with her
strong, rough little hand his large hand she ran to the left, rustling her
starched skirt.

Nekhludoff was a swift runner; he wished to out-distance the artist, and ran
with all his might. As he turned around he saw the artist catching up with
Katiousha, but with her supple limbs she gained on him and ran to the left.
In front of them was a patch of lilac bushes, behind which no one ran, but
Katiousha, turning toward Nekhludoff, motioned him with her head to join
her there. He understood her, and ran behind the bushes. But here was a
ditch overgrown with nettles, whose presence was unknown to Nekhludoff.
He stumbled and fell, stinging and wetting his hands in the evening dew
that was now falling, but, laughing, he straightened himself and ran into the
open.
Katiousha, her black eyes beaming with joy, ran toward him. They met and
caught each others' hands.
"You were stung by the nettles, I suppose," she said, arranging with her free
hand her loosened braid, breathing heavily, and looking up into his eyes.
"I did not know there was a ditch," he said, also smiling, and still keeping
her hand in his.
She advanced a little, and he, without being able to account for it, inclined
his face toward hers. She did not draw back. He pressed her hand and
kissed her on the lips.
She uttered an exclamation, and with a swift movement, releasing her hand,
she ran in the direction of the crowd.
Plucking two lilac twigs from the lilac bush, fanning her flushed face with
them, and glancing around toward him, she ran to the players, briskly
waving her hands.
From this day on the relations between Nekhludoff and Katiousha were
changed, and there were established between them those peculiar relations
which are customary between two innocent young people who are attached
to each other.
As soon as Katiousha entered the room, or even when Nekhludoff saw her
white apron from afar, everything became immediately as if lit by the sun;
everything became more interesting, more cheerful, more important; life
became more joyful. She experienced the same feeling. But not alone the

presence and proximity of Katiousha had such effect upon Nekhludoff; the
very thought of her existence had the same power upon him as that of his
had upon her. Whether he received an unpleasant letter from his mother, or
was backward in his composition, or felt the ceaseless sadness of youth, it
would suffice for him to see her and his spirit resumed its wonted good
cheer.
Katiousha had to do all the housework, but she managed to do her duty and
found spare time for reading. He gave her the works of Dostoievsky and
Tourgenieff to read. Those descriptive of the beauties of nature she liked
best. Their conversations were but momentary, when they met in the
corridor, on the veranda, in the court-yard, or in the room of the aunts' old
servant, Matriena Pavlovna, with whom Katiousha roomed, or in the
servants' chamber, whither Nekhludoff sometimes went to drink tea. And
these conversations in the presence of Matriena Pavlovna were the
pleasantest. When they were alone their conversation flagged. Then the
eyes would speak something different, more important, than the mouth; the
lips were drawn up, they felt uncomfortable, and quickly parted.
These relations continued during the time of his first visit to his aunts. The
aunts noticed them, were dismayed, and immediately wrote to the Princess
Elena Ivanovna, Nekhludoff's mother. But their anxiety was unfounded;
Nekhludoff, without knowing it, loved Katiousha, as innocent people love,
and this very love was the principal safeguard against either his or her fall.
Not only did he not desire to possess her physically, but the very thought of
such relation horrified him. There was more reason in the poetical Sophia
Ivanovna's fear that Nekhludoff's having fallen in love with a girl, might
take a notion to marry her without regard to her birth or station.
If Nekhludoff were clearly conscious of his love for Katiousha; especially if
it were sought to persuade him that he could and must not link his fate to
that of the girl, he would very likely have decided in his plumb-line mind
that there was no reason why he should not marry her, no matter who she
was, provided he loved her. But the aunts did not speak of their fears, and
he departed without knowing that he was enamored of Katiousha.
He was certain that his feeling toward Katiousha was but a manifestation of
that joy which pervaded his entire being, and which was shared by that

lovely, cheerful girl. However, when he was taking leave, and Katiousha,
standing on the veranda with the aunts, followed him with her black, tearful
and somewhat squinting eyes, he felt that he was leaving behind him
something beautiful, precious, which would never recur. And he became
very sad.
"Good-by, Katiousha. I thank you for everything," he said, over the cap of
Sophia Ivanovna, and seated himself in the cabriolet.
"Good-by, Dmitri Ivanovich," she said, in her pleasant, caressing voice, and
holding back the tears which filled her eyes, ran into her room, where she
could cry freely.

CHAPTER XIII.
For three years afterward Nekhludoff did not see Katiousha. But when, as
staff-officer, he was on his way to his army post, he paid a short visit to his
aunts, but an entirely different man. Three years ago he was an honest, self-
denying youth, ready to devote himself to every good cause; now he was a
corrupt and refined egotist, given over to personal enjoyment. Then, the
world appeared to him as a mystery which he joyfully and enthusiastically
tried to solve; now, everything in this world was plain and simple, and was
determined by those conditions of life in which he found himself. Then, it
was necessary and important to hold communion with nature and with those
people who lived, thought and felt before him (philosophers, poets); now,
human institutions were the only things necessary and important, and
communion he held with his comrades. Woman, then, appeared to him a
mysterious and charming creature; now, he looked on woman, on every
woman, except nearest relations and wives of friends, as a means of
gratifying now tried pleasures. Then, he needed no money, and wanted not a
third part what his mother gave him, disclaimed title to his father's land,
distributing it among the peasants; now, the fifteen hundred rubles' monthly
allowance he received from his mother did not suffice for his needs, and he
often made it the cause of unpleasant conversation with her. His true self he
then considered his spiritual being; now, his healthy, vigorous, animal self
was his true ego.
And all this terrible transformation took place in him only because he
ceased to have faith in himself, and began to believe in others. To live
according to the faith that was in him was burdensome; every question
would have to be decided almost always against his animal ego, which was
seeking light pleasures; but reposing his faith in others, there remained
nothing to decide, everything having been decided, and decided always
against the spiritual and in favor of the animal ego. Besides, following his
inner faith, he was always subject to the censure of people; in the other case
he received the approval of the people that surrounded him.

Thus, when Nekhludoff was thinking, reading, speaking of God, of truth, of
wealth, of poverty, everybody considered it out of place and somewhat
queer, while his mother and aunt, with good-natured irony, called him notre
cher philosophe. When, however, he was reading novels, relating indecent
anecdotes or seeing droll vaudevilles in the French theatre, and afterward
merrily repeated them, everybody praised and encouraged him. When he
considered it necessary to curtail his needs, wore an old coat and gave up
wine-drinking, everybody considered it eccentric and vain originality; but
when he spent large sums in organizing a chase, or building an unusual,
luxurious cabinet, everybody praised his taste and sent him valuable gifts.
When he was chaste, and wished to preserve his chastity till marriage, his
relatives were anxious about his health, and his mother, so far from being
mortified, rather rejoiced when she learned that he had become a real man,
and had enticed the French mistress of some friend of his. As to the
Katiousha episode—that the thought might occur to him of marrying her,
she could not even think of without horror.
Similarly, when Nekhludoff, on reaching his majority, distributed the estate
he inherited from his father among the peasants, because he considered the
ownership of land unjust, this act of his horrified his mother and relatives,
who constantly reproached and ridiculed him for it. He was told
unceasingly that so far from enriching it only impoverished the peasants,
who opened three liquor stores and stopped working entirely. When,
however, Nekhludoff joined the Guards, and spent and gambled away so
much money that Elena Ivanovna had to draw from her capital, she scarcely
grieved, considering it quite natural and even beneficial to be thus
inoculated when young and in good society.
Nekhludoff at first struggled, but the struggle was very hard, for whatever
he did, following the faith that was in him, was considered wrong by others,
and, contrariwise, whatever he considered wrong was approved of by his
relatives. The result was that Nekhludoff ceased to have faith in himself and
began to follow others. At first this renunciation of self was unpleasant, but
it was short lived, and Nekhludoff, who now began to smoke and drink
wine, soon ceased to experience this unpleasant feeling, and was even
greatly relieved.

Passionate by nature, Nekhludoff gave himself up entirely to this new life,
approved of by all those that surrounded him, and completely stifled in
himself that voice which demanded something different. It commenced with
his removal to St. Petersburg, and ended with his entry upon active service.
During this period of his life Nekhludoff felt the ecstasy of freedom from
all those moral impediments which he had formerly placed before himself,
and continued in a chronic condition of insane egotism.
He was in this condition when, three years afterward, he visited his aunts.

CHAPTER XIV.
Nekhludoff called at his aunts because their manor lay on the road through
which his regiment had preceded him, and also because they requested him
to do so, but principally in order that he might see Katiousha. It may be that
in the depth of his soul there was already a mischievous intention toward
Katiousha, prompted by his now unbridled animal ego, but he was not
aware of it, he merely desired to visit those places in which he lived so
happily, and see his somewhat queer, but amiable and good-natured, aunts,
who always surrounded the atmosphere around him with love and
admiration, and also to see the lovely Katiousha, of whom he had such
pleasant recollections.
He arrived toward the end of March, on Good Friday, in the season of bad
roads, when the rain was falling in torrents, and was wet all through, and
chilled to the marrow of his bones, but courageous and excited, as he
always felt at that time of the year.
"I wonder if she is still there?" he thought, as he drove into the familiar
court-yard of the old manor, which was covered with snow that fell from
the roofs, and was surrounded by a low brick wall. He expected that the
ringing of the bell would bring her running to meet him, but on the perron
of the servants' quarters appeared two bare-footed women with tucked-up
skirts, carrying buckets, who were apparently scrubbing floors. She was not
on the front perron, either; only Timon, the lackey, came forth in an apron,
also apparently occupied with cleaning. Sophia Ivanovna came into the
ante-chamber, attired in a silk dress and cap.

"How glad I am that you came!" said Sophia Ivanovna. "Masheuka[B] is
somewhat ill. We were to church, receiving the sacrament. She is very
tired."

"I congratulate you, Aunt Sonia,"[C] said Nekhludoff, kissing the hand of
Sophia Ivanovna. "Pardon me, I have soiled you."

"Go to your room. You are wet all through. Oh, what a mustache!
Katiousha! Katiousha! Bring him some coffee quickly."
"All right!" responded a familiar, pleasant voice. Nekhludoff's heart
fluttered. "She is here!" To him it was like the sun rising from behind the
clouds, and he cheerfully went with Timon to his old room to change his
clothing.
Nekhludoff wished to ask Timon about Katiousha. Was she well? How did
she fare? Was she not engaged to be married? But Timon was so respectful,
and at the same time so rigid; he so strictly insisted on himself pouring the
water from the pitcher over Nekhludoff's hands, that the latter could not
decide to ask him about Katiousha, and only inquired about his grand-
children, about the old stallion, about the watch-dog Polkan. They were all
well, except Polkan, who had gone mad the previous year.
After he had thrown off his wet clothes, and as he was about to dress
himself, Nekhludoff heard quick steps and a rapping at the door. He
recognized both the steps and the rapping. Only she walked and rapped
thus.
It was Katiousha—the same Katiousha—only more lovely than before. The
naive, smiling, somewhat squinting black eyes still looked up; she wore a
clean white apron, as before. She brought a perfumed piece of soap, just
taken from the wrapper, and two towels—one Russian and the other
Turkish. The freshly unpacked soap, the towels and she herself, were all
equally clean, fresh, pure and pleasant. The lovely, firm, red lips became
creased from unrestrainable happiness at sight of him.
"How do you do, Dmitri Ivanovich?" she said, with difficulty, her face
becoming flushed.
"How art—how are you?" He did not know whether to "thou" her or not,
and became as red in the face as she was.[D] "Are you well?"
"Very well. Your aunt sent you your favorite soap, rose-scented," she said,
placing the soap on the table, and the towels on the arms of the chair.
"The gentleman has his own," Timon stood up for the independence of the
guest, proudly pointing to the open traveling bag with silver lids, containing

a large number of bottles, brushes, perfumes and all sorts of toilet articles.
"My thanks to auntie. But how glad I am that I came," said Nekhludoff,
feeling the old brightness and emotions recurring to his soul.
In answer to this she only smiled and left the room.
The aunts, who always loved Nekhludoff, received him this time with
greater joy than usual. Dmitri was going to active service, where he might
be wounded or killed. This affected the aunts.
Nekhludoff had arranged his trip so that he might spend twenty-four hours
with his aunts, but, seeing Katiousha, decided to remain over Easter
Sunday, which was two days later, and wired to his friend and commander
Shenbok, whom he was to meet at Odessa, to come to his aunts.
From the very first day Nekhludoff experienced the old feeling toward
Katiousha. Again he could not see without agitation the white apron of
Katiousha; he could not listen without joy to her steps, her voice, her laugh;
he could not, without emotion, look into her black eyes, especially when
she smiled; he could not, above all, see, without confusion, how she
blushed when they met. He felt that he was in love, but not as formerly,
when this love was to him a mystery, and he had not the courage to confess
it to himself; when he was convinced that one can love only once. Now he
loved knowingly, rejoiced at it, and confusedly knowing, though he
concealed it from himself, what it consisted of, and what might come of it.
In Nekhludoff, as in all people, there were two beings; one spiritual, who
sought only such happiness for himself as also benefited others; and the
animal being, seeking his own happiness for the sake of which he is willing
to sacrifice that of the world. During this period of his insane egotism,
called forth by the life in the army and in St. Petersburg, the animal man
dominated him and completely suppressed the spiritual man. But, seeing
Katiousha, and being again imbued with the feelings he formerly
experienced toward her, the spiritual man raised his head and began to
assert his rights. And during the two days preceding Easter an incessant
struggle was going on within Nekhludoff of which he was quite
unconscious.

In the depth of his soul he knew that he had to depart; that his stay at his
aunts was unnecessary, that nothing good could come of it, but it was so
joyous and pleasant that he did not heed it, and remained.
On the eve of Easter Sunday, the priest and deacon who, as they afterward
related, with difficulty covered the three miles from the church to the aunts'
manor, arrived on a sleigh to perform the morning services.
Nekhludoff, with his aunts and the servants, went through the motions,
without ceasing to look on Katiousha, who brought a censer and was
standing at the door; then, in the customary fashion, kissed the priest and
the aunts, and was about to retire to his room when he heard Matriena
Pavlovna, the old servant of Maria Ivanovna, making preparations with
Katiousha to go to church and witness the consecration of the paschal
bread. "I will go there, too," he thought.
There was no wagon or sleigh road to the church, so Nekhludoff gave
command, as he would in his own house, to have a horse saddled, and,
instead of going to bed, donned a brilliant uniform and tight knee-breeches,
threw on his military coat, and, mounting the snorting and constantly
neighing, heavy stallion, he drove off to the church in the dark, over pools
and snow mounds.

FOOTNOTES:
[B] Diminutive of Maria.
[C] Diminutive of Sophia.
[D] The Russian thou cannot be rendered into English with any degree of
accuracy. The greeting to which the impulsive Nekhludoff was about to give
expression is that used toward a beloved person.

CHAPTER XV.
That morning service formed the brightest and most impressive
reminiscence of Nekhludoff's after life.
The darkness of the night was only relieved here and there by white patches
of snow, and as the stallion, splashing through the mud-pools, and his ears
pricked up at the sight of the fire-pots surrounding the church, entered its
inclosure, the service had already begun.
The peasants, recognizing Maria Ivanovna's nephew, led his horse to the
driest spot, where he dismounted, then they escorted him to the church filled
with a holiday crowd.
To the right were the male peasants; old men in homespun coats and bast
shoes, and young men in new cloth caftans, bright-colored belts and boots.
To the left the women, with red silk 'kerchiefs on their heads, shag caftans
with bright red sleeves, and blue, green, red, striped and dotted skirts and
iron-heeled shoes. Behind them stood the more modest women in white
'kerchiefs and gray caftans and ancient skirts, in shoes or bast slippers.
Among these and the others were dressed-up children with oiled hair. The
peasants made the sign of the cross and bowed, disheveling their hair; the
women, especially the old women, gazing with their lustreless eyes on one
image, before which candles burned, pressed hard with the tips of their
fingers on the 'kerchief of the forehead, the shoulders and the abdomen, and,
mumbling something, bent forward standing, or fell on their knees. The
children, imitating their elders, prayed fervently when they were looked at.
The gold iconostasis was aflame with innumerable candles, which
surrounded a large one in the centre wound in a narrow strip of gilt paper.
The church lustre was dotted with candles, joyful melodies of volunteer
singers with roaring bass and piercing contralto mingled with the chant of
the choir.
Nekhludoff went forward. In the middle of the church stood the aristocracy;
a country squire with his wife and son in a sailor blouse, the commissary of
the rural police, a telegraph operator, a merchant in high boots, the local

syndic with a medal on his breast, and to the right of the tribune, behind the
squire's wife, Matriena Pavlovna, in a lilac-colored chatoyant dress and
white shawl with colored border, and beside her was Katiousha in a white
dress, gathered in folds at the waist, a blue belt, and a red bow in her black
hair.
Everything was solemn, joyous and beautiful; the priest in his bright, silver
chasuble, dotted with gilt crosses, the deacon, the chanters in holiday
surplice of gold and silver, the spruce volunteer singers with oiled hair, the
joyous melodies of holiday songs, the ceaseless blessing of the throng by the
priests with flower-bedecked tern candles with the constantly repeated
exclamations: "Christ has risen! Christ has risen!" Everything was beautiful,
but more beautiful than all was Katiousha, in her white dress, blue belt and
red bow in her hair, and her eyes radiant with delight.
Nekhludoff felt that she saw him without turning round. He saw it while
passing near her to the altar. He had nothing to tell her, but tried to think of
something, and said, when passing her:
"Auntie said that she would receive the sacrament after mass."
Her young blood, as it always happened when she looked at him, rose to her
cheeks, and her black eyes, naively looking up, fixed themselves on
Nekhludoff.
"I know it," she said, smiling.
At that moment a chanter with a copper coffee-pot in his hand passed close
to Katiousha, and, without looking at her, grazed her with the skirt of the
surplice. The chanter, evidently out of respect for Nekhludoff, wished to
sweep around him, and thus it happened that he grazed Katiousha.
Nekhludoff, however, was surprised that that chanter did not understand that
everything in the church, and in the whole world, for that matter, existed
only for Katiousha, and that one might spurn the entire world, but must not
slight her, because she was the centre of it. It was for her that the gold
iconostasis shone brightly, and these candles in the church-lustre burned; for
her were the joyful chants: "Be happy, man; it is the Lord's Easter." All the
good in the world was for her. And it seemed to him that Katiousha
understood that all this was for her. It seemed to Nekhludoff, when he

looked at her erect figure in the white dress with little folds at the waist, and
by the expression of her happy face, that the very thing that filled his soul
with song, also filled hers.
In the interval between early and late mass Nekhludoff left the church. The
people made way for him and bowed. Some recognized him; others asked:
"Who is he?" He stopped at the porch. Beggars surrounded him, and,
distributing such change as he had in his pocket, he descended the stairs.
The day began to break, but the sun was yet beyond the horizon. The people
seated themselves on the grass around the church-yard, but Katiousha
remained in the church, and Nekhludoff waited on the porch for her
appearance.
The crowd was still pouring out of the church, their hob-nailed shoes
clattering against the stone pavement, and spread about the cemetery.
An old man, confectioner to Maria Ivanovna, stopped Nekhludoff and kissed
him, and his wife, an old woman with a wrinkled Adam's apple under a silk
'kerchief, unrolled a yellow saffron egg from her handkerchief and gave it to
him. At the same time a young, smiling and muscular peasant, in a new
caftan, approached.
"Christ has risen!" he said, with smiling eyes and, nearing Nekhludoff,
spread around him a peculiar, pleasant, peasant odor, and, tickling him with
his curly beard, three times kissed him on the lips.
While Nekhludoff was thus exchanging the customary kisses with the
peasant and taking from him a dark-brown egg, he noticed the chatoyant
dress of Matriena Pavlovna and the lovely head with the red bow.
No sooner did she catch sight of him over the heads of those in front of her,
than her face brightened up.
On reaching the porch they also stopped, distributing alms. One of the
beggars, with a red, cicatrized slough instead of a nose, approached
Katiousha. She produced some coins from her handkerchief, gave them to
him, and without the slightest expression of disgust, but, on the contrary, her
eyes beaming with delight, kissed him three times. While she was thus

kissing with the beggar, her eyes met those of Nekhludoff, and she seemed
to ask him: "Is it not right? Is it not proper?"
"Yes, yes, darling; it is right; everything is beautiful. I love you."
As they descended the stairs he came near her. He did not wish to kiss her,
but merely wished to be by her side.
"Christ has risen!" said Matriena Pavlovna, leaning her head forward and
smiling. By the intonation of her voice she seemed to say, "All are equal to-
day," and wiping her mouth with a bandana handkerchief which she kept
under her arm-pit, she extended her lips.
"He has risen, indeed," answered Nekhludoff, and they kissed each other.
He turned to look at Katiousha. She flushed and at the same moment
approached him.
"Christ has risen, Dmitri Ivanovich."
"He has risen, indeed," he said. They kissed each other twice, and seemed to
be reflecting whether or not it was necessary to kiss a third time, and having
decided, as it were, that it was necessary, they kissed again.
"Will you go to the priest?" asked Nekhludoff.
"No, we will stay here, Dmitri Ivanovich," answered Katiousha, laboriously,
as though after hard, pleasant exertion, breathing with her full breast and
looking straight in his eyes, with her submissive, chaste, loving and slightly
squinting eyes.
There is a point in the love between man and woman when that love reaches
its zenith; when it is free from consciousness, reason and sensuality. Such a
moment arrived for Nekhludoff that Easter morn.
Now, whenever he thought of Katiousha, her appearance at that moment
obscured every other recollection of her. The dark, smooth, resplendent
head; the white dress with folds clinging to her graceful bust and undulating
breast; those vermilion cheeks, those brilliant black eyes, and two main traits
in all her being: the virgin purity of her love, not only for himself, but for

everything and everybody—he knew it—not only the good and beautiful,
but even that beggar whom she had kissed.
He knew that she possessed that love, because that night and that morning he
felt it within him, and felt that in that love his soul mingled into one with
hers.
Ah, if that feeling had continued unchanged! "Yes, that awful affair occurred
after that notable commemoration of Christ's resurrection!" he thought now,
sitting at the window of the jury-room.

CHAPTER XVI.
Returning from the church, Nekhludoff broke his fast with the aunts, and to
repair his strength, drank some brandy and wine—a habit he acquired in the
army—and going to his room immediately fell asleep with his clothes on. He
was awakened by a rap at the door. By the rap he knew that it was she, so he
rose, rubbing his eyes and stretching himself.
"Is it you, Katiousha? Come in," he said, rising.
She opened the door.
"You are wanted to breakfast," she said. She was in the same white dress, but
without the bow in her hair.
As she looked in his eyes she brightened up, as if she had announced
something unusually pleasant.
"I shall come immediately," he answered, taking a comb to rearrange his
hair.
She lingered for a moment. He noticed it, and putting down the comb, he
moved toward her. But at the same moment she quickly turned and walked
off with her customary light and agile step along the narrow mat of the
corridor.
"What a fool I am!" Nekhludoff said to himself. "Why did I not detain her?"
And he ran after her.
He did not know himself what he wished of her, but it seemed to him that
when she entered his room he ought to have done something that any one in
his place would have done, but which he failed to do.
"Wait, Katiousha," he said.
She looked around.
"What is it?" she said, stopping.

"Nothing. I only——"
With some effort he overcame his shyness, and remembering how people
generally act in such a case, he put his arm about Katiousha's waist.
She stopped and looked in his eyes.
"Don't, Ivanovich, don't," she said, blushing until her eyes filled with tears.
Then with her rough, strong hands she removed his arm.
Nekhludoff released her, and for a moment felt not only awkward and
ashamed, but seemed odious to himself. He should have believed in himself,
but he failed to understand that this awkwardness and shame were the
noblest feelings of his soul begging for recognition, and, on the contrary, it
seemed to him that it was his foolishness that was speaking within him, that
he ought to have done as everybody does in a similar case.
He overtook her again, again embraced her and kissed her on the neck. This
kiss was entirely unlike the other two kisses. The first was given
unconsciously, behind the lilac bush; the second, in the morning in church.
The last one was terrible, and she felt it.
"But what are you doing?" she exclaimed in such a voice, as if he had
irrecoverably destroyed something infinitely precious, and ran away from
him.
He went to the dining-room. His aunts in holiday attire, the doctor and a
neighbor were taking lunch standing. Everything was as usual, but a storm
raged in Nekhludoff's soul. He did not understand what was said to him, his
answers were inappropriate, and he was thinking only of Katiousha,
recalling the sensation of the last kiss he gave her when he overtook her in
the corridor. He could think of nothing else. When she entered the room,
without looking at her, he felt her presence with all his being, and had to
make an effort not to look at her.
After lunch he went immediately to his room, and in great agitation walked
to and fro, listening to the sounds in the house and waiting to hear her steps.
The animal man that dwelled in him not only raised his head, but crushed
under foot the spiritual man that he was when he first arrived at the manor,
and was even this very morning in church, and that terrible animal man now

held sway in his soul. Although Nekhludoff was watching an opportunity to
meet Katiousha that day, he did not succeed in seeing her face to face even
once. She was probably avoiding him. But in the evening it happened that
she had to enter a room adjoining his. The physician was to remain over
night, and Katiousha had to make the bed for him. Hearing her steps,
Nekhludoff, stepping on tip-toe and holding his breath, as though preparing
to commit a crime, followed her into the room.
Thrusting both her hands into a white pillow-case, and taking hold of two
corners of the pillow, she turned her head and looked at him smiling, but it
was not the old, cheerful, happy smile, but a frightened, piteous smile. The
smile seemed to tell him that what he was doing was wrong. For a moment
he stood still. There was still the possibility of a struggle. Though weak, the
voice of his true love to her was still heard; it spoke of her, of her feelings, of
her life. The other voice reminded him of his enjoyment, his happiness. And
this second voice stifled the first. He approached her with determination.
And the terrible, irresistible animal feeling mastered him.
Without releasing her from his embrace, Nekhludoff seated her on the bed,
and feeling that something else ought to be done, seated himself beside her.
"Dmitri Ivanovich, darling, please let me go," she said in a piteous voice.
"Matriena Pavlovna is coming!" she suddenly exclaimed, tearing herself
away.
Matriena Pavlovna was really approaching the door. She entered the room,
holding a quilt on her arm, and, looking reproachfully at Nekhludoff, angrily
rebuked Katiousha for taking the wrong quilt.
Nekhludoff went out in silence. He was not even ashamed. By the
expression of Matriena Pavlovna's face he saw that she condemned him, and
justly so; he knew that what he was doing was wrong, but the animal feeling,
which succeeded his former feeling of pure love to her, seized him and held
sole sway over him; recognizing no other feeling. He knew now what was
necessary to do in order to satisfy that feeling, and was looking for means to
that end.
He was out of sorts all that night. Now he would go to his aunts; now he
returned to his room, or went to the perron, thinking but of one thing: how to

meet her alone. But she avoided him, and Matriena Pavlovna strove not to
lose sight of her.

CHAPTER XVII.
Thus the entire evening passed, and when night came the doctor went to bed.
The aunts were also preparing to retire. Nekhludoff knew that Matriena
Pavlovna was in the aunts' dormitory, and that Katiousha was in the servants'
quarters—alone. He again went out on the perron. It was dark, damp and
warm, and that white mist which in the spring thaws the last snow, filled the
air. Strange noises came from the river, which was a hundred feet from the
house. It was the breaking up of the ice.
Nekhludoff came down from the perron, and stepping over pools and the
thin ice-covering formed on the snow, walked toward the window of the
servants' quarters. His heart beat so violently that he could hear it; his
breathing at times stopped, at others it escaped in a heavy sigh. A small lamp
was burning in the maid-servants' room.
Katiousha was sitting at the table alone, musing and looking at the wall
before her. Without moving Nekhludoff for some time stood gazing at her,
wishing to know what she would do while thinking herself unobserved. For
about two minutes she sat motionless, then raised her eyes, smiled,
reproachfully shook her head, at herself apparently, and, changing her
position, with a start placed both hands on the table and fixed her eyes
before her.
He remained looking at her, and involuntarily listened to the beating of his
heart and the strange sounds coming from the river. There, on the misty river
some incessant, slow work was going on. Now something snuffled, then it
crackled, and again the thin layer of ice resounded like a mass of crushed
glass.
He stood looking at the thoughtful face of Katiousha, tormented by an
internal struggle, and he pitied her. But, strange to say, this pity only
increased his longing for her.
He rapped at the window. She trembled from head to foot, as if an electric
current had passed through her, and terror was reflected on her face. Then

she sprang up, and, going to the window, placed her face against the
window-pane. The expression of terror did not leave her even when, shading
her eyes with the palms of her hands, she recognized him. Her face was
unusually grave—he had never seen such an expression on it. When he
smiled she smiled also—she smiled as if only in submission to him, but in
her soul, instead of a smile, there was terror. He motioned her with his hand
to come out. But she shook her head and remained at the window. Again he
leaned toward the window and was about to speak when she turned toward
the door. Some one had apparently called her. Nekhludoff moved away from
the window. The fog was so dense that when five feet away he saw only a
darkening mass from which a red, seemingly large, light of the lamp was
reflected. From the river came the same strange sounds of snuffling,
crackling and grinding of the ice. In the court-yard a cock crowed, others
near by responded; then from the village, first singly, interrupting each other,
then mingling into one chorus, was heard the crowing of all the cocks.
Except for the noise of the river, it was perfectly quiet all around.
After walking twice around the corner of the house, and stepping several
times into mud-pools, Nekhludoff returned to the window of the maid-
servants' quarters. The lamp was still burning, and Katiousha sat alone at the
table as if in indecision. As soon as he came near the window she looked at
him. He rapped. Without stopping to see who had rapped, she immediately
ran from the room, and he heard the opening and closing of the door. He was
already waiting for her in the passage, and immediately silently embraced
her. She pressed against his bosom, lifted her head, and with her lips met his
kiss.

When Nekhludoff returned to his room it was getting brighter. Below, the
noises on the river increased, and a buzzing was added to the other sounds.
The mist began to settle, and from behind the wall of mist the waning moon
appeared, gloomily, lighting up something dark and terrible.
"Is it good fortune or a great misfortune that has happened to me?" he asked
himself. "It is always thus; they all act in that way," and he returned to his
room.

PRINCE NEKHLUDOFF.

CHAPTER XVIII.
On the following day the brilliant and jovial Shenbok called at the aunts for
Nekhludoff, and completely charmed them with his elegance, amiability,
cheerfulness, liberality, and his love for Dmitri. Though his liberality pleased
the aunts, they were somewhat perplexed by the excess to which he carried
it. He gave a ruble to a blind beggar; the servants received as tips fifteen
rubles, and when Sophia Ivanovna's lap-dog, Suzette, hurt her leg so that it
bled, he volunteered to bandage it, and without a moment's consideration
tore his fine linen handkerchief (Sophia Ivanovna knew that those
handkerchiefs were worth fifteen rubles a dozen) and made bandages of it
for the dog. The aunts had never seen such men, nor did they know that his
debts ran up to two hundred thousand rubles, which—he knew—would
never be paid, and that therefore twenty-five rubles more or less made no
appreciable difference in his accounts.
Shenbok remained but one day, and the following evening departed with
Nekhludoff. They could remain no longer, for the time for joining their
regiment had arrived.
On this last day spent at the aunts, when the events of the preceding evening
were fresh in his memory, two antagonistic feelings struggled in
Nekhludoff's soul; one was the burning, sensual recollection of love,
although it failed to fulfill its promises, and some satisfaction of having
gained his ends; the other, a consciousness of having committed a wrong,
and that that wrong must be righted—not for her sake, but for his own sake.
In that condition of insane egotism Nekhludoff thought only of himself—
whether he would be condemned, and how far, if his act should be
discovered, but never gave a thought to the question, "How does she feel
about it, and what will become of her?"
He thought that Shenbok divined his relations to Katiousha, and his ambition
was flattered.

"That's why you so suddenly began to like your aunts," Shenbok said to him
when he saw Katiousha. "In your place I should stay here even longer. She is
charming!"
He also thought that while it was a pity to leave now, without enjoying his
love in its fullness, the necessity of going was advantageous in that he was
able to break the relations which it were difficult to keep up. He further
thought it was necessary to give her money, not because she might need it,
but because it was customary to do so. So he gave as much money as he
thought was proper, considering their respective positions.
On the day of his departure, after dinner he waited in the passage until she
came by. She flushed as she saw him, and wished to pass on, pointing with
her eyes to the door of her room, but he detained her.
"I came to bid you farewell," he said, crumpling an envelope containing a
hundred ruble bill. "How is——"
She suspected it, frowned, shook her head and thrust aside his hand.
"Yes, take it," he murmured, thrusting the envelope in the bosom of her
waist, and, as if it had burned his fingers, he ran to his room.
For a long time he paced his room to and fro, frowning, and even jumping,
and moaning aloud as if from physical pain, as he thought of the scene.
But what is to be done? It is always thus. Thus it was with Shenbok and the
governess whom he had told about; it was thus with Uncle Gregory; with his
father, when he lived in the country, and the illegitimate son Miteuka, who is
still living, was born to him. And if everybody acts thus, consequently it
ought to be so. Thus he was consoling himself, but he could not be consoled.
The recollection of it stung his conscience.
In the depth of his soul he knew that his action was so base, abominable and
cruel that, with that action upon his conscience, not only would he have no
right to condemn others but he should not be able to look others in the face,
to say nothing of considering himself the good, noble, magnanimous man he
esteemed himself. And he had to esteem himself as such in order to be able
to continue to lead a valiant and joyous life. And there was but one way of
doing so, and that was not to think of it. This he endeavored to do.

The life into which he had just entered—new scenes, comrades, and active
service—helped him on. The more he lived, the less he thought of it, and in
the end really forgot it entirely.
Only once, on his return from active service, when, in the hope of seeing her,
he paid a visit to his aunts, he was told that Katiousha, soon after his
departure, had left them; that she had given birth to a child, and, as the aunts
were informed, had gone to the bad. As he heard it his heart was oppressed
with grief. From the statement of the time when she gave birth to the child it
might be his, and it might not be his. The aunts said that she was vicious and
of a depraved nature, just like her mother. And this opinion of the aunts
pleased him, because it exculpated him, as it were. At first he intended to
find her and the child, but as it pained him very much, and he was ashamed
to think of it, he did not make the necessary efforts, and gradually ceased to
think of his sin.
But now, this fortuitous meeting brought everything to his mind, and
compelled the acknowledgment of his heartlessness, cruelty and baseness
which made it possible for him to live undisturbed by the sin which lay on
his conscience. He was yet far from such acknowledgment, and at this
moment was only thinking how to avoid disclosure which might be made by
her, or her attorney, and thus disgrace him before everybody.

CHAPTER XIX.
Nekhludoff was in this state of mind when he left the court-room and
entered the jury-room. He sat near the window, listening to the conversations
of his fellow jurymen, and smoked incessantly.
The cheerful merchant evidently sympathized with Merchant Smelkoff's
manner of passing his time.
"Well, well! He went on his spree just like a Siberian! Seems to have known
a good thing when he saw it. What a beauty!"
The foreman expressed the opinion that the whole case depended on the
expert evidence. Peter Gerasimovich was jesting with the Jewish clerk, and
both of them burst out laughing. Nekhludoff answered all questions in
monosyllables, and only wished to be left in peace.
When the usher with the sidling gait called the jury into court Nekhludoff
was seized with fear, as if judgment was to be passed on him, and not he to
pass judgment on others.
In the depth of his soul he already felt that he was a rascal, who ought to be
ashamed to look people in the face, and yet, by force of habit, he walked to
the elevation with his customary air of self-confidence, and took his seat
next to the foreman, crossed his legs and began to play with his pince-nez.
The prisoners, who had also been removed from the court, were brought in
again.
The new faces of witnesses were now seen in the court-room, and
Nekhludoff noticed Maslova constantly turning her head in the direction of a
smartly attired, stout woman in silk and plush, with an elegant reticule
hanging on her half-bare arm. This was, as Nekhludoff afterward learned,
Maslova's mistress and a witness against her.
The examination of the witnesses began as to their names, age, religion, et
cetera. After being questioned as to whether they preferred to testify under
oath, the same old priest, with difficulty moving his legs, came, and again

arranging the gold cross on his silk-covered breast, with the same calmness
and confidence, began to administer the oath to the witnesses and the expert.
When the swearing in was over, the witnesses were removed to an adjoining
room, leaving only Kitaeva, Maslova's mistress. She was asked what she
knew of the affair. Kitaeva, with a feigned smile, a German accent, and
straightening her hat at every sentence, fluently and circumstantially related
the following:

Simon came first to her house for Liubasha.[E] In a little while Liubasha
returned with the merchant. "The merchant was already in ecstasy," slightly
smiling, said Kitaeva, "and he continued to drink and treat himself, but as he
was short of money he sent to his room this same Liubasha, for whom he
acquired a predilection," she said, looking at Maslova.
It seemed to Nekhludoff that Maslova smiled at this, and the smile seemed to
him disgusting. A strange feeling of squeamishness mingled with
compassion rose in his breast.
"What opinion did you entertain of Maslova?" timidly and blushingly asked
the attorney assigned by the court to defend Maslova.
"Very excellent," answered Kitaeva. "The girl is very well educated and
elegant in her manners. She was raised in a very good family, and could read
French. She sometimes drank a little too much, but she never forgot herself.
She is a very good girl."
Katiousha looked at her mistress, then suddenly turned her eyes on the jury
and rested them on Nekhludoff, her face becoming serious and even stern.
One of the stern eyes squinted. These strangely gazing eyes were turned on
Nekhludoff for a considerable time. Notwithstanding the terror that seized
him, he could not remove his own gaze from those squinting eyes with their
shining whites. He recalled that awful night with the breaking ice, the fog,
and especially that waning, upturned moon which rose in the morning and lit
up something dark and terrible. These two black eyes which looked at and at
the same time by him reminded him of something dark and terrible.
"She recognized me!" he thought. And Nekhludoff shrank, as it were,
waiting for the blow. But she did not recognize him. She sighed calmly and
again fixed her eyes on the justiciary. Nekhludoff also sighed. "Ah, if they

would only hasten it through," he thought. He felt now as he did once when
out game shooting, when he was obliged to kill a wounded bird—he was
filled with disgust, pity and vexation. The wounded bird is struggling in the
game bag; he feels disgust and pity, and wishes to kill it quickly and forget
it.
Such mingled feelings filled Nekhludoff's breast as he sat listening to the
examination of the witnesses.

FOOTNOTES:
[E] A contemptuous diminutive of Liuba. Tr.

CHAPTER XX.
As if to spite him, the case dragged out to a weary length. After the
examination of the witnesses and the expert, and after all the unnecessary
questions by the prosecutor and the attorneys, usually made with an
important air, the justiciary told the jury to look at the exhibits, which
consisted of an enormous ring with a diamond rosette, evidently made for
the forefinger, and a glass tube containing the poison. These were sealed and
labeled.
The jury were preparing to view these things, when the prosecutor rose again
and demanded that before the exhibits were examined the medical report of
the condition of the body be read.
The justiciary was hurrying the case, and though he knew that the reading of
the report would only bring ennui and delay the dinner, and that the
prosecutor demanded it only because he had the right to do so, he could not
refuse the request and gave his consent. The secretary produced the report,
and, lisping the letters l and r, began to read in a sad voice.
The external examination disclosed:
1. The height of Therapout Smelkoff was six feet five inches.
"But what a huge fellow," the merchant whispered in Nekhludoff's ear with
solicitude.
2. From external appearances he seemed to be about forty years of age.
3. The body had a swollen appearance.
4. The color of the pall was green, streaked with dark spots.
5. The skin on the surface of the body rose in bubbles of various sizes, and in
places hung in patches.
6. The hair was dark and thick, and fell off at a slight touch.
7. The eyes came out of their orbits, and the pupils were dull.

8. A frothy, serous fluid flowed continuously from the cavity of the mouth,
the nostrils and ears. The mouth was half open.
9. The neck almost disappeared in the swelling of the face and breast, et
cetera, et cetera.
Thus, over four pages and twenty-seven clauses, ran the description of the
external appearance of the terrible, large, stout, swollen and decomposing
body of the merchant who amused himself in the city. The loathing which
Nekhludoff felt increased with the reading of the description. Katiousha's
life, the sanies running from the nostrils, the eyes that came out of their
sockets, and his conduct toward her—all seemed to him to belong to the
same order, and he was surrounded and swallowed up by these things. When
the reading was finally over, the justiciary sighed deeply and raised his head
in the hope that it was all over, but the secretary immediately began to read
the report on the internal condition of the body.
The justiciary again bent his head, and, leaning on his hand, closed his eyes.
The merchant, who sat near Nekhludoff, barely kept awake, and from time
to time swayed his body. The prisoners as well as the gendarmes behind
them sat motionless.
The internal examination disclosed:
1. The skin covering of the skull easily detached, and no hemorrhage was
noticeable. 2. The skull bones were of average thickness and uninjured. 3.
On the hard membrane of the skull there were two small discolored spots of
about the size of four centimetres, the membrane itself being of a dull gray
color, et cetera, et cetera, to the end of thirteen more clauses.
Then came the names of the witnesses, the signature and deduction of the
physician, from which it appeared that the changes found in the stomach,
intestines and kidneys justified the conclusion "to a large degree probable"
that the death of Smelkoff was due to poison taken into the stomach with a
quantity of wine. That it was impossible to tell by the changes in the
stomach and intestines the name of the poison; and that the poison came into
the stomach mixed with wine could be inferred from the fact that Smelkoff's
stomach contained a large quantity of wine.
"He must have drank like a fish," again whispered the awakened merchant.

The reading of this official report, which lasted about two hours, did not
satisfy, however, the prosecutor. When it was over the justiciary turned to
him, saying:
"I suppose it is superfluous to read the record of the examination of the
intestines."
"I would ask that it be read," sternly said the prosecutor without looking at
the justiciary, sidewise raising himself, and impressing by the tone of his
voice that it was his right to demand it, that he would insist on it, and that a
refusal would be ground for appeal.
The associate with the long beard and kind, drooping eyes, who was
suffering from catarrh, feeling very weak, turned to the justiciary:
"What is the good of reading it? It will only drag the matter out. These new
brooms only take a longer time to sweep, but do not sweep any cleaner."
The associate in the gold eye-glasses said nothing, and gloomily and
determinedly looked in front of him, expecting nothing good either from his
wife or from the world.
The report commenced thus: "February 15th, 188—. The undersigned, in
pursuance of an order, No. 638, of the Medical Department," began the
secretary with resolution, raising the pitch of his voice, as if to dispel the
drowsiness that seized upon every one present, "and in the presence of the
assistant medical director, examined the following intestines:
"1. The right lung and heart (contained in a five-pound glass vial).
"2. The contents of the stomach (contained in a five-pound glass vial).
"3. The stomach itself (contained in a five-pound glass vial).
"4. The kidneys, liver and spleen (contained in a two-and-a-half-pound glass
vial).
"5. The entrails (contained in a five-pound earthen jar)."
As the reading of this report began the justiciary leaned over to one of his
associates and whispered something, then to the other, and, receiving
affirmative answers, interrupted the reading at this point.

"The Court finds the reading of the report superfluous," he said.
The secretary closed reading and gathered up his papers, while the
prosecutor angrily began to make notes.
"The gentlemen of the jury may now view the exhibits," said the justiciary.
The foreman and some of the jury rose from their seats, and, holding their
hands in awkward positions, approached the table and looked in turn on the
ring, vials and jars. The merchant even tried the ring on his finger.
"What a finger he had," he said, returning to his seat. "It must have been the
size of a large cucumber," he added, evidently amused by the giant figure of
the merchant, as he imagined him.

CHAPTER XXI.
When the examination of the exhibits was over, the justiciary announced the
investigation closed, and, desiring to end the session, gave the word to the
prosecutor, in the hope that as he, too, was mortal, he might also wish to
smoke or dine, and would have pity on the others. But the prosecutor pitied
neither himself nor them. When the word was given him, he rose slowly,
displaying his elegant figure, and, placing both hands on the desk, and
slightly bending his head, he cast a glance around the court-room, his eyes
avoiding the prisoners.
"Gentlemen of the jury, the case which is now to be submitted to your
consideration," he began his speech, prepared while the indictment and
reports were being read, "is a characteristic crime, if I may so express
myself."
The speech of a prosecuting attorney, according to his idea, had to be
invested with a social significance, according to the manner of those lawyers
who became famous. True, among his hearers were three women; a
seamstress, a cook and Simon's sister, also a driver, but that made no
difference. Those celebrities also began on a small scale. The prosecutor
made it a rule to view the situation from the eminence of his position, i. e., to
penetrate into the profound psychological meaning of crime, and bare the
ulcers of society.
"Here is before you, gentlemen of the jury, a crime characteristic, if I may so
express myself, of the end of our century, bearing, as it were, all the specific
features of the first symptoms of decomposition, to which those elements of
our society, which are exposed, as it were, to the more scorching rays of that
process, are subject."
The prosecutor spoke at great length, endeavoring on the one hand to
remember all those wise sayings which he had prepared for the occasion,
and on the other, most important, hand, not to stop for a moment, but to
make his speech flow uninterruptedly for an hour and a quarter. He stopped
only once, for a long time swallowing his saliva, but he immediately

mastered himself and made up for the lost time by a greater flow of
eloquence. He spoke in a gentle, insinuating voice, resting now on one foot,
now on the other, and looking at the jury; then changed to a calm, business
tone, consulting his note-book, and again he thundered accusations, turning
now to the spectators, now to the jury. But he never looked at the prisoners,
all three of whom stared at him. He incorporated into his speech all the latest
ideas then in vogue in the circle of his acquaintances, and what was then and
is now received as the last word of scientific wisdom. He spoke of heredity,
of innate criminality, of Lombroso, of Charcot, of evolution, of the struggle
for existence, of hypnotism, of hypnotic suggestion, and of decadence.
The merchant Smelkoff, according to the prosecutor, was a type of the great,
pure Russian, with his broad nature, who, in consequence of his trusting
nature and generosity, had become a victim of a gang of corrupt people, into
whose hands he had fallen.
Simon Kartinkin was the atavistic production of serfdom, stupid, without
education, and even without religion. Euphemia was his mistress, and a
victim of heredity. All the symptoms of degenerate life were in her. But the
ruling spirit in this crime was Maslova, who was the mouthpiece of the
lowest phenomenon of decadence. "This woman," said the prosecutor
without looking at her, "received an education—you have heard here the
evidence of her mistress. Not only can she read and write, but she can speak
French. She is an orphan, and probably bears the germs of criminality in her.
She was raised in an intelligent, noble family, and could make her living by
honest toil, but she leaves them, yields to her passions, and displays an
intelligence, and especially, as you have heard here, gentlemen of the jury,
an ability to exert influence on people by that mysterious, lately discovered
by science, especially by the school of Charcot, power known by the name
of hypnotic suggestion. By the aid of this power she gets control over this
hero—a kind, trustful, rich guest, and uses his confidence first to rob him,
and then to pitilessly murder him."
"But he is wandering away," said the justiciary, smiling and leaning over to
the stern associate.
"What an awful blockhead!" said the stern associate.

"Gentlemen of the jury!" the prosecutor continued meanwhile, gracefully
swaying his slim body. "The fate of these people is in your hands, as is to
some extent the fate of society, which is influenced by your verdict. You
must fathom the significance of this crime, the danger to society that lurks in
such pathological, as it were, individuals as Maslova. You must guard it
against infection; it is your duty to guard the innocent, healthy elements of
society against contagion, if not destruction."
And as if himself impressed with the importance of the verdict, and
evidently greatly delighted with his speech, the prosecutor took his seat.
The burden of his speech, if we eliminate the flights of eloquence, was to the
effect that Maslova, after gaining the merchant's confidence, hypnotized
him, and that, arriving at the inn with the key to the merchant's trunk, she
intended to steal the money herself, but, being discovered by Simon and
Euphemia, was obliged to divide with them. That afterward, desiring to
conceal the traces of her crime, she returned with the merchant to the inn and
administered poison to him.
When the prosecutor had finished his speech, a middle-aged man, in a dress
coat and wide semi-circle of starched shirt front, rose from the lawyer's
bench, and boldly began to deliver a speech in defense of Kartinkin and
Bochkova. He was a lawyer hired by them for three hundred rubles. He
declared them both innocent, and threw all the blame on Maslova.
He belittled the deposition of Maslova relating to the presence of Bochkova
and Kartinkin when she took the money, and insisted that, as she had
confessed to poisoning the merchant, her evidence could have no weight.
The twenty-five hundred rubles could have been earned by two hard
working and honest persons, who were receiving in tips three to four rubles a
day from guests. The merchant's money was stolen by Maslova, who either
gave it to some one for safe keeping, or lost it, which was not unlikely, as
she was not in a normal condition. The poisoning was done by Maslova
alone.
For these reasons he asked the jury to acquit Kartinkin and Bochkova of
stealing the money; or, if they found them guilty of stealing he asked for a
verdict of theft, but without participation in the poisoning, and without
conspiracy.

In conclusion, this lawyer made a thrust at the prosecuting attorney by
remarking that, although the splendid reasonings of the prosecutor on
heredity explain the scientific questions of heredity, they hardly hold good in
the case of Bochkova, since her parentage was unknown.
The prosecutor, growling, began to make notes, and shrugged his shoulders
in contemptuous surprise.
Next rose Maslova's lawyer, and timidly and falteringly began his speech in
her defense. Without denying that Maslova participated in the theft, he
insisted that she had no intention of poisoning Smelkoff, but gave him the
powder in order to make him sleep. When he described Maslova's
unfortunate life, telling how she had been drawn into a life of vice by a man
who went unpunished, while she was left to bear the whole burden of her
fall, he attempted to become eloquent, but his excursion into the domain of
psychology failed, so that everybody felt awkward. When he began to mutter
about man's cruelty and woman's helplessness, the justiciary, desiring to help
him, asked him to confine himself to the facts of the case.
After this lawyer had finished the prosecutor rose again and defended his
position on the question of heredity against the first lawyer, stating that the
fact that Bochkova's parentage was unknown did not invalidate the truth of
the theory of heredity; that the law of heredity is so well established by
science that not only can one deduce the crime from heredity, but heredity
from the crime. As to the statement of the defense that Maslova was drawn
into a vicious life by an imaginary (he pronounced the word imaginary with
particular virulence) man, he could say that all facts rather pointed to her
being the seducer of many victims who were unfortunate enough to fall into
her hands. Saying which he sat down in triumph.
The prisoners were then allowed to make any statements they wished in their
behalf.
Euphemia Bochkova repeated her statement that she knew nothing, had not
taken part in anything, and persistently pointed at Maslova as the only guilty
person. Simon only repeated several times:
"Do what you please with me, only it is all for nothing."

Maslova was silent. When asked what she had to say in her defense, she only
lifted her eyes on the justiciary, looked around like a hunted animal, and
immediately lowering them began to sob aloud.
"What is the matter?" asked the merchant of Nekhludoff, hearing a strange
sound escaping the latter's lips. It was a suppressed sob.
Nekhludoff did not yet realize the significance of his present position, and
the scarcely suppressed sob and the tears that welled up in his eyes he
ascribed to the weakness of his nerves. He put on his pince-nez to hide them,
and, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, began to blow his nose.
His fear of the disgrace that would fall upon him if everybody in the court-
room were to find out his conduct toward her stifled the struggle that was
going on within him. At this time fear outweighed in him every other
feeling.

CHAPTER XXII.
After the last words of the prisoners had been heard, and the lengthy
arguments over the form in which the questions were to be put to the jury
were over, the questions were finally agreed upon, and the justiciary began
to deliver his instructions to the jury.
Although he was anxious to finish the case, he was so carried away that
when he started to speak he could not stop himself. He told the jury at great
length that if they found the prisoners guilty, they had the right to return a
verdict of guilty, and if they found them not guilty, they had the right to
return a verdict of not guilty. If, however they found them guilty of one
charge, and not guilty of the other, they might bring in a verdict of guilty of
the one and not guilty of the other. He further explained to them that they
must exercise this power intelligently. He also intended to explain to them
that if they gave an affirmative answer to a question, they would thereby
affirm everything involved in the question, and that if they did not desire to
affirm everything involved in the question, they must distinguish the part
they affirmed from the part they disaffirmed. But, seeing on the clock that it
was five minutes of three, he decided to pass over to a statement of the case.
"The facts of this case are the following," he began, repeating everything
that had been stated over and over again by the defendants' attorneys, the
prosecutor and the witnesses. While the justiciary was charging the jury his
associates thoughtfully listened, and now and then glanced at the clock.
They thought that although his charge was sound, i. e., as it should be, it was
too long. Of the same opinion was the prosecutor, as well as all those
connected with the court, including the spectators. The justiciary concluded
his charge.
It was thought he had finished. But the justiciary found it necessary to add a
few words concerning the importance of the power given to the jury; that it
should be used with care, and should not be abused; that they had taken an
oath; that they were the conscience of society, and that the secrecy of the
consultation room was sacred, etc., etc.

From the moment the justiciary began to speak, Maslova kept her eyes on
him, as if she feared to miss a word, so that Nekhludoff was not afraid to
meet her gaze, and constantly looked at her. And before his imagination
arose that common phenomenon of the appearance of a long absent, beloved
face, which, after the first shock produced by the external changes which
have taken place during the long absence, gradually becomes the same as it
was many years ago—all the past changes disappear, and before the spiritual
eyes stands forth the main expression of the peculiar spiritual individuality.
This happened with Nekhludoff.
Yes, notwithstanding the prison garb, the bloated body and the high breast;
notwithstanding the distended lower part of the face, the wrinkles on the
forehead and the temples, and the swelling under the eyes, it was
undoubtedly that same Katiousha who on Easter Sunday looked up to him,
her beloved, with her enamored, smiling, happy, lively eyes.
"What a remarkable coincidence! That this case should be tried during my
term! That, without seeing her for ten years, I should meet her here in the
prisoner's dock! And what will be the end? Ah, I wish it were over!"
He would not yield to the feeling of repentance which spoke within him. He
considered it an incident which would soon pass away without disturbing his
life. He felt himself in the position of a puppy who had misbehaved in his
master's rooms, and whom his master, taking him by the neck, thrust into the
dirt he had made. The puppy squeals, pulls back in his effort to escape the
consequences of his deed, which he wishes to forget, but the inexorable
master holds him fast. Thus Nekhludoff felt the foulness of his act, and he
also felt the powerful hand of the master, but did not yet understand the
significance of his act, did not recognize the master. He did not wish to
believe that what he saw before him was the result of his own deed. But the
inexorable, invisible hand held him fast, and he had a foreboding that he
should not escape. He summoned up his courage, crossed his legs, as was his
wont, and, negligently playing with his pince-nez, he sat with an air of self-
confidence on the second chair of the front row. Meanwhile he already felt in
the depth of his soul all the cruelty, dastardliness and baseness not only of
that act of his, but of his whole idle, dissolute, cruel and wayward life. And
the terrible veil, which during these twelve years in such marvelous manner
had hidden from him that crime and all his subsequent life, already began to
stir, and now and then he caught a glimpse behind it.

CHAPTER XXIII.
The justiciary finally finished his speech and handed the list of questions to
the foreman. The jury rose from their seats, glad of an opportunity to leave
the court-room, and, not knowing what to do with their hands, as if ashamed
of something, they filed into the consultation-room. As soon as the door
closed behind them a gendarme, with drawn sword resting on his shoulder,
placed himself in front of it. The judges rose and went out. The prisoners
also were led away.
On entering the consultation-room the jury immediately produced cigarettes
and began to smoke. The sense of their unnatural and false position, of
which they were to a greater or less degree cognizant, while sitting in the
court-room, passed away as soon as they entered their room and lighted their
cigarettes, and, with a feeling of relief, they seated themselves and
immediately started an animated conversation.
"The girl is not guilty, she was confused," said the kind-hearted merchant.
"That is what we are going to consider," retorted the foreman. "We must not
yield to our personal impressions."
"The judge's summing up was good," said the colonel.
"Do you call it good? It nearly sent me to sleep."
"The important point is that the servants could not have known that there
was money in the room if Maslova had no understanding with them," said
the clerk with the Jewish face.
"So you think that she stole it?" asked one of the jury.
"I will never believe that," shouted the kind-hearted merchant. "It is all the
work of that red-eyed wench."
"They are all alike," said the colonel.
"But she said that she did not go into the room."

"Do you believe her more than the other? I should never believe that
worthless woman."
"That does not decide the question," said the clerk.
"She had the key."
"What if she had?" answered the merchant.
"And the ring?"
"She explained it," again shouted the merchant. "It is quite likely that being
drunk he struck her. Well, and then he was sorry, of course. 'There, don't cry!
Take this ring.' And what a big man! They said he weighed about two
hundred and fifty pounds, I believe."
"That is not the point," interrupted Peter Gerasimovich. "The question is,
Was she the instigator, or were the servants?"
"The servants could not have done it without her. She had the key."
This incoherent conversation lasted for a long time.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," said the foreman. "Let us sit down and consider the
matter. Take your seats," he added, seating himself in the foreman's chair.
"These girls are rogues," said the clerk, and to sustain his opinion that
Maslova was the chief culprit, he related how one of those girls once stole a
watch from a friend of his.
As a case in point the colonel related the bolder theft of a silver samovar.
"Gentlemen, let us take up the questions," said the foreman, rapping on the
table with a pencil.
They became silent. The questions submitted were:
1. Is the peasant of the village of Barkoff, district of Krapivensk, Simon
Petroff Kartinkin, thirty-three years of age, guilty of having, with the design
of taking the life of Smelkoff and robbing him, administered to him poison
in a glass of brandy, which caused the death of Smelkoff, and of afterward
robbing him of twenty-five hundred rubles and a diamond ring?

2. Is the burgess Euphemia Ivanovna Bochkova, forty-seven years of age,
guilty of the crime mentioned in the first question?
3. Is the burgess Katherine Michaelovna Maslova, twenty-seven years of
age, guilty of the crime mentioned in the first question?
4. If the prisoner Euphemia Bochkova is not guilty of the crime set forth in
the first question, is she not guilty of secretly stealing, while employed in the
Hotel Mauritania, on the 17th day of January, 188—, twenty-five hundred
rubles from the trunk of the merchant Smelkoff, to which end she opened the
trunk in the hotel with a key brought and fitted by her?
The foreman read the first question.
"Well, gentlemen, what do you think?"
This question was quickly answered. They all agreed to answer "Guilty."
The only one that dissented was an old laborer, whose answer to all
questions was "Not guilty."
The foreman thought that he did not understand the questions and proceeded
to explain that from all the facts it was evident that Kartinkin and Bochkova
were guilty, but the laborer answered that he did understand them, and that
he thought that they ought to be charitable. "We are not saints ourselves," he
said, and did not change his opinion.
The second question, relating to Bochkova, after many arguments and
elucidations, was answered "Not guilty," because there was no clear proof
that she participated in the poisoning—a fact on which her lawyer put much
stress.
The merchant, desiring to acquit Maslova, insisted that Bochkova was the
author of the conspiracy. Many of the jurymen agreed with him, but the
foreman, desiring to conform strictly to the law, said that there was no
foundation for the charge of poisoning against her. After a lengthy argument
the foreman's opinion triumphed.
The fourth question, relating to Bochkova, was answered "Guilty," but at the
insistence of the laborer, she was recommended to the mercy of the court.

The third question called forth fierce argument. The foreman insisted that
she was guilty of both the poisoning and robbery; the merchant, colonel,
clerk and laborer opposed this view, while the others hesitated, but the
opinion of the foreman began to predominate, principally because the jury
were tired out, and they willingly joined the side which promised to prevail
the sooner, and consequently release them quicker.
From all that occurred at the trial and his knowledge of Maslova, Nekhludoff
was convinced that she was innocent, and at first was confident that the other
jurors would so find her, but when he saw that because of the merchant's
bungling defense of Maslova, evidently prompted by his undisguised liking
for her, and the foreman's resistance which it caused, but chiefly because of
the weariness of the jury, there was likely to be a verdict of guilty, he wished
to make objection, but feared to speak in her favor lest his relations toward
her should be disclosed. At the same time he felt that he could not let things
go on without making his objections. He blushed and grew pale in turn, and
was about to speak, when Peter Gerasimovich, heretofore silent, evidently
exasperated by the authoritative manner of the foreman, suddenly began to
make the very objections Nekhludoff intended to make.
"Permit me to say a few words," he began. "You say that she stole the money
because she had the key; but the servants could have opened the trunk with a
false key after she was gone."
"Of course, of course," the merchant came to his support.
"She could not have taken the money because she would have nowhere to
hide it."
"That is what I said," the merchant encouraged him.
"It is more likely that her coming to the hotel for the money suggested to the
servants the idea of stealing it; that they stole it and then threw it all upon
her."
Peter Gerasimovich spoke provokingly, which communicated itself to the
foreman. As a result the latter began to defend his position more persistently.
But Peter Gerasimovich spoke so convincingly that he won over the
majority, and it was finally decided that she was not guilty of the theft.
When, however, they began to discuss the part she had taken in the

poisoning, her warm supporter, the merchant, argued that this charge must
also be dismissed, as she had no motive for poisoning him. The foreman
insisted that she could not be declared innocent on that charge, because she
herself confessed to giving him the powder.
"But she thought that it was opium," said the merchant.
"She could have killed him even with the opium," retorted the colonel, who
liked to make digressions, and he began to relate the case of his brother-in-
law's wife, who had been poisoned by opium and would have died had not
antidotes promptly been administered by a physician who happened to be in
the neighborhood. The colonel spoke so impressively and with such self-
confidence and dignity that no one dared to interrupt him. Only the clerk,
infected by the example set by the colonel, thought of telling a story of his
own.
"Some people get so accustomed to opium," he began, "that they can take
forty drops at a time. A relative of mine——"
But the colonel would brook no interruption, and went on to tell of the effect
of the opium on his brother-in-law's wife.
"It is five o'clock, gentlemen," said one of the jury.
"What do you say, gentlemen," said the foreman. "We find her guilty, but
without the intent to rob, and without stealing any property—is that
correct?"
Peter Gerasimovich, pleased with the victory he had gained, agreed to the
verdict.
"And we recommend her to the mercy of the court," added the merchant.
Every one agreed except the laborer, who insisted on a verdict of "Not
guilty."
"But that is the meaning of the verdict," explained the foreman. "Without the
intent to rob, and without stealing any property—hence she is not guilty."
"Don't forget to throw in the recommendation to mercy. If there be anything
left that will wipe it out," joyfully said the merchant. They were so tired and

the arguments had so confused them that it did not occur to any one to add
"but without the intent to cause the death of the merchant."
Nekhludoff was so excited that he did not notice it. The answers were in this
form taken to the court.
Rabelais relates the story of a jurist who was trying a case, and who, after
citing innumerable laws and reading twenty pages of incomprehensible
judicial Latin, made an offer to the litigants to throw dice; if an even number
fell then the plaintiff was right; if an odd number the defendant was right.
It was the same here. The verdict was reached not because the majority of
the jury agreed to it, but first because the justiciary had so drawn out his
speech that he failed to properly instruct the jury; second, because the
colonel's story about his brother-in-law's wife was tedious; third, because
Nekhludoff was so excited that he did not notice the omission of the clause
limiting the intent in the answer, and thought that the words "without intent
to rob" negatively answered the question; fourth, because Peter
Gerasimovich was not in the room when the foreman read the questions and
answers, and chiefly because the jury were tired out and were anxious to get
away, and therefore agreed to the verdict which it was easiest to reach.
They rang the bell. The gendarme sheathed his sword and stood aside. The
judges, one by one, took their seats and the jury filed out.
The foreman held the list with a solemn air. He approached the justiciary and
handed it to him. The justiciary read it, and, with evident surprise, turned to
consult with his associates. He was surprised that the jury, in limiting the
charge by the words, "without intent to rob," should fail to add also "without
intent to cause death." It followed from the decision of the jury, that Maslova
had not stolen or robbed, but had poisoned a man without any apparent
reason.
"Just see what an absurd decision they have reached," he said to the
associate on his left. "This means hard labor for her, and she is not guilty."
"Why not guilty?" said the stern associate.
"She is simply not guilty. I think that chapter 818 might properly be applied
to this case." (Chapter 818 gives the court the power to set aside an unjust

verdict.)
"What do you think?" he asked the kind associate.
"I agree with you."
"And you?" he asked the choleric associate.
"By no means," he answered, decidedly. "As it is, the papers say that too
many criminals are discharged by juries. What will they say, then, if the
court should discharge them? I will not agree under any circumstances."
The justiciary looked at the clock.
"It is a pity, but what can I do?" and he handed the questions to the foreman.
They all rose, and the foreman, standing now on one foot, now on the other,
cleared his throat and read the questions and answers. All the officers of the
court—the secretary, the lawyers and even the prosecutor—expressed
surprise.
The prisoners, who evidently did not understand the significance of the
answers, were serene. When the reading was over, the justiciary asked the
prosecutor what punishment he thought should be imposed on the prisoners.
The prosecutor, elated by the successful verdict against Maslova, which he
ascribed to his eloquence, consulted some books, then rose and said:
"Simon Kartinkin, I think, should be punished according to chapter 1,452,
sec. 4, and chapter 1,453; Euphemia Bochkova according to chapter 1,659,
and Katherine Maslova according to chapter 1,454."
All these were the severest punishments that could be imposed for the
crimes.
"The court will retire to consider their decision," said the justiciary, rising.
Everybody then rose, and, with a relieved and pleasant feeling of having
fulfilled an important duty, walked around the court-room.
"What a shameful mess we have made of it," said Peter Gerasimovitch,
approaching Nekhludoff, to whom the foreman was telling a story. "Why, we

have sentenced her to hard labor."
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Nekhludoff, taking no notice at all this time of
the unpleasant familiarity of the tutor.
"Why, of course," he said. "We have not inserted in the answer, 'Guilty, but
without intent to cause death.' The secretary has just told me that the law
cited by the prosecutor provides fifteen years' hard labor."
"But that was our verdict," said the foreman.
Peter Gerasimovitch began to argue that it was self-evident that as she did
not steal the money she could not have intended to take the merchant's life.
"But I read the questions before we left the room," the foreman justified
himself, "and no one objected."
"I was leaving the room at the time," said Peter Gerasimovitch. "But how did
you come to miss it?"
"I did not think of it," answered Nekhludoff.
"You did not!"
"We can right it yet," said Nekhludoff.
"No, we cannot—it is all over now."
Nekhludoff looked at the prisoners. While their fate was being decided, they
sat motionless behind the grating in front of the soldiers. Maslova was
smiling.
Nekhludoff's soul was stirred by evil thoughts. When he thought that she
would be freed and remain in the city, he was undecided how he should act
toward her, and it was a difficult matter. But Siberia and penal servitude at
once destroyed the possibility of their meeting again. The wounded bird
would stop struggling in the game-bag, and would no longer remind him of
its existence.

CHAPTER XXIV.
The apprehensions of Peter Gerasimovitch were justified.
On returning from the consultation-room the justiciary produced a document
and read the following:
"By order of His Imperial Majesty, the Criminal Division of the —— Circuit
Court, in conformity with the finding of the jury, and in accordance with ch.
771, s. 3, and ch. 776, s. 3, and ch. 777 of the Code of Criminal Procedure,
this 28th day of April, 188—, decrees that Simon Kartinkin, thirty-three
years of age, and Katherine Maslova, twenty-seven years of age, be deprived
of all civil rights, and sent to penal servitude, Kartinkin for eight, Maslova
for the term of four years, under conditions prescribed by ch. 25 of the Code.
Euphemia Bochkova is deprived of all civil and special rights and privileges,
and is to be confined in jail for the period of three years under conditions
prescribed by ch. 49 of the Code, with the costs of the trial to be borne by all
three, and in case of their inability to pay, to be paid out of the treasury.
"The exhibits are to be sold, the ring returned, and the vials destroyed."
Kartinkin stood like a post, and with outstretched fingers held up the sleeves
of his coat, moving his jaws. Bochkova seemed to be calm. When Maslova
heard the decision, she turned red in the face.
"I am innocent, I am innocent!" she suddenly cried. "It is a sin. I am
innocent. I never wished; never thought. It is the truth." And sinking to the
bench, she began to cry aloud.
When Kartinkin and Bochkova left the court-room she was still standing and
crying, so that the gendarme had to touch the sleeve of her coat.
"She cannot be left to her fate," said Nekhludoff to himself, entirely
forgetting his evil thoughts, and, without knowing why, he ran into the
corridor to look at her again. He was detained at the door for a few minutes
by the jostling, animated crowd of jurors and lawyers, who were glad that
the case was over, so that when he reached the corridor Maslova was some

distance away. Without thinking of the attention he was attracting, with
quick step he overtook her, walked a little ahead of her and stopped. She had
ceased to cry, only a sob escaped her now and then while she wiped her tears
with a corner of her 'kerchief. She passed him without turning to look at him.
He then hastily returned to see the justiciary. The latter had left his room,
and Nekhludoff found him in the porter's lodge.
"Judge," said Nekhludoff, approaching him at the moment when he was
putting on a light overcoat and taking a silver-handled cane which the porter
handed him, "may I speak to you about the case that has just been tried? I am
a juror."
"Why, of course, Prince Nekhludoff! I am delighted to see you. We have met
before," said the justiciary, pressing his hand, and recalling with pleasure
that he was the jolliest fellow and best dancer of all the young men on the
evening he had met him. "What can I do for you?"
"There was a mistake in the jury's finding against Maslova. She is not guilty
of poisoning, and yet she is sent to penal servitude," he said, with a gloomy
countenance.
"The court gave its decision in accordance with your own finding," answered
the justiciary, moving toward the door, "although the answers did not seem
to suit the case."
He remembered that he intended to explain to the jury that an answer of
guilty without a denial of intent to kill involved an intent to kill, but, as he
was hastening to terminate the proceedings, he failed to do so.
"But could not the mistake be rectified?"
"Cause for appeal can always be found. You must see a lawyer," said the
justiciary, putting on his hat a little on one side and continuing to move
toward the door.
"But this is terrible."
"You see, one of two things confronted Maslova," the justiciary said,
evidently desiring to be as pleasant and polite with Nekhludoff as possible.
Then, arranging his side-whiskers over his coat collar, and taking

Nekhludoff's arm, he led him toward the door. "You are also going?" he
continued.
"Yes," said Nekhludoff, hastily donning his overcoat and following him.
They came out into the bright, cheerful sunlight, where the rattling of wheels
on the pavement made it necessary to raise their voices.
"The situation, you see, is a very curious one," continued the justiciary.
"Maslova was confronted by one of two things: either a short term in jail, in
which case her lengthy confinement would have been taken into
consideration, or penal servitude; no other sentence was possible. Had you
added the words, 'without intent to kill,' she would have been discharged."
"It is unpardonable neglect on my part," said Nekhludoff.
"That is the whole trouble," the justiciary said, smiling and looking at his
watch.
There was only three-quarters of an hour left to the latest hour fixed in
Clara's appointment.
"You can apply to a lawyer, if you wish. It is necessary to find grounds for
appeal. But that can always be found. To the Dvorianskaia," he said to the
cab-driver. "Thirty kopecks—I never pay more."
"All right, Your Excellency."
"Good-day. If I can be of any service to you, please let me know. You will
easily remember my address: Dvornikoff's house, on the Dvorinskaia."
And, making a graceful bow, he rode off.

CHAPTER XXV.
The conversation with the justiciary and the pure air somewhat calmed
Nekhludoff. The feeling he experienced he now ascribed to the fact that he
had passed the day amid surroundings to which he was unaccustomed.
"It is certainly a remarkable coincidence! I must do what is necessary to
alleviate her lot, and do it quickly. Yes, I must find out here where Fanarin or
Mikishin lives." Nekhludoff called to mind these two well-known lawyers.
Nekhludoff returned to the court-house, took off his overcoat and walked up
the stairs. In the very first corridor he met Fanarin. He stopped him and told
him that he had some business with him. Fanarin knew him by sight, and
also his name. He told Nekhludoff that he would be glad to do anything to
please him.
"I am rather tired, but, if it won't take long, I will listen to your case. Let us
walk into that room."
And Fanarin led Nekhludoff into a room, probably the cabinet of some
judge. They seated themselves at a table.
"Well, state your case."
"First of all, I will ask you," said Nekhludoff, "not to disclose that I am
interesting myself in this case."
"That is understood. Well?"
"I was on a jury to-day, and we sent an innocent woman to Siberia. It
torments me."
To his own surprise, Nekhludoff blushed and hesitated. Fanarin glanced at
him, then lowered his eyes and listened.
"Well?"
"We condemned an innocent woman, and I would like to have the case
appealed to a higher court."

"To the Senate?" Fanarin corrected him.
"And I wish you to take the case."
Nekhludoff wanted to get through the most difficult part, and therefore
immediately added:
"I take all expenses on myself, whatever they may be," he said, blushing.
"Well, we will arrange all that," said the lawyer, condescendingly smiling at
Nekhludoff's inexperience.
"What are the facts of the case?"
Nekhludoff related them.
"Very well; I will examine the record to-morrow. Call at my office the day
after—no, better on Thursday, at six o'clock in the evening, and I will give
you an answer. And now let us go; I must make some inquiries here."
Nekhludoff bade him good-by, and departed.
His conversation with the lawyer, and the fact that he had already taken steps
to defend Maslova, still more calmed his spirit. The weather was fine, and
when Nekhludoff found himself on the street, he gladly inhaled the spring
air. Cab drivers offered their services, but he preferred to walk, and a swarm
of thoughts and recollections of Katiousha and his conduct toward her
immediately filled his head. He became sad, and everything appeared to him
gloomy. "No, I will consider it later," he said to himself, "and now I must
have some diversion from these painful impressions."
The dinner at the Korchagin's came to his mind, and he looked at his watch.
It was not too late to reach there for dinner. A tram-car passed by. He ran
after it, and boarded it at a bound. On the square he jumped off, took one of
the best cabs, and ten minutes later he alighted in front of Korchagin's large
dwelling.

CHAPTER XXVI.
"Walk in, Your Excellency, you are expected," said the fat porter, pushing
open the swinging, oaken door of the entrance. "They are dining, but I was
told to admit you."
The porter walked to the stairway and rang the bell.
"Are there any guests?" Nekhludoff asked, while taking off his coat.
"Mr. Kolosoff, also Michael Sergeievich, besides the family," answered the
porter.
A fine-looking lackey in dress coat and white gloves looked down from the
top of the stairs.
"Please to walk in, Your Excellency," he said.
Nekhludoff mounted the stairs, and through the spacious and magnificent
parlor he entered the dining-room. Around the table were seated the entire
family, except Princess Sophia Vasilievna, who never left her own
apartments. At the head of the table sat old Korchagin, on his left the
physician; on his right, a visitor, Ivan Ivanovich Kolosoff, an ex-district
commander, and now a bank manager, who was a friend of the family, and of
liberal tendencies; further to the left was Miss Rader, governess to Missy's
four-year-old sister, with the little girl herself; then to the right, Missy's only
brother, Peter, a high-school pupil, on account of whose forthcoming
examinations the entire family remained in the city, and his tutor, also a
student; then again to the left, Katherine Alexeievna, a forty-year-old girl
Slavophile; opposite to her was Michael Sergeievich, or Misha Telegin,
Missy's cousin, and at the foot of the table, Missy herself, and beside her, on
the table, lay an extra cover.
"Ah, very glad you came! Take a seat! We are still at the fish," chewing
carefully with his false teeth old Korchagin said, lifting his bloodshot eyes
on Nekhludoff. "Stepan!" he turned with a full mouth to the fat, majestic
servant, pointing with his eyes to Nekhludoff's plate. Although Nekhludoff

had often dined with and knew Korchagin well, this evening his old face, his
sensual, smacking lips, the napkin stuck under his vest, the fat neck, and
especially the well-fed, military figure made an unpleasant impression on
him.
"It is all ready, Your Excellency," said Stepan, taking a soup ladle from the
sideboard and nodding to the fine-looking servant with the side-whiskers,
who immediately began to set the table beside Missy.
Nekhludoff went around the table shaking hands with every one. All, except
Korchagin and the ladies, rose from their seats when he approached them.
And this walking around the table and his handshaking, although most of the
people were comparative strangers to him, this evening seemed to
Nekhludoff particularly unpleasant and ridiculous. He excused himself for
his late coming, and was about to seat himself at the end of the table between
Missy and Katherine Alexeievna, when old Korchagin demanded that, since
he would not take any brandy, he should first take a bite at the table, on
which were lobster, caviare, cheese and herring. Nekhludoff did not know he
was as hungry as he turned out to be, and when he tasted of some cheese and
bread he could not stop eating, and ate ravenously.
"Well? Have you been undermining the bases of society?" asked Kolosoff,
ironically, using an expression of a retrogressive newspaper, which was
attacking the jury system. "You have acquitted the guilty and condemned the
innocent? Have you?"
"Undermining the bases—undermining the bases"—smilingly repeated the
Prince, who had boundless confidence in the intelligence and honesty of his
liberal comrade and friend.
Nekhludoff, at the risk of being impolite, did not answer Kolosoff, and,
seating himself before the steaming soup, continued to eat.
"Do let him eat," said Missy, smiling. By the pronoun "him," she meant to
call attention to her intimacy with Nekhludoff.
Meanwhile Kolosoff was energetically and loudly discussing the article
against trial by jury which had roused his indignation. Michael Sergeievich
supported his contentions and quoted the contents of another similar article.

Missy, as usual, was very distingue and unobtrusively well dressed. She
waited until Nekhludoff had swallowed the mouthful he was chewing, and
then said: "You must be very tired and hungry."
"Not particularly. Are you? Have you been to the exhibition?" he asked.
"No, we postponed it. But we went to play lawn tennis at the Salamatoff's.
Mister Crooks is really a remarkable player."
Nekhludoff had came here for recreation, and it was always pleasant to him
to be in this house, not only because of the elegant luxury, which acted
pleasantly on his senses, but because of the adulating kindnesses with which
they invisibly surrounded him. To-day, however—it is wonderful to relate—
everything in this house disgusted him; the porter, the broad stairway, the
flowers, the lackeys, the table decorations, and even Missy herself, who, just
now, seemed to him unattractive and unnatural. He was disgusted with that
self-confident, vulgar, liberal tone of Kolosoff, the bull-like, sensual, figure
of old Korchagin, the French phrases of the Slavophile maiden, the
ceremonious faces of the governess and the tutor. But above all, he was
disgusted with the pronoun "him" that Missy had used. Nekhludoff was
always wavering between two different relations he sustained toward Missy.
Sometimes he looked at her as through blinking eyes or by moonlight, and
then she seemed to him beautiful, fresh, pretty, clever and natural. At other
times he looked at her as if under a bright sun, and then he saw only her
defects. To-day was such a day. He saw the wrinkles on her face; saw the
artificial arrangement of her hair; the pointed elbows, and, above all, her
large thumb nail, resembling that of her father.
"It is the dullest game," Kolosoff said, speaking of tennis, "baseball, as we
played it when we were boys, is much more amusing."
"You have not tried it. It is awfully interesting," retorted Missy, unnaturally
accentuating the word "awfully," as it seemed to Nekhludoff.
A discussion arose in which Michael Sergeievich and Katherine Alexeievna
took part. Only the governess, the tutor and the children were silent,
evidently from ennui.
"They are eternally disputing!" laughing aloud, said old Korchagin. He
pulled the napkin from his vest, and, noisily pushing back his chair, which

was immediately removed by a servant, rose from the table. They all rose
after him and went to a small table, on which stood figured bowls filled with
perfumed water; then they washed their finger-tips and rinsed their mouths,
and continued their conversation, in which no one took any interest.
"Is it not true?" Missy said to Nekhludoff, desiring to receive confirmation
of her opinion that man's character can best be learned in play. She noticed
on his thoughtful face an expression of reproach, which inspired her with
fear, and she wished to know the cause of it.
"I really don't know. I never thought of it," answered Nekhludoff.
"Will you go to mamma?" asked Missy.
"Yes, yes," he said, producing a cigarette. The tone of his voice plainly
betrayed that he did not wish to go.
She looked at him inquiringly, but was silent. He felt ashamed. "It is hardly
proper for me to come here to put people out of temper," he thought, and, in
an effort to be pleasant, he said that he would go with pleasure if the
Princess were in a mood to receive him.
"Yes, yes; mamma will be glad. You can smoke there also. And Ivan
Ivanovich is with her."
The mistress of the house, Sophia Vasilievna, was an invalid. For eight years
she had reclined in laces and ribbons, amid velvet, gilding, ivory, bronzes
and flowers. She never drove out, and received only her "friends," i. e.,
whoever, according to her view, in any way distinguished himself from the
crowd. Nekhludoff was one of these friends, not only because he was
considered a clever young man, but also because his mother was a close
friend of the family and he was a desirable match for Missy.
Her room was beyond the small and large drawing-rooms. In the large
drawing-room Missy, who preceded Nekhludoff, suddenly stopped, and
placing her hands on the back of a gilt chair, looked at him.
Missy was very anxious to be married, and Nekhludoff was a desirable party.
Besides, she liked him, and had become accustomed to the thought that he
would belong to her, and not she to him, and, with the unconscious but

persistent craftiness of heart-sick persons, she gained her end. She addressed
him now with the intention of bringing forth an explanation.
"I see that something has happened to you," she said. "What is the matter
with you?"
The meeting in the court came to his mind, and he frowned and blushed.
"Yes, something has happened," he said, desiring to be truthful. "It was a
strange, extraordinary and important event."
"What was it? Can't you tell me?"
"Not now. Don't press me for an answer. I have not had the time to think
over the matter," he said, blushing still more.
"And you will not tell me?" The muscles on her cheek quivered, and she
pushed away the chair.
"No, I cannot," he answered, feeling that answering her thus he answered
himself—admitted to himself that something very important had really
happened to him.
"Well, then, come!"
She shook her head as if desiring to drive away undesirable thoughts, and
walked forward with a quicker step than usual.
It seemed to him that she unnaturally compressed her lips in order to
suppress her tears. It was painful to him to grieve her, but he knew that the
slightest weakness would ruin him, i. e., bind him. And this he feared more
than anything else to-day, so he silently followed her to the door of the
Princess' apartments.

CHAPTER XXVII.
Princess Sophia Vasilievna had finished her meal of choice and nourishing
dishes, which she always took alone, that no one might see her performing
that unpoetical function. A cup of coffee stood on a small table near her
couch, and she was smoking a cigarette. Princess Sophia Vasilievna was a
lean and tall brunette, with long teeth and large black eyes, who desired to
pass for a young woman.
People were making unpleasant remarks about her relations with the doctor.
Formerly Nekhludoff had paid no attention to them. But to-day, the sight of
the doctor, with his oily, sleek head, which was parted in the middle, sitting
near her couch, was repulsive to him.
Beside the Princess sat Kolosoff, stirring the coffee. A glass of liquor was on
the table.
Missy entered, together with Nekhludoff, but she did not remain in the room.
"When mamma gets tired of you and drives you away, come to my room,"
she said, turning to Nekhludoff, as if nothing had happened, and, smiling
cheerfully, she walked out of the room, her steps deadened by the heavy
carpet.
"Well, how do you do, my friend? Sit down and tell us the news," said
Sophia Vasilievna, with an artful, feigned, resembling a perfectly natural,
smile, which displayed her beautiful, long, skillfully made, almost natural-
looking teeth. "I am told that you returned from the court in very gloomy
spirits. It must be very painful to people with a heart," she said in French.
"Yes, that is true," said Nekhludoff. "One often feels his—feels that he has
no right to judge others."
"Comme c'est vrai!" she exclaimed, as if struck by the truth of the remark,
and, as usual, artfully flattering her friend.
"And what about your picture? It interests me very much," she added. "Were
it not for my indisposition, I should have visited you long ago."

"I have given up painting entirely," he answered dryly. Her unjust flattery
was as apparent to him to-day as was her age, which she attempted to
conceal. Try as he would, he could not force himself to be pleasant.
"It is too bad! You know, Riepin himself told me that Nekhludoff possesses
undoubted talent," she said, turning to Kolosoff.
"What a shameless liar!" Nekhludoff thought, frowning.
Seeing that Nekhludoff was in ill humor, and could not be drawn into
pleasant and clear conversation, Sophia Vasilievna turned to Kolosoff for his
opinion of the new drama, with an air as if Kolosoff's opinion would dispel
all doubt and every word of his was destined to become immortalized.
Kolosoff condemned the drama and took occasion to state his views on art.
The correctness of his views seemed to impress her; she attempted to defend
the author of the drama, but immediately yielded, or found a middle ground.
Nekhludoff looked and listened and yet saw and heard but little.
Listening now to Sophia Vasilievna, now to Kolosoff, Nekhludoff saw, first,
that neither of them cared either for the drama or for each other, and that
they were talking merely to satisfy a physiological craving to exercise, after
dinner, the muscles of the tongue and throat. Secondly, he saw that Kolosoff,
who had drunk brandy, wine and liquors, was somewhat tipsy—not as drunk
as a drinking peasant, but like a man to whom wine-drinking has become a
habit. He did not reel, nor did he talk nonsense, but was in an abnormal,
excited and contented condition. Thirdly, Nekhludoff saw that Princess
Sophia Vasilievna, during the conversation, now and again anxiously
glanced at the window, through which a slanting ray of the sun was creeping
toward her, threatening to throw too much light on her aged face.
"How true it is," she said of some remark of Kolosoff, and pressed a button
on the wall near the couch.
At this moment the doctor rose with as little ceremony as one of the family,
and walked out of the room. Sophia Vasilievna followed him with her eyes.
"Please, Phillip, let down that curtain," she said to the fine-looking servant
who responded to the bell, her eyes pointing to the window.

"Say what you will, but there is something mystical about him, and without
mysticism there is no poetry," she said, with one black eye angrily following
the movements of the servant who was lowering the curtain.
"Mysticism without poetry is superstition, and poetry without mysticism is
prose," she continued, smiling sadly, still keeping her eye on the servant,
who was smoothing down the curtain.
"Not that curtain, Phillip—the one at the large window," she said in a sad
voice, evidently pitying herself for the efforts she was compelled to make to
say these words, and to calm herself, with her ring-bedecked hand, she lifted
to her lips the fragrant, smoking cigarette.
The broad-chested, muscular Phillip bowed slightly, as if excusing himself,
and submissively and silently stepped over to the next window, and,
carefully looking at the Princess, so arranged the curtain that no stray ray
should fall on her. It was again unsatisfactory, and again the exhausted
Princess was obliged to interrupt her conversation about mysticism and
correct the unintelligent Phillip, who was pitilessly tormenting her. For a
moment Phillip's eyes flashed fire.
"'The devil knows what you want,' he is probably saying to himself,"
Nekhludoff thought, as he watched this play. But the handsome, strong
Phillip concealed his impatience, and calmly carried out the instructions of
the enervated, weak, artificial Princess Sophia Vasilievna.
"Of course there is considerable truth in Darwin's theory," said the returning
Kolosoff, stretching himself on a low arm-chair and looking through sleepy
eyes at the Princess, "but he goes too far."
"And do you believe in heredity?" she asked Nekhludoff, oppressed by his
silence.
"In heredity?" repeated Nekhludoff. "No, I do not," he said, being entirely
absorbed at the moment by those strange forms which, for some reason,
appeared to his imagination. Alongside of the strong, handsome Phillip,
whom he looked upon as a model, he imagined Kolosoff, naked, his
abdomen like a water-melon, bald-headed, and his arms hanging like two
cords. He also dimly imagined what the silk-covered shoulders of Sophia

Vasilievna would appear like in reality, but the picture was too terrible, and
he drove it from his mind.
Sophia Vasilievna scanned him from head to foot.
"Missy is waiting for you," she said. "Go to her room; she wished to play for
you a new composition by Schuman. It is very interesting."
"It isn't true. Why should she lie so!" Nekhludoff thought, rising and
pressing her transparent, bony, ring-bedecked hand.
In the drawing-room he met Katherine Alexeievna, returning to her mother's
apartments. As usual, she greeted him in French.
"I see that the duties of juryman act depressingly upon you," she said.
"Yes, pardon me. I am in low spirits to-day, and I have no right to bore
people," answered Nekhludoff.
"Why are you in low spirits?"
"Permit me not to speak of it," he said, looking for his hat as they entered the
Princess' cabinet.
"And do you remember telling us that one ought to tell the truth? And what
cruel truths you used to tell us! Why don't you tell us now? Do you
remember, Missy?" the Princess turned to Missy, who had just entered.
"Because that was in play," answered Nekhludoff gravely. "In play it is
permissible, but in reality we are so bad, that is, I am so bad, that I, at least,
cannot tell the truth."
"Don't correct yourself, but rather say that we are so bad," said Katherine
Alexeievna, playing with the words, and pretending not to see Nekhludoff's
gravity.
"There is nothing worse than to confess being in low spirits," said Missy. "I
never confess it to myself, and that is why I am always cheerful. Well, come
to my room. We shall try to drive away your mauvais humeur."
Nekhludoff experienced the feeling which a horse must feel when brushed
down before the bridle is put on and it is led to be harnessed to the wagon.

But to-day he was not at all disposed to draw. He excused himself and began
to take leave. Missy kept his hand longer than usual.
"Remember that what is important to you is important to your friends," she
said. "Will you come to-morrow?"
"I don't think I will," said Nekhludoff. And feeling ashamed, without
knowing himself whether for her or for himself, he blushed and hastily
departed.
"What does it mean? Comme cela m'intrigue," said Katherine Alexeievna,
when Nekhludoff had left. "I must find it out. Some affaire d'amour propre;
il est très susceptible notre cher Mitia."
"Plutôt une affaire d'amour sale," Missy was going to say. Her face was now
wan and pale. But she did not give expression to that passage, and only said:
"We all have our bright days and gloomy days."
"Is it possible that he, too, should deceive me?" she thought. "After all that
has happened, it would be very wrong of him."
If Missy had had to explain what she meant by the words, "After all that has
happened," she could have told nothing definite, and yet she undoubtedly
knew that not only had he given her cause to hope, but he had almost made
his promise—not in so many words, but by his glances, his smiles, his
innuendos, his silence. She considered him her own, and to lose him would
be very painful to her.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
"It is shameful and disgusting," Nekhludoff meditated, while returning home
on foot along the familiar streets. The oppressive feeling which he had
experienced while speaking to Missy clung to him. He understood that
nominally, if one may so express himself, he was in the right; he had never
said anything to bind himself to her; had made no offer, but in reality he felt
that he had bound himself to her, that he had promised to be hers. Yet he felt
in all his being that he could not marry her.
"It is shameful and disgusting," he repeated, not only of his relations to
Missy, but of everything. "Everything is disgusting and shameful," he
repeated to himself, as he ascended the steps of his house.
"I shall take no supper," he said to Kornei, who followed him into the
dining-room, where the table was set for his supper. "You may go."
"All right," said Kornei, but did not go, and began to clear the table.
Nekhludoff looked at Kornei and an ill feeling sprung up in his heart toward
him. He wished to be left in peace, and it seemed as if everybody were
spitefully worrying him. When Kornei had left, Nekhludoff went over to the
samovar, intending to make some tea, but, hearing the footsteps of Agrippina
Petrovna, he hastily walked into the drawing-room, closing the door behind
him. This was the room in which, three months ago, his mother had died.
Now, as he entered this room, lighted by two lamps with reflectors—one
near a portrait of his father, the other near a portrait of his mother—he
thought of his relations toward his mother, and these relations seemed to him
unnatural and repulsive. These, too, were shameful and disgusting. He
remembered how, during her last sickness, he wished her to die. He said to
himself that he wished it so that she might be spared the suffering, but in
reality he wished to spare himself the sight of her suffering.
Desiring to call forth pleasant recollections about her, he looked at her
portrait, painted by a famous artist for five thousand rubles. She was
represented in a black velvet dress with bared breast. The artist had evidently
drawn with particular care the breast and the beautiful shoulders and neck.

That was particularly shameful and disgusting. There was something
revolting and sacriligious to him in this representation of his mother as a
denuded beauty, the more so because three months ago she lay in this very
room shrunken like a mummy, and filling the entire house with an
oppressive odor. He thought he could smell the odor now. He remembered
how, on the day before she died, she took his strong, white hand into her
own emaciated, discolored one, and, looking into his eyes, said: "Do not
judge me, Mitia, if I have not done as I should," and her faded eyes filled
with tears.
"How disgusting!" he again repeated to himself, glancing at the half-nude
woman with splendid marble shoulders and arms and a triumphant smile on
her lips. The bared bosom of that portrait reminded him of another young
woman whom he had seen dressed in a similar way a few days before. It was
Missy, who had invited him to the house under some pretext, in order to
display before him her ball-dress. He recalled with disgust her beautiful
shoulders and arms; and her coarse, brutal father, with his dark past, his
cruelties, and her mother with her doubtful reputation. All this was
disgusting and at the same time shameful.
"No, no; I must free myself from all these false relations with the
Korchagins, with Maria Vasilievna, with the inheritance and all the rest," he
thought. "Yes, to breathe freely; to go abroad—to Rome—and continue to
work on my picture." He remembered his doubts about his talent. "Well, it is
all the same; I will simply breathe freely. First, I will go to Constantinople,
then to Rome—away from this jury duty. Yes, and to fix matters with the
lawyer——"
And suddenly, before his imagination, appeared with uncommon vividness
the picture of the prisoner with the black, squinting eyes. And how she wept
when the last words of the prisoners were spoken! He hastily crushed the
cigarette he was smoking, lit another, and began pacing up and down the
room. One after another the scenes he had lived through with her rose up in
his mind. He recalled their last meeting, the passion which seized him at the
time, and the disappointment that followed. He recalled the white dress with
the blue ribbon; he recalled the morning mass. "Why, I loved her with a pure
love that night; I loved her even before, and how I loved her when I first
came to my aunts and was writing my composition!" That freshness, youth,
fullness of life swept over him and he became painfully sad.

The difference between him as he was then and as he was now was great; it
was equally great, if not greater, than the difference between Katiousha in
the church and that girl whom they had tried this morning. Then he was a
courageous, free man, before whom opened endless possibilities; now he felt
himself caught in the tenets of a stupid, idle, aimless, miserable life, from
which there was no escape; aye, from which, for the most part, he would not
escape. He remembered how he once had prided himself upon his rectitude;
how he always made it a rule to tell the truth, and was in reality truthful, and
how he was now steeped in falsehood—falsehood which was recognized as
truth by all those around him.
And there was no escape from this falsehood; at all events, he did not see
any escape. He had sunk in it, became accustomed to it, and indulged
himself in it.
The questions that absorbed him now were: How to break loose from Maria
Vasilievna and her husband, so that he might be able to look them in the
face? How, without falsehood, to disentangle his relations with Missy? How
to get out of the inconsistency of considering the private holding of land
unjust and keeping his inheritance? How to blot out his sin against
Katiousha? "I cannot abandon the woman whom I have loved and content
myself with paying money to the lawyer to save her from penal servitude,
which she does not even deserve." To blot out the sin, as he did then, when
he thought that he was atoning for his wrong by giving her money!
Impossible!
He vividly recalled the moment when he ran after her in the corridor, thrust
money in her bosom, and ran away from her. "Oh, that money!" With the
same horror and disgust he recalled that moment. "Oh, how disgusting!" he
said aloud, as he did then. "Only a scoundrel and rascal could do it! And I
am that scoundrel, that rascal!" he said aloud. "It is possible that I—" and he
stopped in the middle of the room—"Is it possible that I am really a
scoundrel? Who but I?" he answered himself. "And is this the only thing?"
he continued, still censuring himself. "Are not my relations toward Maria
Vasilievna base and detestable? And my position with regard to property?
Under the plea that I inherited it from my mother I am using wealth, the
ownership of which I consider unlawful. And the whole of this idle,
abominable life? And to crown all, my conduct toward Katiousha?

Scoundrel! Villain! Let people judge me as they please—I can deceive them,
but I cannot deceive myself."
And he suddenly understood that the disgust which he had lately felt toward
everybody, and especially to-day toward the Prince and Maria Vasilievna,
and Missy, and Kornei, was disgust with himself. And in this confession of
his own baseness there was something painful, and at the same time joyous
and calming.
In the course of his life Nekhludoff often experienced what he called a
"cleansing of the soul." This happened when, after a long period of
retardation, or, perhaps, entire cessation of his inner life, he suddenly
became aware of it, and proceeded to cleanse his soul of all the accumulated
filth that caused this standstill.
After such awakenings Nekhludoff always laid down some rules for himself
which he intended to follow all the rest of his life; kept a diary and began a
new life, which he hoped he should never change again—"turning a new
leaf," he used to call it. But the temptations of life entrapped him anew, after
every awakening, and, without knowing it, he sank again, often to a lower
depth than he was in before.
Thus he cleansed himself and revived several times. His first cleansing
happened when he visited his aunts. That was the brightest and most
enthusiastic awakening. And it lasted a long time. The next happened when
he left the civil service, and, desiring to sacrifice his life, he entered, during
the war, the military service. Here he began to sink quickly. The next
awakening occurred when he retired from the military service, and, going
abroad, gave himself up to painting.
From that day to this there was a long period of uncleanliness, the longest he
had gone through yet, and, therefore, he had never sunk so deep, and never
before was there such discord between the demands of his conscience and
the life which he was leading. So, when he saw the chasm which separated
the two, he was horrified.
The discord was so great, the defilement so thorough, that at first he
despaired of the possibility of a complete cleansing. "Why, you have tried to
improve before, and failed," the tempter in his soul whispered. "What is the
good of trying again? You are not the only one—all are alike. Such is life."

But the free, spiritual being which alone is true, alone powerful, alone
eternal, was already awake in Nekhludoff. And he could not help believing
it. However great the difference between that which he was and that which
he wished to be, for the awakened spiritual being everything was possible.
"I shall break this lie that binds me at any cost. I will confess the truth to
everybody, and will act the truth," he said aloud, resolutely. "I will tell Missy
the truth—that I am a profligate and cannot marry her; that I have trifled
with her. I will tell Maria Vasilevna (the wife of the marshal of nobility)—
but no, what is the good of telling her? I will tell her husband that I am a
scoundrel, that I have deceived him. I will dispose of my inheritance in
accordance with the demands of justice. I will tell her, Katiousha, that I am a
knave, that I have wronged her, and will do everything in my power to
alleviate her condition. Yes, I shall see her, and beg her forgiveness—I will
beg like a child."
He stopped.
"I will marry her, if necessary."
He crossed his hands on his breast, as he used to do when a child, raised his
eyes and said:
"Lord, help me, teach me; come and enter within me and purify me of all
this abomination."
He prayed, asked God to help him and purify him, while that which he was
praying for had already happened. Not only did he feel the freedom, vigor
and gladness of life, but he also felt the power of good. He felt himself
capable of doing the best that man can do.
There were tears in his eyes when he said these things—tears of joy—on the
awakening within him of that spiritual being, and tears of emotion over his
own virtue.
He felt warm and opened a window which looked into a garden. It was a
moonlit, fresh and quiet night. Past the street rattled some vehicle, and then
everything was quiet. Directly beneath the window a tall, denuded poplar
threw its shadow on the gravel of the landing-place, distinctly showing all
the ramifications of its bare branches. To the left the roof of a shed seemed

white under the bright light of the moon; in front were the tangled branches
of the trees, through which was seen the dark shadow of the garden
inclosure.
Nekhludoff looked at the moonlit garden and roof, the shadows of the
poplar, and drank in the fresh, invigorating air.
"How delightful! My God, how delightful!" he said of that which was in his
soul.

CHAPTER XXIX.
It was six o'clock when Maslova returned to her cell, weary and foot-sore
from the long tramp over the stone pavement. Besides, she was crushed by
the unexpectedly severe sentence, and was also hungry.
When, during a recess, her guards had lunched on bread and hard-boiled
eggs her mouth watered and she felt that she was hungry, but considered it
humiliating to ask them for some food. Three hours after that her hunger had
passed, and she only felt weak. In this condition she heard the sentence. At
first she thought that she misunderstood it; she could not believe what she
heard, and could not reconcile herself to the idea that she was a convict. But,
seeing the calm, serious faces of the judges and the jury, who received the
verdict as something quite natural, she revolted and cried out that she was
innocent. And when she saw also that her outcry, too, was taken as
something natural and anticipated, and which could not alter the case, she
began to weep. She felt that she must submit to the cruel injustice which was
perpetrated on her. What surprised her most was that she should be so
cruelly condemned by men—not old men, but those same young men who
looked at her so kindly.
The prosecuting attorney was the only man whose glances were other than
kind. While she was sitting in the prisoners' room, and during recesses she
saw these men passing by her and entering the room under various pretexts,
but with the obvious intention of looking at her. And now these same men,
for some reason, sentenced her to hard labor, although she was innocent of
the crime. For some time she wept, then became calm, and in a condition of
complete exhaustion she waited to be taken away. She desired but one thing
now—a cigarette. She was in this frame of mind when Bochkova and
Kartinkin were brought into the room. Bochkova immediately began to curse
her.
"You are innocent, aren't you? Why weren't you discharged, you vile thing?
You got your deserts! You will drop your fineries in Siberia!"

Maslova sat with lowered head, her hands folded in the sleeves of her coat,
and gazed on the smoothly trampled ground.
"I am not interfering with you, so leave me in peace," she repeated several
times, then became silent. She became enlivened again when, after
Bochkova and Kartinkin had been removed from the room, the guard
entered, bringing her three rubles.
"Are you Maslova?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Here is some money which a lady sent you," he said.
"What lady?"
"Take it, and ask no questions."
The money was sent by Kitaeva. When leaving the court she asked the usher
if she could send some money to Maslova, and, receiving an affirmative
answer, she removed a chamois glove, and, from the back folds of her silk
dress, produced a stylish pocket-book, and counted out the money into the
hands of the usher who, in her presence, handed it to the guard.
"Please be sure to give it to her," said Karolina Albertoona to the guard.
The guard was offended by this distrust shown to him, which was the cause
of his speaking angrily to Maslova.
Maslova was overjoyed by the receipt of the money, for it could give her the
one thing she wished for now.
All her thoughts were now centered on her desire to inhale the smoke of a
cigarette. So strong was this desire that she greedily inhaled the smoke-laden
air which was wafted in from the corridor and through the cabinet door. But
there was a long wait before her, for the secretary, who was to deliver to the
guard the order for her removal, forgetting the prisoners, engaged one of the
lawyers in the discussion of an editorial that had appeared in a newspaper.
At five o'clock she was finally led down through the rear door. While in the
waiting-room she gave one of the guards twenty kopecks, asking him to buy
for her two lunch rolls and some cigarettes. The guard laughed, took the

money, honestly made the purchase and returned the change to her. She
could not smoke on the road, so Maslova arrived at the jail with the same
unsatisfied craving for a cigarette. At that moment about a hundred prisoners
were brought from the railroad station. Maslova met them in the
passageway.
The prisoners, bearded, clean-shaven, old, young, Russians and foreigners—
some with half-shaved heads, and with a clinking of iron fetters, filled the
passage with dust, tramping of feet, conversation and a sharp odor of
perspiration. The prisoners, as they passed Maslova, scanned her from head
to foot; some approached and teased her.
"Fine girl, that!" said one. "My compliments, auntie," said another, winking
one eye. A dark man with a shaven, blue neck and long mustache, tangling in
his fetters, sprang toward her and embraced her.
"Don't you recognize your friend? Come, don't put on such style!" he
exclaimed, grinning as she pushed him away.
"What are you doing, you rascal?" shouted the officer in charge of the
prisoners.
The prisoner hastily hid himself in the crowd. The officer fell upon Maslova.
"What are you doing here?"
Maslova was going to say that she had been brought from the court, but she
was very tired and too lazy to speak.
"She is just from the court, sir," said one of the guards, elbowing his way
through the passing crowd, and raising his hand to his cap.
"Then take her to the warden. What indecencies!"
"Very well, sir!"
"Sokoloff! Take her away!" shouted the officer.
Sokoloff came and angrily pushed Maslova by the shoulder, and, motioning
to her to follow him, he led her into the woman's corridor. There she was
thoroughly searched, and as nothing was found upon her (the box of

cigarettes was hidden in the lunch roll), she was admitted into the same cell
from which she had emerged in the morning.

CHAPTER XXX.
The cell in which Maslova was confined was an oblong room, twenty feet by
fifteen. The kalsomining of the walls was peeled off, and the dry boards of
the cots occupied two-thirds of the space. In the middle of the room,
opposite the door, was a dark iron, with a wax candle stuck on it, and a dusty
bouquet of immortelles hanging under it. To the left, behind the door, on a
darkened spot of the floor, stood an ill-smelling vat. The women had been
locked up for the night.
There were fifteen inmates of this cell, twelve women and three children.
It was not dark yet, and only two women lay in their cots; one a foolish little
woman—she was constantly crying—who had been arrested because she
had no written evidence of her identity, had her head covered with her coat;
the other, a consumptive, was serving a sentence for theft. She was not
sleeping, but lay, her coat under her head, with wide-open eyes, and with
difficulty retaining in her throat the tickling, gurgling phlegm, so as not to
cough. The other women were with bare heads and skirts of coarse linen;
some sat on their cots sewing; others stood at the window gazing on the
passing prisoners. Of the three women who were sewing, one, Korableva,
was the one who had given Maslova the instructions when the latter left the
cell. She was a tall, strong woman, with a frowning, gloomy face, all
wrinkled, a bag of skin hanging under her chin, a short braid of light hair,
turning gray at the temples, and a hairy wart on her cheek. This old woman
was sentenced to penal servitude for killing her husband with an axe. The
killing was committed because he annoyed her daughter with improper
advances. She was the overseer of the cell, and also sold wine to the inmates.
She was sewing with eye-glasses, and held the needle, after the fashion of
the peasants, with three fingers, the sharp point turned toward her breast.
Beside her, also sewing, sat a little woman, good-natured and talkative, dark,
snub-nosed and with little black eyes. She was the watch-woman at a flag-
station, and was sentenced to three months' imprisonment for negligently
causing an accident on the railroad. The third of the women who were
occupied with sewing was Theodosia—called Fenichka by her fellow-

prisoners—of light complexion, and with rosy cheeks; young, lovely, with
bright, childish blue eyes, and two long, flaxen braids rolled up on her small
head. She was imprisoned for attempting to poison her husband. She was
sixteen years old when she was married, and she made the attempt
immediately after her marriage. During the eight months that she was out on
bail, she not only became reconciled to her husband, but became so fond of
him that the court officers found them living in perfect harmony. In spite of
all the efforts of her husband, her father-in-law, and especially her mother-
in-law, who had grown very fond of her, to obtain her discharge, she was
sentenced to hard labor in Siberia. The kind, cheerful and smiling Theodosia,
whose cot was next to Maslova's, not only took a liking to her, but
considered it her duty to help her in every possible way. Two other women
were sitting idly on their cots; one of about forty years, who seemed to have
been pretty in her youth, but was now pale and slim, was feeding a child
with her long, white breast. Her crime consisted in that, when the people of
the village she belonged to attempted to stop a recruiting officer who had
drafted, illegally, as they thought, her nephew, she was the first to take hold
of the bridle of his horse. There was another little white-haired, wrinkled
woman, good-natured and hunch-backed, who sat near the oven and
pretended to be catching a four-year-old, short-haired and stout boy, who, in
a short little shirt, was running past her, laughing and repeating: "You tan't
tatch me!" This old woman, who, with her son, was charged with
incendiarism, bore her confinement good-naturedly, grieving only over her
son, who was also in jail, but above all, her heart was breaking for her old
man who, she feared, would be eaten up by lice, as her daughter-in-law had
returned to her parents, and there was no one to wash him.
Besides these seven women, there were four others who stood near the open
windows, their hands resting on the iron gratings, and conversing by signs
and shouts with the prisoners whom Maslova had met in the passageway.
One of these, who was serving a sentence for theft, was a flabby, large,
heavy, red-haired woman with white-yellow freckles over her face, and a
stout neck which was exposed by the open waist collar. In a hoarse voice she
shouted indecent words through the window. Beside her stood a woman of
the size of a ten-year-old girl, very dark, with a long back and very short
legs. Her face was red and blotched; her black eyes wide open, and her short,
thick lips failed to hide her white, protruding teeth. She laughed in shrill
tones at the antics of the prisoners. This prisoner, who was nicknamed Miss

Dandy, because of her stylishness, was under indictment for theft and
incendiarism. Behind them, in a very dirty, gray shirt, stood a wretched-
looking woman, big with child, who was charged with concealing stolen
property. This woman was silent, but she approvingly smiled at the actions
of the prisoners without. The fourth of the women who stood at the window,
and was undergoing sentence for illicit trading in spirits, was a squat little
country woman with bulging eyes and kindly face. She was the mother of
the boy who was playing with the old woman, and of another seven-year-old
girl, both of whom were in jail with her, because they had no one else to take
care of them. Knitting a stocking, she was looking through the window and
disapprovingly frowned and closed her eyes at the language used by the
passing prisoners. The girl who stood near the red-haired woman, with only
a shirt on her back, and clinging with one hand to the woman's skirt,
attentively listened to the abusive words the men were exchanging with the
women, and repeated them in a whisper, as if committing them to memory.
The twelfth was the daughter of a church clerk and chanter who had
drowned her child in a well. She was a tall and stately girl, with large eyes
and tangled hair sticking out of her short, thick, flaxen braid. She paid no
attention to what was going on around her, but paced, bare-footed, and in a
dirty gray shirt, over the floor of the cell, making sharp and quick turns when
she reached the wall.

CHAPTER XXXI.
When with a rattling of chains the cell door was unlocked and Maslova
admitted, all eyes were turned toward her. Even the chanter's daughter
stopped for a moment and looked at her with raised eyebrows, but
immediately resumed walking with long, resolute strides. Korableva stuck
her needle into the sack she was sewing and gazed inquiringly through her
glasses at Maslova.
"Ah me! So she has returned," she said in a hoarse basso voice. "And I was
sure she would be set right. She must have got it."
She removed her glasses and placed them with her sewing beside her.
"I have been talking with auntie, dear, and we thought that they might
discharge you at once. They say it happens. And they sometimes give you
money, if you strike the right time," the watch-woman started in a singing
voice. "What ill-luck! It seems we were wrong. God has His own way, dear,"
she went on in her caressing and melodious voice.
"It is possible that they convicted you?" asked Theodosia, with gentle
compassion, looking at Maslova with her childish, light-blue eyes, and her
cheerful, young face changed, and she seemed to be ready to cry.
Maslova made no answer, but silently went to her place, next to Korableva's,
and sat down.
"You have probably not eaten anything," said Theodosia, rising and going
over to Maslova.
Again Maslova did not answer, but placed the two lunch-rolls at the head of
the cot and began to undress. She took off the dusty coat, and the 'kerchief
from her curling black hair and sat down.
The hunch-backed old woman also came and stopped in front of Maslova,
compassionately shaking her head.

The boy came behind the old woman, and, with a protruding corner of the
upper lip and wide-open eyes, gazed on the rolls brought by Maslova. Seeing
all these compassionate faces, after what had happened, Maslova almost
cried and her lips began to twitch. She tried to and did restrain herself until
the old woman and the child approached. When, however, she heard the
kind, compassionate exclamation of pity from the old woman, and,
especially, when her eyes met the serious eyes of the boy who looked now at
her, now at the rolls, she could restrain herself no longer. Her whole face
began to twitch and she burst into sobs.
"I told her to take a good lawyer," said Korableva. "Well? To Siberia?" she
asked.
Maslova wished to answer but could not, and, crying, she produced from the
roll the box of cigarettes, on which a picture of a red lady with a high
chignon and triangle-shaped, low cut neck was printed, and gave it to
Korableva. The latter looked at the picture, disapprovingly shook her head,
chiefly because Maslova spent money so foolishly, and, lighting a cigarette
over the lamp, inhaled the smoke several times, then thrust it at Maslova.
Maslova, without ceasing to cry, eagerly began to inhale the smoke.
"Penal servitude," she murmured, sobbing.
"They have no fear of God, these cursed blood-suckers!" said Korableva.
"They have condemned an innocent girl."
At this moment there was a loud outburst of laughter among those standing
near the window. The delicate laughter of the little girl mingled with the
hoarse and shrill laughter of the women. This merriment was caused by
some act of a prisoner without.
"Oh, the scoundrel! See what he is doing!" said the red-headed woman,
pressing her face against the grating, her whole massive frame shaking.
"What is that drum-hide shouting about?" said Korableva, shaking her head
at the red-haired woman, and then again turning to Maslova. "How many
years?"
"Four," said Maslova, and the flow of her tears was so copious that one of
them fell on the cigarette. She angrily crushed it, threw it away and took

another.
The watch-woman, although she was no smoker, immediately picked up the
cigarette-end and began to straighten it, talking at the same time.
"As I said to Matveievna, dear," she said, "it is ill-luck. They do what they
please. And we thought they would discharge you. Matveievna said you
would be discharged, and I said that you would not, I said. 'My heart tells
me,' I said, 'that they will condemn her,' and so it happened," she went on,
evidently listening to the sounds of her own voice with particular pleasure.
The prisoners had now passed through the court-yard, and the four women
left the window and approached Maslova. The larged-eyed illicit seller of
spirits was the first to speak.
"Well, is the sentence very severe?" she asked, seating herself near Maslova
and continuing to knit her stocking.
"It is severe because she has no money. If she had money to hire a good
lawyer, I am sure they would not have held her," said Korableva. "That
lawyer—what's his name?—that clumsy, big-nosed one can, my dear
madam, lead one out of the water dry. That's the man you should take."
"To hire him!" grinned Miss Dandy. "Why, he would not look at you for less
than a thousand rubles."
"It seems to be your fate," said the old woman who was charged with
incendiarism. "I should say he is severe! He drove my boy's wife from her;
put him in jail, and me, too, in my old age," for the hundredth time she
began to repeat her story. "Prison and poverty are our lot. If it is not prison, it
is poverty."
"Yes, it is always the same with them," said the woman-moonshiner, and,
closely inspecting the girl's head, she put her stocking aside, drew the girl
over between her overhanging legs and with dexterous fingers began to
search in her head. "Why do you deal in wine? But I have to feed my
children," she said, continuing her search.
These words reminded Maslova of wine.

"Oh, for a drop of wine," she said to Korableva, wiping her tears with the
sleeve of her shirt and sobbing from time to time.
"Some booze? Why, of course!" said Korableva.

CHAPTER XXXII.
Maslova produced the money from one of the lunch-rolls and gave it to
Korableva, who climbed up to the draught-hole of the oven for a flask of
wine she had hidden there. Seeing which, those women who were not her
immediate neighbors went to their places. Meantime Maslova shook the dust
from her 'kerchief and coat, climbed up on her cot and began to eat a roll.
"I saved some tea for you, but I fear it is cold," said Theodosia, bringing
down from a shelf a pot, wrapped in a rag, and a tin cup.
The beverage was perfectly cold, and tasted more of tin than of tea, but
Maslova poured out a cupful and began to drink.
"Here, Finashka!" she called, and breaking a piece from the roll thrust it
toward the boy, who gazed at her open-mouthed.
Korableva, meanwhile, brought the flask of wine. Maslova offered some to
Korableva and Miss Dandy. These three prisoners constituted the aristocracy
of the cell, because they had money and divided among themselves what
they had.
In a few minutes Maslova became brighter and energetically began to relate
what had transpired at the court, mockingly imitating the prosecutor and
rehearsing such parts as had appealed to her most. She was particularly
impressed by the fact that the men paid considerable attention to her
wherever she went. In the court-room every one looked at her, she said, and
for that purpose constantly came into the prisoners' room.
"Even the guard said: 'It is to look at you that they come here.' Some one
would come and ask for some document or something, but I saw that it was
not for the document that he came. He would devour me with his eyes," she
said, smiling and shaking her head as if perplexed. "They are good ones!"
"Yes, that is how it is," chimed in the watch-woman in her melodious voice.
"They are like flies on sugar. If you needed them for any other purpose, be

sure they would not come so quickly. They know a good thing when they see
it."
"It was the same here," interrupted Maslova. "As soon as I was brought here
I met with a party coming from the depot. They gave me no rest, and I could
hardly get rid of them. Luckily the warden drove them off. One of them
bothered me particularly."
"How did he look?" asked Miss Dandy.
"He had a dark complexion, and wore a mustache."
"It is he."
"Who?"
"Stchegloff. He passed here just now."
"Who is Stchegloff?"
"She don't know Stchegloff! He twice escaped from Siberia. Now he has
been caught, but he will escape again. Even the officers fear him," said Miss
Dandy, who delivered notes to prisoners, and knew everything that
transpired in the jail. "He will surely escape."
"If he does he won't take either of us with him," said Korableva. "You'd
better tell me this: What did the lawyer say to you about a petition—you
must send one now."
Maslova said that she did not know anything about a petition.
At this moment the red-haired woman, burying her two freckled hands into
her tangled, thick hair, and scratching her head with her nails, approached
the wine-drinking aristocrats.
"I will tell you, Katherine, everything," she began. "First of all, you must
write on paper: 'I am not satisfied with the trial,' and then hand it to the
prosecutor."
"What do you want here?" Korableva turned to her, speaking in an angry
basso. "You have smelled the wine! We know you. We don't need your
advice; we know what we have to do."

"Who is talking to you?"
"You want some wine—that's what you want."
"Let her alone. Give her some," said Maslova, who always divided with
others what she had.
"Yes, I will give her," and Korableva clenched her fist.
"Try it! Try it!" moving toward Korableva, said the red-haired woman. "I am
not afraid of you."
"You jail bird!"
"You are another!"
"You gutter rake!"
"I am a rake—am I? You convict, murderess!" shrieked the red-haired
woman.
"Go away, I tell you!" said Korableva frowning.
But the red-haired woman only came nearer, and Korableva gave her a push
on the open, fat breast. The other seemingly only waited for this, for with an
unexpected, quick movement of one hand she seized Korableva's hair and
was about to strike her in the face with the other, when Korableva seized this
hand. Maslova and Miss Dandy sprang up and took hold of the hands of the
red-haired woman, endeavoring to release her hold on Korableva, but the
hand that clutched the hair would not open. For a moment she released the
hair, but only to wind it around her fist. Korableva, her head bent, with one
hand kept striking her antagonist over the body and catching the latter's hand
with her teeth. The women crowded around the fighters, parting them and
shouting. Even the consumptive came near them, and, coughing, looked on.
The children huddled together and cried. The noise attracted the warden and
the matron. They were finally parted. Korableva loosened her gray braid and
began to pick out the pieces of torn hair, while the other held the tattered
remnant of her shirt to her breast—both shouting, explaining and
complaining against one another.

"I know it is the wine—I can smell it," said the matron. "I will tell the
superintendent to-morrow. Now, remove everything, or there will be trouble.
There is no time to listen to you. To your places, and be silent!"
But for a long time there was no silence. The women continued to curse each
other; they began to relate how it all commenced, and whose fault it was.
The warden and matron finally departed; the women quieted down and took
to their cots. The old woman stood up before the image and began to pray.
"Two Siberian convicts," suddenly said the red-haired woman in a hoarse
voice, accompanying every word with a torrent of abuse.
"Look out, or you will get it again," quickly answered Korableva, adding
similar revilement. Then they became silent.
"If they had not prevented me, I should have knocked out your eyes," the
red-haired one began again, and again came a quick and sharp retort.
Then came another interval of silence, followed by more abuse. The
intervals became longer and longer, and finally silence settled over the cell.
They were all falling asleep; some began to snore; only the old woman, who
always prayed for a long time, was still bowing before the image, while the
chanter's daughter, as soon as the matron left the cell, came down from her
cot and began to walk up and down the cell.
Maslova was awake and incessantly thinking of herself as a convict, the
word which had been twice applied to her—once by Bochkova, and again by
the red-haired woman. She could not be reconciled to the thought.
Korableva, who was lying with her back turned toward Maslova, turned
around.
"I never dreamed of such a thing," she said, in a low voice. "Others commit
heaven knows what crimes, and they go scot free, while I must suffer for
nothing."
"Don't worry, girl. People live also in Siberia. You will not be lost even
there," Korableva consoled her.
"I know that I will not be lost, but it is painful to be treated that way. I
deserved a better fate. I am used to a comfortable life."

"You can do nothing against God's will," Korableva said, with a sigh. "You
can do nothing against His will."
"I know, auntie, but it is hard, nevertheless."
They became silent.
"Listen to that wanton," said Korableva, calling Maslova's attention to the
strange sounds that came from the other end of the cell.
These sounds were the suppressed sobbing of the red-haired woman. She
wept because she had just been abused, beaten, and got no wine, for which
she so yearned. She also wept because her whole life was one round of
abuse, scorn, insults and blows. She meant to draw some consolation from
the recollection of her first love for the factory hand, Fedka Molodenkoff,
but, recalling this first love, she also recalled the manner of its ending. The
end of it was that this Molodenkoff, while in his cups, by way of jest,
smeared her face with vitriol, and afterward laughed with his comrades as he
watched her writhing in pain. She remembered this, and she pitied herself;
and, thinking that no one heard her, she began to weep, and wept like a child
—moaning, snuffling and swallowing salty tears.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
Nekhludoff rose the following morning with a consciousness that some
change had taken place within him, and before he could recall what it was he
already knew that it was good and important.
"Katiousha—the trial. Yes, and I must stop lying, and tell all the truth." And
what a remarkable coincidence! That very morning finally came the long-
expected letter of Maria Vasilievna, the wife of the marshal of the nobility—
that same letter that he wanted so badly now. She gave him his liberty and
wished him happiness in his proposed marriage.
"Marriage!" he repeated ironically. "How far I am from it!"
And his determination of the day before to tell everything to her husband, to
confess his sin before him, and to hold himself ready for any satisfaction he
might demand, came to his mind. But this morning it did not seem to him so
easy as it had yesterday. "And then, what is the good of making a man
miserable? If he asks me, I will tell him; but to call on him specially for that
purpose—— No, it is not necessary."
It seemed to him equally difficult this morning to tell all the truth to Missy.
He thought it would be offering an insult. It was inevitable, as in all worldly
affairs, that there should remain something unexpressed but understood. One
thing, however, he decided upon this morning—that he would not go there,
and would tell the truth when asked. But in his relations toward Katiousha
there was to be nothing unsaid.
"I will go to the jail—will tell her, beg of her to forgive me. And, if
necessary—yes, if necessary—I will marry her," he thought.
The idea that for the sake of moral satisfaction he would sacrifice everything
and marry her this morning particularly affected him.
It was a long time since he had risen with so much energy in him. When
Agrippina Petrovna entered his room he declared to her with a determination
which he himself did not expect, that he had no further need of the house,

and that he would dispense with her services. There was a tacit
understanding that the large house was kept up for his contemplated
marriage. The closing up of the house consequently had some particular
significance. Agrippina Petrovna looked at him with surprise.
"I thank you very much, Agrippina Petrovna, for your solicitude in my
behalf, but I do not now need such a large house, or any of the servants. If
you wish to help me, then be so kind as to pack away the things as you used
to do in mamma's lifetime. Natasha will dispose of them when she arrives."
Natasha was Nekhludoff's sister.
Agrippina Petrovna shook her head.
"Dispose of them? Why, they will be needed," she said.
"No, they will not, Agrippina Petrovna—they will positively not be needed,"
said Nekhludoff, answering what she meant by shaking his head. "Please tell
Kornei that his salary will be paid for two months in advance, but that I do
not need him."
"You are wrong in doing this, Dmitri Ivanovich," she said. "You will need a
house even if you go abroad."
"You misunderstand me, Agrippina Petrovna. I will not go abroad, and if I
do go, it will be to an entirely different place."
His face suddenly turned a purple color.
"Yes, it is necessary to tell her," he thought. "I must tell all to everybody.
"A very strange and important thing has happened to me. Do you remember
Katiousha, who lived with Aunt Maria Ivanovna?"
"Of course; I taught her to sew."
"Well, then, she was tried in court yesterday, and I was one of the jury."
"Ah, good Lord! what a pity!" said Agrippina Petrovna. "What was she tried
for?"
"Murder, and it was all caused by me."

"How could you have caused it? You are talking very strangely," said
Agrippina Petrovna, and fire sparkled in her old eyes.
She knew of the incident with Katiousha.
"Yes, it is my fault. And this causes me to change my plans."
"What change can this cause in your plans?" said Agrippina Petrovna,
suppressing a smile.
"This: That since it was through my fault that she is in her present condition,
I consider it my duty to help her to the extent of my ability."
"That is your affair, but I cannot see that you are so much in fault. It happens
to everybody, and if one is guided by common sense the matter is usually
arranged and forgotten, and one lives on like the rest of the world," said
Agrippina Petrovna, sternly and seriously. "There is no reason why you
should take it so much to heart. I heard long ago that she had gone to the
bad, so whose fault is it?"
"It is my fault, and that is why I wish to make amends."
"Well, it is hard to set that right."
"That is my affair. If you are thinking of yourself, then that which mother
wished——"
"I am not thinking of myself. Your deceased mother showed me so many
favors that I do not desire anything. My niece, Lizauka, wishes me to come
to her, so I will go as soon as you need me no longer. Only you are taking it
too much to heart; it happens with everybody."
"Well, I do not think so. I still ask you to help me rent the house and pack
away the things. And do not be angry with me. I am very, very thankful to
you for everything."
It is remarkable that since Nekhludoff understood that he was disgusted with
himself, others ceased to be repulsive to him. On the contrary, he had a
kindly and respectful feeling for Agrippina Petrovna and Kornei. He wished
to confess also before Kornei, but the latter was so impressively respectful
that he could not make up his mind to do it.

On his way to the court, passing along the familiar streets and in the same
carriage, Nekhludoff was himself surprised what a different man he felt
himself to-day.
His marriage to Missy, which but yesterday seemed to be so near, to-day
appeared to him absolutely impossible. Yesterday he understood his position
to be such that there could be no doubt that she would be happy to marry
him; to-day he felt himself unworthy not only of marrying her, but of being
her friend. "If she only knew who I was, she would never receive me, and
yet I taunted her with coquetting with that gentleman. But no, even if she
married me I should never have peace, even though I were happy, while that
one is in jail, and may any day be sent under escort to Siberia. While the
woman whom I have ruined is tramping the weary road to penal servitude, I
will be receiving congratulations, and paying visits with my young wife. Or I
will be counting the votes for and against school inspection, etc., with the
marshal, whom I have shamefully deceived, and afterward make
appointments with his wife (what abomination!). Or I will work on my
picture, which will, evidently, never be finished, for I had no business to
occupy myself with such trifles. And I can do neither of these things now,"
he said to himself, happy at the inward change which he felt.
"First of all," he thought, "I must see the lawyer, and then—then see her in
jail—the convict of yesterday—and tell her everything."
And when he thought how he would see her, confess his guilt before her,
how he would declare to her that he would do everything in his power, marry
her in order to wipe out his guilt, he became enraptured, and tears filled his
eyes.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
Arriving at the court-house, Nekhludoff met the usher in the corridor and
asked him where the prisoners already sentenced were kept, and from whom
permission could be obtained to see them. The usher told him that the
prisoners were kept in various places, and that before final judgment the
public prosecutor was the only person from whom permission to see them
could be obtained. "The prosecutor has not arrived yet; when he does I will
let you know, and will escort you myself to him after the session. And now,
please to walk into the court. The session is commencing."
Nekhludoff thanked the usher, who seemed to him particularly pitiful to-day,
and went into the jury-room.
As Nekhludoff was approaching the jury-room his fellow jurors were
coming out, repairing to the court-room. The merchant was as cheerful, had
lunched as well as yesterday, and greeted Nekhludoff like an old friend. The
loud laughter and familiarity of Peter Gerasimovitch did not give rise to-day
in Nekhludoff of the unpleasant sensation of yesterday.
Nekhludoff wished to tell all the jurymen of his relations to the woman
whom they had convicted yesterday. "It would have been proper," he
thought, "yesterday to rise in court and publicly confess my guilt." But when
with the other jurymen he entered the court-room and witnessed the same
procedure, the same "Hear ye! Hear ye!" the three judges in high collars on
the elevation, the silence, the seating of the jury on high-backed chairs, the
gendarmes, the priest—he felt that, though it was necessary to do it, he
would not have been able even yesterday to break this solemnity.
They went through the same preliminaries, except the swearing in of the jury
and the justiciary's speech to them.
A case of burglary was before the court. The prisoner, who was guarded by
two gendarmes with unsheathed swords, was a twenty-year-old boy with a
bloodless face and in a gray coat. He sat alone on the prisoners' bench and
scanned from under his eyebrows all those that entered the court-room. This

boy and another were charged with breaking the lock of a shed and stealing
therefrom mats of the value of three rubles and sixty-seven kopecks. It
appeared from the indictment that a policeman caught the boy when he was
walking with the other, who carried the mats on his shoulder. Both of them
immediately confessed, and they were put in jail. The comrade of this boy, a
locksmith, died in jail, and he was tried alone. The old mats lay on the table
reserved for exhibits.
The case was conducted in the same order as yesterday, with all the proofs,
witnesses, experts, oath-taking, examinations and cross-examinations. The
policeman, when questioned by the justiciary, complainant and the defense,
made listless answers—"Yes, sir," "Can't tell," and again "Yes, sir"—but
notwithstanding this, it was apparent that he pitied the boy and testified
involuntarily against him.
Another witness, a splenetic old man who owned those mats, when asked if
they belonged to him, unwillingly testified that they were his. When,
however, the prosecutor asked him what use he intended to make of them,
and whether he needed them much, he became angry and answered: "I wish
they had been lost entirely, these mats. I don't need them at all. And if I had
known that you would make so much fuss about them, I would gladly have
given ten rubles, or twenty, rather than be dragged into court. I have spent
five rubles on carriages coming here and going back again. And I am sick; I
am suffering from rupture and rheumatism."
The prisoner admitted the charge against him, and, like a trapped animal,
stupidly looked now to one side, now to the other, and in a halting voice
related everything as it happened.
It was a clear case, but the prosecutor, as he did yesterday, raised his
shoulders and propounded subtle questions which were calculated to entrap
the clever criminal.
In his speech he argued that the theft was committed in a dwelling-house by
breaking and entering it, and that therefore the severest punishment should
be meted out to him.
Counsel for the defense, appointed by the court, argued that the theft was
committed not in a dwelling-house, and that, though the prisoner pleaded

guilty, he was not as dangerous to society as the prosecutor would have them
believe.
The justiciary was the personification of impartiality and justice, and
endeavored to impress on the jury that which they already knew and could
not help knowing. Again they took recesses and smoked cigarettes, and
again the usher shouted "Hear ye!" and the two gendarmes sat trying to keep
awake.
It developed during the trial that this boy had been apprenticed in a tobacco
factory, in which he worked five years. This year he was discharged by his
employer after a misunderstanding with the employees, and, going idly
about the city, he spent all he had on drink. At an inn he met a locksmith
who had also been discharged and was drinking hard, and the two went at
night, while drunk, to that shed, broke the lock, and took the first thing they
saw. They were caught, and as they confessed they were imprisoned. The
locksmith, while waiting for a trial, died. The boy was now being tried as a
dangerous creature from whom it was necessary to protect society.
"As dangerous a creature as the prisoner of yesterday," Nekhludoff thought
while watching the proceedings. "They are dangerous, but are we not
dangerous? I am a libertine, an impostor; and all of us, all those that know
me as I am, not only do not detest but respect me."
It is evident that this boy is no villain, but a very ordinary person—every one
sees that—and that he became what he is only because he lived amid
conditions that beget such people. It is therefore plain that such boys will
exist as long as the conditions producing these unfortunates remain
unchanged. If any one had taken pity on this boy, Nekhludoff thought while
looking at the sickly, frightened face of the boy, before want had driven him
from the village to the city, and relieved that want, or, when, after twelve
hours' work in the factory, he was visiting inns with grown-up comrades,
some one had told him, "Don't go, Vania; it is bad," the boy would not have
gone, or got drunk, and the burglary would never have occurred.
But no one pitied the boy during the time that he, like an animal, spent his
school years in the city, and, with close-cropped hair, to prevent his getting
vermin, ran errands for the workmen. On the contrary, the only thing he had

heard from the workmen and his comrades was to the effect that a brave
fellow was he who cheated, drank, reviled, fought, or led a depraved life.
And when, sickly and depraved from the unhealthy work, from drink and
lewdness, foolish and capricious, he aimlessly prowled around the city, as in
a dream, entered some shed and abstracted a few worthless mats, then,
instead of destroying the causes that led this boy into his present condition,
we intend to mend matters by punishing him!
It is dreadful!
Thus Nekhludoff thought, and no longer listened to what was going on
around him. He was himself terrified at this revelation. He wondered why he
had not seen it before—how others failed to see it.

CHAPTER XXXV.
As soon as the first recess was taken, Nekhludoff rose and went out of the
court, intending to return no more. They might do with him what they
pleased, but he could no longer take part in that farce.
Having inquired where the prosecutor's room was, he directed his steps
toward that dignitary. The messenger would not admit him, declaring that the
prosecutor was busy, but Nekhludoff brushed past him and asked an officer
who met him to announce him to the prosecutor, saying that he was on
important business. His title and dress helped Nekhludoff. The officer
announced him, and he was admitted. The prosecutor received him standing,
evidently dissatisfied with Nekhludoff's persistence in seeking an audience
with him.
"What do you wish?" the prosecutor asked, sternly.
"I am a juryman, my name is Nekhludoff, and I want to see the prisoner
Maslova," he said, resolutely and quickly. He blushed, and felt that his act
would have a decisive influence on his life.
The prosecutor was a tall, swarthy man with short hair just turning gray,
bright eyes and a trimmed, bushy beard on the protruding lower jaw.
"Maslova? Yes, I know her. She was charged with poisoning," he said
calmly. "Why do you want to see her?" And then, as if desiring to soften his
harsh demeanor, he added: "I cannot give you the permission before I know
what you want to see her for."
"It is very important for me to see her," Nekhludoff burst out.
"I see," said the prosecutor, and, raising his eyes, looked intently at
Nekhludoff. "Has her case been tried?"
"She was tried yesterday and sentenced to four years' penal servitude. The
conviction was irregular; she is innocent."

"I see. If she has only been sentenced yesterday," said the prosecutor without
paying attention to Nekhludoff's declaration about her innocence, "then she
will be detained until final judgment in the place where she is now. The jail
is open to visitors on certain days only. I advise you to apply there."
"But I must see her as soon as possible," with trembling lower jaw
Nekhludoff said, feeling that a critical moment was approaching.
"Why are you so anxious about seeing her?" the prosecutor asked, raising his
eyebrows with some alarm.
"Because she is innocent of the crime for which she was sentenced to penal
servitude. The guilt is mine, not hers," Nekhludoff said in a trembling voice,
feeling that he was saying what he should not.
"How so?" asked the prosecutor.
"I deceived her, and brought her to the condition in which she is now. If I
had not driven her to the position in which she was, she would not have been
charged here with such a crime."
"Still I fail to see what all this has to do with visiting her."
"It has, because I want to follow her and—marry her," said Nekhludoff. And,
as it usually happened when he spoke of this, his eyes filled with tears.

THE PRISONERS.
"Ah, is that so?" said the prosecutor. "This is really an exceptional case. Are
you not a member of the Krasnopersk town council?" asked the prosecutor,
as if recalling that he had heard of this Nekhludoff who was now making
such a strange statement.
"Excuse me, but I fail to see what this has to do with my request," fuming,
Nekhludoff answered with rancor.
"Nothing, of course," the prosecutor said, with a faint smile on his face, and
not in the least disturbed. "But your request is so unusual and beside all
customary forms——"
"Well, can I get the permission?"
"Permission? Why, yes. I will give you a pass immediately. Please be
seated."
He went to the table, sat down and began to write.
"Please be seated."
Nekhludoff stood still.
When he had made out the pass the prosecutor handed it to Nekhludoff and
eyed him with curiosity.
"I must also tell you," said Nekhludoff, "that I cannot continue to serve as
juror."
"As you know, satisfactory reasons must be given to the court in such cases."
"The reasons are that I consider all courts useless and immoral."
"I see," said the prosecutor, with the same faint smile which seemed to
indicate that such statements were familiar to him, and belonged to an
amusing class of people well known to him. "I see, but you understand that,
as public prosecutor, I cannot agree with you. I therefore advise you to state
so to the court, which will either find your reasons satisfactory or
unsatisfactory, and in the latter case will impose a fine on you. Apply to the
court."

"I have already stated my reasons, and I will not go there," Nekhludoff said
angrily.
"I have the honor to salute you," said the prosecutor, bowing, evidently
desiring to rid himself of the strange visitor.
"Who was the man that just left your room?" asked one of the judges who
entered the prosecutor's cabinet after Nekhludoff had left.
"Nekhludoff. You know, the one who made such strange suggestions in the
Krasnopersk town council. Just imagine, he is on the jury, and among the
prisoners there was a woman, or girl, who was sentenced to penal servitude,
and who, he says, was deceived by him. And now he wishes to marry her."
"It is impossible!"
"That is what he told me. And how strangely excited he was!"
"There is something wrong with our young men."
"He is not so very young."
"What a bore your famous Ivasheukoff is, my dear! He wins his cases by
tiring us out—there is no end to his talking."
"They must be curbed, or they become real obstructionists."

CHAPTER XXXVI.
From the public prosecutor Nekhludoff went straight to the detention-house.
But no one by the name of Maslova was there. The inspector told him that
she might be found in the old temporary prison. Nekhludoff went there and
found that Katherine Moslova was one of the inmates.
The distance between the detention-house and the old prison was great, and
Nekhludoff did not arrive there until toward evening. He was about to open
the door of the huge, gloomy building, when the guard stopped him and rang
the bell. The warden responded to the bell. Nekhludoff showed the pass, but
the warden told him that he could not be admitted without authority from the
inspector. While climbing the stairs to the inspector's dwelling, Nekhludoff
heard the sounds of an intricate bravura played on the piano. And when the
servant, with a handkerchief tied around one eye, opened the door, a flood of
music dazed his senses. It was a tiresome rhapsody by Lizst, well played, but
only to a certain place. When that place was reached, the melody repeated
itself. Nekhludoff asked the servant if the inspector was in.
The servant said that he was not.
"Will he be in soon?"
The rhapsody again ceased, and with a noisy flourish again repeated itself.
"I will go and inquire." And the servant went away.
The rhapsody again went on at full speed, when suddenly, reaching a certain
point, it came to a stand-still and a voice from within was heard.
"Tell him that he is not home, and will not come to-day. He is visiting—why
do they bother us?" a woman's voice was heard to say, and the rhapsody
continued, then ceased, and the sound of a chair moved back was heard. The
angry pianist herself evidently wished to reprimand the importunate visitor
who came at such a late hour.
"Papa is not home," angrily said a pale, wretched looking girl with puffed-up
hair and blue spots under her eyes, who came to the door. Seeing a young

man in a good overcoat, she became calm. "Walk in, please. What do you
wish to see him for?"
"I would like to see a prisoner. I hold a pass from the prosecutor."
"Well, I don't know; papa is not in. Why, walk in, please," she again called
from the entrance hall. "Or apply to his assistant, who is now in the office.
You may talk to him. And what is your name?"
"Thank you," said Nekhludoff, without answering the question, and went
away.
Scarcely had the door closed when the same vigorous, merry sound, so
inappropriate to the place and so persistently rehearsed by the wretched girl,
was heard. In the court-yard Nekhludoff met a young officer with a stiff,
dyed mustache, of whom he inquired for the assistant. He himself was the
assistant. He took the pass, looked at it, and said that he could not admit any
one to the prison on a pass for the detention-house. Besides, it was late.
"At ten o'clock to-morrow the prison is open to all visitors, and the inspector
will be here. You could then see her in the common reception-room, or, if the
inspector permits it, in the office."
So, without gaining an interview, Nekhludoff returned home. Agitated by the
expectation of seeing her, he walked along the streets, thinking not of the
court, but of his conversations with the prosecutor and the inspectors. That
he was seeking an interview with her, and told the prosecutor of his
intention, and visited two prisons preparing for the ordeal, had so excited
him that he could not calm down. On returning home he immediately
brought forth his unused diary, read some parts and made the following
entry: "For two years I have kept no diary, and thought that I should never
again return to this childishness. But it was no childishness, but a discourse
with myself, with that true, divine I which lives in every man. All this time
this I was slumbering and I had no one to discourse with. It was awakened
by the extraordinary event of the 28th of April, in court, where I sat as
jurymen. I saw her, Katiousha, whom I had deceived, on the prisoners'
bench, in a prison coat. Through a strange misunderstanding and my
mistake, she was sentenced to penal servitude. I have just returned from the
prosecutor and the prison. I was not permitted to see her, but I am

determined to do anything to see her, acknowledge my guilt and make
reparation even by marrying her. Lord, help me! My soul is rejoicing."

CHAPTER XXXVII.
For a long time that night Maslova lay awake with open eyes, and, looking at
the door, mused.
She was thinking that under no circumstances would she marry a convict on
the island of Saghalin, but would settle down some other way—with some
inspector, or clerk, or even the warden, or an assistant. They are all eager for
such a thing. "Only I must not get thin. Otherwise I am done for." And she
recalled how she was looked at by her lawyer, the justiciary—in fact,
everybody in the court-room. She recalled how Bertha, who visited her in
prison, told her that the student, whom she loved while she was an inmate at
Kitaeva's, inquired about her and expressed his regrets when told of her
condition. She recalled the fight with the red-haired woman, and pitied her.
She called to mind the baker who sent her an extra lunch roll, and many
others, but not Nekhludoff. Of her childhood and youth, and especially of
her love for Nekhludoff, she never thought. That was too painful. These
recollections were hidden deeply in her soul. She never saw Nekhludoff
even in a dream. She failed to recognize him in court, not so much because
when she last saw him he was an army officer, beardless, with small
mustache and thick, short hair, while now he was no longer young in
appearance, and wore a beard, but more because she never thought of him.
She had buried all recollections of her past relations with him in that terrible
dark night when, on his return from the army, he visited his aunts.
Up to that night, while she hoped for his return, the child which she bore
under her heart was not irksome to her. But from that night forward
everything changed, and the coming child was only a hindrance.
The aunts had asked Nekhludoff to stop off at their station and call on them,
but he wired that he would not be able to do it, as he had to reach St.
Petersburg in time. When Katiousha learned this, she decided to go to the
railroad station to see him. The train was to pass at two o'clock in the
morning. Katiousha helped the ladies to bed, and, having induced the cook's
girl, Mashka, to accompany her, she put on an old pair of shoes, threw a
shawl over her head, gathered up her skirts and ran to the station.

It was a dark, rainy, windy, autumn night. The rain now poured down in
large, warm drops, now ceased. The road could not be distinguished in the
field, and it was pitch dark in the woods. Although Katiousha was familiar
with the road she lost her way in the woods, and reached a sub-station,
where the train only stopped for three minutes. Running on the platform, she
espied Nekhludoff through the window of a first-class car. The car was
brightly illuminated. Two officers sat on plush seats playing cards. On the
table near the window two thick candles were burning. Nekhludoff sat on the
arm of the seat, his elbow resting on the back, laughing. As soon as she
recognized him she tapped on the window with her cold hand. But at that
moment the third bell rang, and the train began to move, the cars jostling
each other forward. One of the players rose with the cards in his hands and
began to look through the window. She tapped again, and pressed her face
against the window-pane. At that moment the car beside which she stood
was tugged forward, and it moved along. She ran alongside, looking in the
window. The officer tried to lower the window, but could not. Nekhludoff
rose, and, pushing the officer aside, began lowering it. The train went faster,
so that Katiousha was obliged to run. The train moved still faster when the
window was lowered. At that moment the conductor pushed her aside and
jumped on the car. She fell back, but continued to run along the wet boards
of the platform, and when she reached the end of the platform and began to
descend the steps to the ground, she almost fell exhausted. The first-class car
was far ahead of her, and while she was running the second-class cars passed
her, then came with greater speed those of the third class. When the last car
with the lanterns flew by her she was already beyond the water-tank,
unsheltered from the wind which lashed her, blowing the shawl from her
head and tangling her feet in her skirt. But still she ran on.
"Aunt Michaelovna!" shouted the little girl, "you have lost your shawl."
Katiousha stopped, threw back her head, and, covering her face with her
hands, began to sob.
"He is gone!" she cried.
"While he is in a lighted car, sitting on a plush seat, jesting and drinking, I
stand here in the mud, rain and wind, crying," she thought. She sat down on
the ground and began to sob aloud. The little girl was frightened, and,
embracing her wet clothing, she said:

"Auntie, let's go home."
"I will wait for the next train, throw myself under the wheels, and that will
end it all," Katiousha was meanwhile thinking, not heeding the girl.
She made up her mind to carry out her intention. But as it always happens in
the first moment of calm after a period of agitation, the child, his child,
suddenly shuddered. Immediately all that which so tortured her that she was
willing to die, all her wrath and her desire to revenge herself even by death,
passed. She became calm, arranged her clothing, put the shawl on her head,
and went away.
She returned home exhausted, wet and muddy. From that day began in her
that spiritual transformation which ended in her present condition. From that
terrible night on she ceased to believe in God and in goodness. Before that
night she herself believed in God, and believed that other people believed in
Him; but after that night she became convinced that no one believed, and all
that was said of God and His law was false and wrong. The one whom she
loved, and who loved her—she knew it—abandoned her and made sport of
her feelings. And he was the best of all the men she knew. All the others
were even worse. This she saw confirmed in all that had happened. His
aunts, pious old ladies, drove her out when she was no longer as useful as
she used to be. All the women with whom she came in contact tried to make
money by her; the men, beginning with the commissary and down to the
prison officers, all looked upon her as a means of pleasure. The whole world
was after pleasure. Her belief in this was strengthened by the old author
whom she met during the second year of her independent life. He had told
her frankly that this—he called it poetical and esthetic—is all of life's
happiness.
Every one lived for himself only, for his own pleasure, and all the words
about God and goodness were deception. And if the questions sometimes
occurred to her, Why were the affairs of the world so ill arranged that people
harm each other, and all suffer, she thought it best not to dwell on it. If she
became lonesome, she took a drink, smoked a cigarette, and the feeling
would pass away.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
When at five o'clock the following morning, which was Sunday, the
customary whistle blew, Korableva, who was already awake, roused
Maslova.
"A convict," Maslova thought with horror, rubbing her eyes and
involuntarily inhaling the foul morning air. She wished to fall asleep again,
to transfer herself into a state of unconsciousness, but fear overcame her
drowsiness. She raised herself, crossed her legs under her, and looked
around. The women were already up, only the children were still sleeping.
The moonshining woman with bulging eyes was carefully removing her coat
from under them. The rioter was drying near the oven some rags which
served for swaddling cloths, while the child, in the hands of the blue-eyed
Theodosia, was crying at the top of its lungs, the woman lulling it in a gentle
voice. The consumptive, seizing her breast, coughed violently, and, sighing
at intervals, almost screamed. The red-headed woman lay prone on her back
relating a dream she had had. The old incendiary stood before the image,
whispering the same words, crossing herself and bowing. The chanter's
daughter sat motionless on her cot, and with dull, half-open eyes was
looking into space. Miss Dandy was curling on her finger her oily, rough,
black hair.
Presently resounding steps were heard in the corridor, the lock creaked open,
and two prisoners in short jackets and gray trousers scarcely reaching their
ankles entered, and, raising the ill-smelling vat on a yoke, carried it away.
The women went to the faucets in the corridor to wash themselves. The red-
headed woman got into a quarrel with a woman from the adjoining cell.
Again there were cursing, shouting and complaints.
"You will get into the dark-room yet," shouted the warden, and he slapped
the red-headed woman on her fat, bare back, so that it resounded through the
entire corridor. "Don't let me hear you again."
"Fooling again, you old man?" she said, treating it as a caress.

"Hurry up! It is time for mass."
Scarcely had Maslova arranged her hair when the inspector entered with his
attendants.
"Make ready for inspection!" shouted the warden.
The women of the two cells formed in two rows along the corridor, those of
the back row placing their hands on the shoulders of the women in the front
row. Then they were counted.
After the count came the woman inspector and led the prisoners to the
church. Maslova and Theodosia were in the middle of the column, which
consisted of over a hundred women from all the cells. They all had white
'kerchiefs on their heads, and some few wore their own colored dresses.
These were the wives and children of convicts. The procession covered the
whole stairway. A soft clatter of prison shoes was heard, here and there some
conversation, and sometimes laughter. At a turn Maslova noticed the
malicious face of her enemy, Bochkova, who was walking in the front row,
and pointed her out to Theodosia. At the foot of the stairs the women became
silent, and, making the sign of the cross and bowing, they filed into the open
door of the empty, gold-bedecked chapel. Their place was on the right,
where, crowding each other, they began to arrange themselves in rows,
standing. Behind the women came the male convicts who were serving terms
or detained for transportation under sentence by the communities. Loudly
clearing their throats, they formed a dense crowd on the left and the middle
of the chapel. Above, on the gallery, were other convicts with heads half
shaven, whose presence was manifested by a clanking of chains.
This prison chapel had been rebuilt and remodeled by a rich merchant, who
had spent about thirty thousand rubles on it, and it was all ornamented with
gilt and bright colors.
For a few seconds there was silence, which was broken only by the blowing
of noses, coughing, and clanking of chains. Suddenly the prisoners who
stood in the middle began to press back, making a passage for the inspector,
who walked to the middle of the chapel, and the services commenced.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
Nekhludoff left the house early. A peasant was driving along a side alley,
shouting in a strange voice: "Milk! milk! milk!"
The first warm, spring rain had fallen the evening before. Wherever there
was a patch of unpaved ground the green grass burst forth; the lindens were
covered with green nap; the fowl-cherry and poplar unfolded their long,
fragrant leaves. In the market-place, through which Nekhludoff had to pass,
dense crowds in rags swarmed before the tents, some carrying boots under
their arms, others smoothly pressed trousers and vests on their shoulders.
The working people were already crowding near the traktirs (tea-houses), the
men in clean, long coats gathered in folds in the back of the waist, and in
shining boots; the women in bright-colored silk shawls and cloaks with
glass-bead trimmings. Policemen, with pistols attached to yellow cords
fastened around their waists, stood at their posts. Children and dogs played
on the grass-plots, and gay nurses sat chatting on the benches.
On the streets, the left sides of which were yet cool, moist and shady, heavy
carts and light cabs rumbled and jostled, the tram-cars rang their bells. The
air was agitated by the pealing of the church-bells summoning the people to
mass.
The driver stopped at a turn some distance from the prison. A few men and
women stood around, most of them with bundles in their hands. To the right
stood a few frame houses; to the left a two-story building over which hung a
large sign. The large prison itself was directly in front. An armed soldier
walked to and fro challenging every one attempting to pass him.
At the gate of the frame buildings sat the warden in uniform, with an entry
booklet in his hand. He made entries of visitors and those whom they wished
to see. Nekhludoff approached him, gave his name and that of Moslova, and
the officer entered them in his book.
"Why don't they open the door?" asked Nekhludoff.

"The morning service is on. As soon as it is over you will be admitted."
Nekhludoff returned among the waiting crowd.
A man in threadbare clothing, rumpled hat and slippers on his bare feet, and
his face full of red lines, pushed his way through the crowd and walked
toward the prison door.
"Where are you going?" shouted the soldier.
"What are you bawling about?" answered the man, entirely undisturbed by
the soldier's challenge. "If I can't go in, I will wait. No use bawling as if you
were a general."
The crowd laughed approvingly. Most of the visitors were poorly dressed,
even ragged, but, judging by outward appearance, there were also some
decent men and women among them. Beside Nekhludoff stood a well-
dressed man, clean shaven, stout and with rosy cheeks, who carried a bundle
of what looked like linen. Nekhludoff asked him if that was his first visit.
The man answered that he came there every Sunday, and they entered into
conversation. He was an employee of a bank, whose brother was under
indictment for forgery. This kind-hearted man told Nekhludoff all his story,
and was about to ask him about his own when their attention was attracted
by a rubber-tired carriage drawn by a blooded chestnut horse. The carriage
was occupied by a student and a lady whose face was hidden under a veil.
The student alighted, holding in his hand a large bundle. He approached
Nekhludoff and asked him where and how he should deliver the loaves of
bread he had brought for the prisoners. "I brought them at the request of my
bride. That is my bride. Her parents advised us to bring some alms for the
prisoners."
"I really don't know, for I am here for the first time, but I think that that
officer will tell you," said Nekhludoff, pointing to the warden in the crown-
laced uniform.
While Nekhludoff was talking to the student the large iron gate of the prison
opened and a uniformed officer with another warden came out. The one with
the booklet in his hand announced that the prison was open for visitors. The
guard stood aside, and all the visitors, as if fearing to be late, with quick
step, and some even running, pressed toward the prison gate. One of the

wardens stationed himself at the gate, and in a loud voice counted the
passing visitors—16, 17, 18, etc. The other warden, within the gate, touching
each with his hand, also counted the visitors as they entered another door.
This was to make sure that at their departure no visitor remained in prison,
and no prisoner made his way out. The tallying officer, without regard to the
person of the visitor, slapped Nekhludoff on the back. This at first offended
the latter, but he immediately remembered his mission, and he became
ashamed that his feelings should be thus wounded.
The second door opened into a large, vaulted room with small iron-grated
windows. In this room, which was called the meeting-room, Nekhludoff saw
in a niche a large image of the Crucifixion.
Nekhludoff went on slowly, letting the hurrying visitors pass before, and
experienced a mingled feeling of horror at the malefactors imprisoned in this
jail, compassion for those innocent people who, like the boy and Katiousha,
must be here, and timidity and tenderness before the meeting that was before
him. When he reached the end of the room the warden said something, but
Nekhludoff, who was absorbed in his thoughts, paid no attention to it, and
followed in the direction led by the crowd, that is, to the men's ward instead
of the women's.
Letting the hurrying visitors pass, he walked into the next room designated
for interviews. On opening the door he was struck by the deafening shouts of
a hundred throats turned into a continuous humming noise. Only as he
neared the people, who, like flies swarming on sugar pressed their faces
against a net which divided the room in two, did Nekhludoff understand the
cause of the noise. This room with windows in the rear wall was divided in
two not by one, but by two wire nets which stretched from the ceiling to the
floor. Two wardens walked between the nets. The prisoners were on the
other side of the nets, between which there was a space of about seven feet
for visitors, so that not only was it difficult to converse with them but a
short-sighted man could not even see the face of the prisoner he was visiting.
In order to be heard, it was necessary to shout at the top of one's voice. On
both sides, pressing against the nets, were the faces of wives, husbands,
fathers, mothers, children, who endeavored to see and speak to each other.
But as every one tried to speak so that he could be heard by the person
spoken to, and his neighbor did the same, their voices interfered with each
other, and each tried to outcry the other. The result was the noise which

astonished Nekhludoff when he entered the room. It was absolutely
impossible to understand the conversations. Only by the expression of the
people's faces could one judge what they were speaking about, and what
relation the speakers sustained toward each other. Near Nekhludoff was an
old woman with a small 'kerchief on her head, who, with trembling chin,
shouted to a pale young man with head half shaven. The prisoner, knitting
his brow, was listening to her with raised eyebrows. Beside the old woman
stood a young man in a long coat, who was nodding his head while listening
to a prisoner with a weary face and beard turning gray, who greatly
resembled him. Further on stood a ragamuffin waving his hand, shouting and
laughing. On the floor beside this man sat a woman in a good woolen dress,
with a child in her arms. She wept bitterly, evidently seeing for the first time
that gray-haired man on the other side of the net, manacled, in a prison
jacket, and with head half shaven. Over this woman stood the bank
employee shouting at the top of his voice to a bald-headed prisoner with
shining eyes.
Nekhludoff remained in this room about five minutes, experiencing a strange
feeling of anguish, a consciousness of his impotence at the discord in the
world, and he was seized with a sensation like a rocking on board of a ship.
"But I must fulfill my mission," he said to himself, taking heart. "What am I
to do?"
As he looked around for some officer, he saw a middle-sized man with
mustache, wearing epaulets, who was walking behind the crowd.
"Sir, could you not tell me where the women are kept, and where it is
permitted to see them?" he asked, making a particular effort to be polite.
"You wish to go to the women's ward?"
"Yes; I would like to see one of the women prisoners," Nekhludoff said, with
the same strained politeness.
"You should have said so in the meeting-room. Whom do you wish to see,
then?"
"I wish to see Katherine Maslova."
"Has she been sentenced?"

"Yes, she was sentenced the other day," he said humbly, as if fearing to ruffle
the temper of the officer, who seemed to be interested in him.
"Then this way, please," said the inspector, who had evidently decided from
Nekhludoff's appearance that he deserved attention. "Sidoroff!" he turned to
a warrant-officer wearing a mustache, and medals on his breast. "Show this
gentleman to the women's ward."
"All right, sir."
At that moment heart-rending cries came from the direction of the grating.
All this seemed strange to Nekhludoff, and strangest of all was that he was
obliged to thank and feel himself under obligation to the inspector and
warden.
The warden led Nekhludoff from the men's ward into the corridor, and
through the open door opposite admitted him to the women's meeting-room.

CHAPTER XL.
This room, like the one in the men's ward, was also divided in three, by two
nets, but it was considerably smaller. There were also fewer visitors and
fewer prisoners, but the noise was as great as in the men's room. Here, also,
the authorities stood guard between the nets. The authorities were here
represented by a matron in uniform with crown-laced sleeves and fringed
with blue braid and a belt of the same color. Here, too, people pressed
against the nets—in the passage—city folks in divers dresses; behind the
nets, female prisoners, some in white, others in their own dresses. The whole
net was lined with people. Some stood on tip-toe, speaking over the heads of
others; others, again, sat on the floor and conversed.
The most remarkable of the women prisoners, both in her shouting and
appearance, was a thin, ragged gipsy, with a 'kerchief which had slipped
from her head, who stood almost in the middle of the room, near a post,
behind the net, gesticulating and shouting to a short and tightly belted gipsy
in a blue coat. A soldier sat beside him on the floor, talking to a prisoner.
Beyond stood a young peasant with a light beard and in bast shoes, pressing
his flushed face to the net, evidently with difficulty suppressing his tears. He
was talking to a pretty, light-haired prisoner who gazed at him with her
bright, blue eyes. This was Theodosia, with her husband. Beside them stood
a tramp, who was talking to a disheveled, broad-faced woman. Further on
there were two women, a man, and again a woman, and opposite each was a
prisoner. Maslova was not among them. But behind the prisoners stood
another woman. Nekhludoff felt the beating of his heart increasing and his
breath failing him. The decisive moment was approaching. He neared the net
and recognized Katiousha. She stood behind the blue-eyed Theodosia, and,
smiling, listened to her conversation. She did not wear the prison coat, but a
white waist, tightly belted, and rising high above the breast. As in the court,
her black hair hung in curls over her 'kerchiefed forehead.
"It will all be over in a moment," he thought. "Shall I address her, or shall I
wait till she addresses me?"

But she did not address him. She was waiting for Clara, and never thought
that that man came to see her.
"Whom do you wish to see?" the matron asked Nekhludoff, approaching
him.
"Katherine Maslova," he stammered.
"Maslova, you are wanted," shouted the matron.
Maslova turned round, raised her head, and with the familiar expression of
submissiveness, came to the net. She did not recognize Nekhludoff, and
gazed at him in surprise. However, judging by his dress that he was a rich
man, she smiled.
"What are you?" she asked, pressing her smiling face with squinting eyes
against the net.
"I wish to see—" He did not know whether to use the respectful "you" or the
endearing "thou," and decided on the former. He spoke no louder than usual.
"I wish to see you—I——"
"Don't give me any of your song and dance——" the tramp beside him
shouted. "Did you take it, or did you not?"
"She is dying; she is very weak," some one shouted on the other side.
Maslova could not hear Nekhludoff, but the expression of his face, as she
spoke, suddenly reminded her of that which she did not wish to think of. The
smile disappeared from her face, and a wrinkle on her brow evidenced her
suffering.
"I cannot hear what you are saying," she shouted, blinking and still more
knitting her brows.
"I came——"
"Yes, I am doing my duty; I am repenting," thought Nekhludoff, and
immediately tears filled his eyes, and he felt a choking sensation in his
throat. His fingers clutched at the net and he made efforts to keep from
sobbing.

"I should not have gone if you were well," came from one side.
"I swear by God I know nothing about it!" cried a prisoner from the other
side.
Maslova noticed his agitation, and it communicated itself to her. Her eyes
sparkled, and her puffy, white cheeks became covered with red spots, but her
face retained its severity, and her squinting eyes stared past him.
"You are like him, but I don't know you," she shouted.
"I came here to ask your forgiveness," he said in a loud voice, without
intonation, as if repeating a lesson he had learned by heart.
As he said these words he felt ashamed and looked round. But the thought
immediately came to his mind that it was well that he was ashamed, for he
ought to bear the shame. And in a loud voice he continued:
"I acted meanly, infamously—forgive me."
She stood motionless, her squinting eyes fixed on him.
He could not continue and left the net, making efforts to stifle the sobbing
which was convulsing his breast.
The inspector who directed Nekhludoff to the women's ward, evidently
becoming interested in him, came into the room, and, seeing him in the
middle of the passage, asked him why he was not speaking with the prisoner
he had inquired about. Nekhludoff blew his nose, and, endeavoring to
assume an air of calmness, said:
"I can't speak through the net; nothing can be heard."
The inspector mused awhile.
"Well, then, she can be brought out for awhile."
"Maria Karlovna!" he turned to the matron. "Lead Maslova out."

CHAPTER XLI.
A moment afterward Maslova came out through a side door. With gentle step
she came up to Nekhludoff; stopped and glanced at him from under her
lowered eyebrows. Her black hair stood out on her forehead in curly ringlets;
her unhealthy, bloated, white face was pretty and very calm, only her
shining-black, squinting eyes sparkled from under their swollen lashes.
"You may talk here," said the inspector and went aside.
Nekhludoff moved toward a bench standing beside the wall.
Maslova glanced inquiringly at the inspector, and shrugging her shoulders,
as if in wonder, followed Nekhludoff to the bench, and straightening her
skirt, sat down beside him.
"I know that it is hard for you to forgive me," began Nekhludoff, but feeling
the tears flooding his eyes, again stopped, "but if the past cannot be mended,
I will do now everything in my power. Tell me——"
"How did you find me?" she asked without answering his question, her
squinting eyes looking and not looking at him.
"Oh, Lord! Help me, teach me what to do!" Nekhludoff said to himself as he
looked at her face so completely changed.
"I was on the jury when you were tried," he said. "You did not recognize
me?"
"No, I did not. I had no time to recognize you. Besides, I did not look," she
answered.
"Wasn't there a child?" he asked, and he felt his face turning red.
"It died at that time, thank God," she said with bitterness, turning away her
head.
"How did it happen?"

"I was ill myself—nearly died," she said without raising her eyes.
"How could the aunts let you go?"
"Who would keep a servant with a child? As soon as they noticed it they
drove me out. But what is the use of talking! I don't remember anything. It is
all over now."
"No, it is not over. I cannot leave it thus. I now wish to atone for my sin."
"There is nothing to atone for; what's gone is gone," she said, and, all
unexpected to him, she suddenly looked at him and smiled in an alluring and
piteous manner.
His appearance was entirely unexpected to Maslova, especially at this time
and place, and therefore the astonishment of the first moment brought to her
mind that of which she never thought before. At the first moment she hazily
recalled that new, wonderful world of feeling and thought which had been
opened to her by that charming young man who loved her, and whom she
loved, and then his inexplicable cruelty and the long chain of humiliation
and suffering which followed as the direct result of that enchanting bliss, and
it pained her. But being unable to account for it all, she did the customary
thing for her—banished all these recollections from her mind, and
endeavored to obscure them by a life of dissipation. At first she associated
this man who sat beside her with that young man whom she had loved once,
but as the thought pained her, she drove it from her mind. And now this
neatly dressed gentleman, with perfumed beard, was to her not that
Nekhludoff whom she had loved, but one of those people who, as
opportunity afforded, were taking advantage of such creatures as she, and of
whom such creatures as she ought to take advantage as opportunity offers.
For this reason she smiled alluringly.
She was silent, thinking how to profit by him.
"All that is over now," she said. "And here I am, sentenced to penal
servitude."
Her lips trembled as she spoke the terrible word.
"I knew, I was certain that you were innocent," said Nekhludoff.

"Of course I was innocent. I am no thief or robber. They say here that it all
depends on the lawyer; that it is necessary to appeal. Only they say it comes
very high——"
"Yes, certainly," said Nekhludoff. "I have already seen a lawyer."
"One must not be sparing, and get a good one," she said.
"I will do everything in my power."
They were silent. She again smiled as before.
"I would like to ask you—for some money, if you have it—not much, say
ten rubles," she said suddenly.
"Yes, yes," said Nekhludoff, abashed, and thrust his hand in his pocket.
She quickly glanced at the inspector, who was walking up and down the
aisle.
"Don't let him see it, or he will take it away."
Nekhludoff took out his pocketbook as soon as the director turned his back
on them, but before he could hand her the ten-ruble bill the inspector turned
round, facing them. He crumpled the bill in his hand.
"Why, she is a dead woman," thought Nekhludoff as he looked at her once
lovely, but now defiled, bloated face with the unhealthy sparkle in her black,
squinting eyes, which looked now at the inspector, now at Nekhludoff's hand
with the crumpled bill. And a moment of hesitation came over him.
Again the tempter of the night before whispered in his soul, endeavoring to
turn the question, What would be the best thing to do? into, What will be the
end of it?
"You can do nothing with that woman," whispered the voice. "She will be
like a stone around your neck, which will drag you down, and prevent your
being useful to others. Give her all the money you have, bid her good-by and
put an end to it for all time."
And immediately he became aware that something important was taking
place in his soul; that his inner life was on a wavering scale, which could by

the slightest effort be made to overbalance to one side or the other. And he
made that effort, calling on that God whom the other day he felt in his soul,
and God immediately came to his aid. He resolved to tell her all.
"Katiousha! I came to ask your forgiveness, but you have not answered me
whether you have forgiven me, or ever will forgive me," he said suddenly.
She was not listening to him, but looked now at his hand, now at the
inspector. When the latter turned away, she quickly stretched forth her hand,
seized the money from Nekhludoff's hand and stuck it behind her belt.
"How funny!" she said, smiling contemptuously as it seemed to him.
Nekhludoff saw that there was something inimical to him in her, which stood
guard, as it were, over her as she was now, and prevented him from
penetrating into her heart.
But—wonderful to relate—so far from repulsing him, this only drew him to
her by some new peculiar force. He felt that he ought to awaken her spirit;
that it was extremely difficult to do so; but the very difficulty of the
undertaking attracted him. He experienced a feeling toward her which he had
never experienced before, either toward her or any one else, and in which
there was nothing personal. He desired nothing of her for himself, and only
wished her to to cease to be what she was now, and become what she had
been before.
"Katiousha, why do you speak thus? I know you, I remember you as you
were in Panoff——"
But she did not yield—she would not yield.
"Why recall the past!" she said dryly, frowning even more.
"Because I wish to efface, to expiate my sin. Katiousha——" he began, and
was about to tell her that he would marry her, but he met her eyes in which
he read something so terrible, rude and repulsive that he could not finish.
At that moment the visitors began to take leave. The inspector approached
Nekhludoff and told him that the time for interviewing was ended. Maslova
rose and submissively waited to be dismissed.

"Good-by. I have a great deal to tell you yet, but, as you see, I cannot do it
now," said Nekhludoff, and extended his hand. "I will call again."
"I think you have said everything——"
She extended her hand, but did not press his.
"No. I will try to see you again, where we can speak together, and then I will
tell you something very important," said Nekhludoff.
"Well, all right," she said, smiling as she used to do when she wished to
please a man.
"You are more to me than a sister," said Nekhludoff.
"Funny," she repeated, and, shaking her head, she went behind the grating.

CHAPTER XLII.
Nekhludoff expected that at the first meeting Katiousha, learning of his
intention to serve her, and of his repentance, would be moved to rejoicing,
would become again Katiousha, but to his surprise and horror, he saw that
Katiousha was no more; that only Maslova remained.
It surprised him particularly that not only was Maslova not ashamed of her
condition, but, on the contrary, she seemed to be content with, and even took
pride in it. And yet it could not be different.
It is usually thought that a thief or murderer, acknowledging the harmfulness
of his occupation, ought to be ashamed of it. The truth is just the contrary.
People, whom fate and their sinful mistakes have placed in a given
condition, form such views of life generally that they are enabled to consider
their condition useful and morally tenable. In order, however, to maintain
such views they instinctively cling to such circles in which the same views
are held. We are surprised when we hear thieves boasting of their cleverness,
or murderers boasting of their cruelty, but that is only because their circle is
limited, and because we are outside of it.
This was the case also with Maslova. She was sentenced to penal servitude,
and yet she formed such views of life and her place in it that she could find
reasons for self-approval and even boast before people of her condition.
The substance of this view was that the greatest welfare of all men, without
exception—young, old, students, generals, educated and uneducated—
consisted in associating with attractive women, and that therefore all men,
while pretending to occupy themselves with other business, in reality desire
nothing else. Now, she is an attractive woman, and can satisfy that desire of
theirs, or not, as she wishes, hence she is a necessary and important person.
All her life, past and present, attested the justice of this view.
Whomever she met during ten years, beginning with Nekhludoff and the old
commissary of police, and ending with the jailers, all wanted her. She had
not met any one who did not want her. Hence the world appeared to her as

an aggregation of people who watched her from all sides and by all possible
means—deceit, violence, gold or craftiness—strewn to possess her.
With such an idea of life, Maslova considered herself a most important
person. And she cherished this view above all else in the world, because to
change it would be to lose that standing among people which it assured her.
And in order not to lose her standing she instinctively clung to that circle
which held the same views of life. Seeing, however, that Nekhludoff wished
to lead her into another world, she resisted it, feeling that in that other world
into which he was luring her she would lose her present standing which gave
her confidence and self-respect. For the same reason she drove from her
mind all recollection of her first youth and her first relations to Nekhludoff.
These recollections clashed with her present views of life, and for that
reason were entirely effaced from her memory, or, rather, were preserved
somewhere in her memory, but were covered up, as it were, with a thick
plastering, to prevent any access to them. Nekhludoff was, therefore, to her
not that man whom she had loved with a pure love, but merely a rich
gentleman by whom one may and ought to profit, and who was to be treated
like any other man.
"I did not tell her the most important thing," thought Nekhludoff, as with the
other people he walked toward the door. "I did not tell her that I would
marry her, but I will do it."
The inspectors at the doors counted the visitors each with one hand slapping
every visitor on the back. But Nekhludoff was not offended by it now; he
even took no notice of it.

CHAPTER XLIII.
It was Nekhludoff's intention to alter his manner of living—discharge the
servants, let the house and take rooms in a hotel. But Agrippina Petrovna
argued that no one would rent the house in the summer, and that as it was
necessary to live somewhere and keep the furniture and things, he might as
well remain where he was. So that all efforts of Nekhludoff to lead a simple,
student life, came to naught. Not only was the old arrangement of things
continued, but, as in former times, the house received a general cleaning.
First were brought out and hung on a rope uniforms and strange fur garments
which were never used by anybody; then carpets, furniture, and the porter,
with his assistant, rolling up the sleeves on their muscular arms, began to
beat these things, and the odor of camphor rose all over the house. Walking
through the court-yard and looking out of the window, Nekhludoff wondered
at the great number of unnecessary things kept in the house. The only
purpose these things served, he thought, was to afford the servants an
opportunity of exercise.
"It isn't worth while to alter my mode of life while Maslova's affair is
unsettled," he thought. "Besides, it is too hard. When she is discharged or
transported and I follow her, things will change of their own accord."
On the day appointed by the lawyer Fanirin, Nekhludoff called on him. On
entering the magnificently appointed apartments of the house owned by the
lawyer himself, with its huge plants, remarkable curtains and other evidences
of luxury, attesting easily earned wealth, Nekhludoff found in the reception-
room a number of people sitting dejectedly around tables on which lay
illustrated journals intended for their diversion. The lawyer's clerk, who was
sitting in this room at a high desk, recognizing Nekhludoff, greeted him and
said that he would announce him. But before the clerk reached the door of
the cabinet, the door opened and the animated voices of a thick-set man with
a red face and stubby mustache, wearing a new suit, and Fanirin himself
were heard. The expression on their faces was such as is seen on people who
had just made a profitable, but not very honest, bargain.
"It is your own fault, my dear sir," Fanirin said, smiling.

"I would gladly go to heaven, but my sins prevent me."
"That is all right."
And both laughed unnaturally.
"Ah, Prince Nekhludoff! Pleased to see you," said Fanirin, and bowing again
to the departing merchant, he led Nekhludoff into his business-like cabinet.
"Please take a cigarette," said the lawyer, seating himself opposite
Nekhludoff and suppressing a smile, called forth by the success of the
preceding affair.
"Thank you. I came to inquire about Maslova's case."
"Yes, yes, immediately. My, what rogues these moneybags are!" he said.
"You have seen that fellow; he is worth twelve millions, and is the meanest
skinflint I ever met."
Nekhludoff felt an irresistible loathing toward this ready talker who, by his
tone of voice, meant to show that he and Nekhludoff belonged to a different
sphere than the other clients.
"He worried me to death. He is an awful rogue. I wanted to ease my mind,"
said the lawyer, as if justifying his not speaking about Nekhludoff's case.
"And now as to your case. I have carefully examined it, 'and could not
approve the contents thereof,' as Tourgeniff has it. That is to say, the lawyer
was a wretched one, and he let slip all the grounds of appeal."
"What have you decided to do?"
"One moment. Tell him," he turned to his clerk, who had just entered, "that I
will not change my terms. He can accept them or not, as he pleases."
"He does not accept them."
"Well, then, let him go," said the lawyer, and his benign and joyful
countenance suddenly assumed a gloomy and angry expression.
"They say that lawyers take money for nothing," he said, again assuming a
pleasant expression. "I succeeded in obtaining the discharge of an insolent
debtor who was incarcerated on flimsy accusations of fraud, and now they

all run after me. And every such case requires great labor. We, too, you
know, leave some of our flesh in the ink-pot, as some author said."
"Well, now, your case, or rather the case in which you are interested," he
continued; "was badly conducted. There are no good grounds for appeal, but,
of course, we can make an attempt. This is what I have written."
He took a sheet of paper, and quickly swallowing some uninteresting, formal
words, and emphasizing others, he began to read:
"To the Department of Cassation, etc., etc., Katherine, etc. Petition. By the
decision, etc., of the etc., rendered, etc., a certain Maslova was found guilty
of taking the life, by poisoning, of a certain merchant Smelkoff, and in
pursuance of Chapter 1,454 of the Code, was sentenced to etc., with hard
labor, etc."
He stopped, evidently listening with pleasure to his own composition,
although from constant use he knew the forms by heart.
"'This sentence is the result of grave errors,' he continued with emphasis,
'and ought to be reversed for the following reasons: First, the reading in the
indictment of the description of the entrails of Smelkoff was interrupted by
the justiciary at the very beginning.'—One."
"But the prosecutor demanded its reading," Nekhludoff said with surprise.
"That is immaterial; the defense could have demanded the same thing."
"But that was entirely unnecessary."
"No matter, it is a ground of appeal. Further: 'Second. Maslova's attorney,' he
continued to read, 'was interrupted while addressing the jury, by the
justiciary, when, desiring to depict the character of Maslova, he touched
upon the inner causes of her fall. The ground for refusing to permit him to
continue his address was stated to be irrelevancy to the question at issue. But
as has often been pointed out by the Senate, the character and moral features
generally of an accused are to be given the greatest weight in determining
the question of intent.'—Two."
"But he spoke so badly that we could not understand him," said Nekhludoff
with still greater surprise.

"He is a very foolish fellow and, of course, could say nothing sensible,"
Fanirin said, laughing. "However, it is a ground for appeal. 'Third. In his
closing words the justiciary, contrary to the positive requirements of section
1, chapter 801 of the Code of Criminal Procedure, failed to explain to the
jury of what legal elements the theory of guilt consisted; nor did he tell them
that if they found that Maslova gave the poison to Smelkoff, but without
intent to kill, they had the power to discharge her.' This is the principal
point."
"We could have known that. That was our mistake."
"And finally: 'Fourth,'" continued the lawyer. "'The answer of the jury to the
question of Maslova's guilt was made in a form which was obviously
contradictory. Maslova was charged with intentional poisoning of Smelkoff,
and with robbery as a motive, while the jury, in their answer, denied her guilt
of the robbery, from which it was evident that they intended to acquit her of
the intent to kill. Their failure to do so was due to the incomplete charge of
the justiciary. Such an answer, therefore, demanded the application of
chapters 816 and 808 of the Code. That is to say, it was the duty of the
presiding justice to explain to the jury their mistake and refer the question of
the guilt of the accused to them for further deliberation.'"
"Why, then, did he not do it?"
"That is just what I would like to know myself," said Fanirin, laughing.
"So the Senate will correct the mistake."
"That will depend on who will be sitting there when the case is heard."
"Well, and then we continue: 'Under these circumstances the court erred in
imposing on Maslova punishment, and the application to her of section 3,
chapter 771 of the Code was a serious violation of the basic principles of the
criminal law. Wherefore applicant demands, etc., etc., be revised in
accordance with chs. 909, 910, s. 2, 912 and 928 of the Code, etc., etc., and
referring the case back for a new trial to a different part of the same court.'
Well, now, everything that could be done was done. But I will be frank with
you; the probabilities of success are slight. However, everything depends on
who will be sitting in the Senate. If you know any one among them, bestir
yourself."

"Yes, I know some."
"Then you must hasten, for they will soon be gone on their vacation, and
won't return for three months. In case of failure, the only recourse will be to
petition the Czar. I shall be at your service also in that contingency."
"I thank you. And now as to your honorarium?"
"My clerk will hand you the petition and also my bill."
"One more question I would like to ask you. The prosecutor gave me a pass
for the prison, but I was told there that it was necessary to obtain the
Governor's permission to visit the prison on other than visitors' days. Is it
necessary?"
"I think so. But he is away, and the lieutenant is in his place."
"You mean Maslenikoff?"
"Yes."
"I know him," said Nekhludoff, rising to leave.
At that moment the lawyer's wife, an extremely ugly, pug-nosed and bony
woman, rushed into the room. Not only was her attire unusually original—
she was fairly loaded down with plush and silk things, bright yellow and
green—but her oily hair was done up in curls, and she triumphantly rushed
into the reception-room, accompanied by a tall, smiling man with an earth-
colored face, in a cut-away coat with silk facings and a white tie. This was
an author. He knew Nekhludoff by sight.
"Anatal," she said, opening the door, "come here. Semion Ivanovitch
promised to read to us his poem, and you must read something from
Garshin."
Nekhludoff was preparing to go, but the lawyer's wife whispered something
to her husband and turned to him:
"I know you, Prince, and consider an introduction unnecessary. Won't you
please attend our literary breakfast? It will be very interesting. Anatal is an
excellent reader."

"You see what variety of duties I have," said Anatal, smiling and pointing at
his wife, thereby expressing the impossibility of resisting that bewitching
person.
With a sad and grave face and with the greatest politeness, Nekhludoff
thanked the lawyer's wife for the invitation, pleaded other engagements and
went into the reception-room.
"What faces he makes!" the lawyer's wife said of him, when he had left the
room.
In the reception-room the clerk handed him the petition, and in answer to
Nekhludoff's question about the honorarium, said that Anatal Semionovitch
set his fee at a thousand rubles; that he really does not take such cases, but
does it for Nekhludoff.
"And who is to sign the petition?" asked Nekhludoff.
"The prisoner may sign it herself, and if that be troublesome, she may
empower Anatal Semionovitch."
"No, I will go to the prison and obtain her signature," said Nekhludoff,
rejoicing at the opportunity of seeing Katiousha before the appointed day.

CHAPTER XLIV.
At the usual hour the jailers' whistles were heard in the corridors of the
prison; with a rattling of irons the doors of the corridors and cells opened,
and the patter of bare feet and the clatter of prison shoes resounded through
the corridors; the men and women prisoners washed and dressed, and after
going through the morning inspection, proceeded to brew their tea.
During the tea-drinking animated conversations were going on among the
prisoners in the cells and corridors. Two prisoners were to be flogged that
day. One of these was a fairly intelligent young clerk who, in a fit of
jealousy, had killed his mistress. He was loved by his fellow-prisoners for
his cheerfulness, liberality and firmness in dealing with the authorities. He
knew the laws and demanded compliance with them. Three weeks ago the
warden struck one of the chambermen for spilling some soup on his new
uniform. The clerk, Vasilieff, took the chamberman's part, saying that there
was no law permitting an official to beat prisoners. "I will show you the
law," said the warden, reviling Vasilieff. The latter answered in kind. The
warden was about to strike him, but Vasilieff caught hold of his hands and
held him fast for about three minutes and then pushed him out of the door.
The warden complained and the inspector ordered Vasilieff placed in solitary
confinement.
These cells for solitary confinement were dark closets iron-bolted from the
outside. In these cold, damp cells, devoid of bed, table or chair, the prisoners
were obliged to sit or lie on the dirty floor. The rats, of which there was a
large number, crawled all over them, and were so bold that they devoured
the prisoner's bread and often attacked the prisoners themselves when they
remained motionless. Vasilieff resisted, and with the aid of two other
prisoners, tore himself loose from the jailers, but they were finally overcome
and all three were thrust into cells. It was reported to the Governor that
something like a mutiny occurred, and in answer came a document ordering
that the two chief culprits, Vasilieff and the tramp Don'tremember (an
application given to some tramps and jail birds who, to conceal the identity,

with characteristic ingenuity and stupidity make that answer to all questions
relating to their names), be given thirty lashes each.
The flogging was to take place in the women's reception-room.
This was known to all the inmates of the prison since the previous evening,
and every one was talking of the coming flogging.
Korableva, Miss Dandy, Theodosia and Maslova, flushed and animated, for
they had already partaken of vodka which Maslova now had in abundance,
were sitting in their corner, talking of the same thing.
"Why, he has not misbehaved," Korableva said of Vasilieff, biting off a piece
of sugar with her strong teeth. "He only sided with a comrade. Fighting, you
know, is not allowed nowadays."
"They say he is a fine fellow," added Theodosia, who was sitting on a log on
which stood a tea-pot.
"If you were to tell him, Michaelovna," the watch-woman said to Maslova,
meaning Nekhludoff.
"I will. He will do anything for me," Maslova answered, smiling and shaking
her head.
"It will be too late; they are going to fetch him now," said Theodosia. "It is
awful," she added, sighing.
"I have seen once a peasant flogged in the town hall. My father-in-law had
sent me to the Mayor of the borough, and when I came there I was surprised
to see him——" The watch-woman began a long story.
Her story was interrupted by voices and steps on the upper corridor.
The women became silent, listening.
"They are bringing him, the fiends," said Miss Dandy. "Won't he get it now!
The jailers are very angry, for he gave them no rest."
It became quiet in the upper corridor, and the watch-woman finished her
story, how she was frightened when she saw the peasant flogged, and how it
turned her stomach. Miss Dandy told how Schezloff was flogged with a lash

while he never uttered a word. Theodosia then removed the pots and bowls;
Korableva and the watch-woman took to their sewing, while Maslova,
hugging her knees, became sad from ennui. She was about to lay down to
sleep when the matron called her into the office, where a visitor was waiting
for her.
"Don't fail to tell him about us," said the old Menshova, while Maslova was
arranging her headgear before a looking-glass half void of mercury. "It was
not me who set the fire, but he, the villain, himself did it, and the laborer saw
it. He would not kill a man. Tell him to call Dmitry. Dmitry will explain to
him everything. They locked us up here for nothing, while the villain is
living with another man's wife and sits around in dram-shops."
"That's wrong!" affirmed Korableva.
"I will tell him—yes, I will," answered Maslova. "Suppose we have a drink,
for courage?" she added, winking one eye.
Korableva poured out half a cup for her. Maslova drank it and wiped her
mouth. Her spirits rose, and repeating the words "for courage," shaking her
head and smiling, she followed the matron.

CHAPTER XLV.
Nekhludoff had been waiting for a long time in the vestibule.
Arriving at the prison he rang the front-door bell and handed his pass to the
warden on duty.
"What do you want?"
"I wish to see the prisoner Maslova."
"Can't see her now; the inspector is busy."
"In the office?" asked Nekhludoff.
"No, here in the visitors' room," the warden answered, somewhat
embarrassed, as it seemed to Nekhludoff.
"Why, are visitors admitted to-day?"
"No—special business," he answered.
"Where can I see him, then?"
"He will come out presently. Wait."
At that moment a sergeant-major in bright crown-laced uniform, his face
radiant, and his mustache impregnated with smoke, appeared from a side
door.
"Why did you admit him here? What is the office for?" he said sternly,
turning to the warden.
"I was told that the inspector was here," said Nekhludoff, surprised at the
embarrassment noticeable on the officer's face.
At that moment the inner door opened and Petroff, flushed and perspiring,
came out.
"He will remember it," he said, turning to the sergeant-major.

The latter pointed with his eyes to Nekhludoff, and Petroff became silent,
frowned and walked out through the rear door.
"Who will remember? What? Why are they all so embarrassed? Why did the
sergeant make that sign?" thought Nekhludoff.
"You cannot wait here; please walk into the office," the sergeant-major
turned to Nekhludoff, who was about to go out when the inspector came in
through the inner door, more embarrassed even than his assistants. He was
sighing incessantly. Seeing Nekhludoff, he turned to the warden:
"Fedotoff, call Maslova."
"Follow me, please," he said to Nekhludoff. They passed up a winding
stairway leading into a small room with one window and containing a
writing table and a few chairs. The inspector sat down.
"Mine are disagreeable duties," he said, turning to Nekhludoff and lighting a
thick cigarette.
"You seem tired," said Nekhludoff.
"I am very tired of all this business; my duties are very onerous. I am trying
my best to alleviate the condition of the prisoners and things are getting only
worse. I am very anxious to get away from here; the duties are very, very
unpleasant."
Nekhludoff could not understand what it was that made it so unpleasant for
the inspector, but to-day he noticed on the inspector's face an expression of
despondency and hopelessness which was pitiful to behold.
"Yes, I think they are very trying," he said. "But why do you not resign?"
"I have a family and am without means."
"But if it is difficult——"
"Well, you see, I manage to improve somewhat their lot after all. Another
one in my place would hardly exert himself as I do. It is no easy matter to
handle two thousand people. They are also human and one feels pity for
them, and yet they can't be allowed to have all their own way."

And the inspector related the case of a recent fight among the prisoners
which ended in murder.
His story was interrupted by the entrance of Maslova, who was preceded by
the warden.
Nekhludoff got sight of her when she appeared on the threshold and before
she saw the inspector. Her face was red, and she walked briskly behind the
warden, smiling and shaking her head. Noticing the inspector she gazed at
him with frightened face, but immediately recovered herself and boldly and
cheerfully turned to Nekhludoff.
"How do you do?" she said, drawlingly, smiling and vigorously shaking his
hand, not as on the former occasion.
"Here I have brought you the petition to sign," said Nekhludoff, somewhat
surprised at the forward manner in which she accosted him. "The lawyer
wrote it. It must be signed and sent to St. Petersburg."
"Why, certainly. I will do anything," she said, winking one eye and smiling.
"May she sign it here?" Nekhludoff asked of the inspector.
"Come here and sit down," said the inspector. "Here is a pen for you. Can
you write?"
"I could write once," she said, smiling, and, arranging her skirt and waist-
sleeve, sat down, clumsily took the pen into her small, energetic hand, began
to laugh and looked round at Nekhludoff.
He pointed out to her where to sign.
Diligently dipping and shaking the pen she signed her name.
"Do you wish anything else?" she asked, looking now at Nekhludoff, now at
the inspector, and depositing the pen now on the ink-stand, now on the
paper.
"I wish to tell you something," said Nekhludoff, taking the pen from her
hand.

"Very well; go on," she uttered, and suddenly, as though meditating or
growing sleepy, her face became grave.
The inspector rose and walked out, leaving Nekhludoff with her alone.

CHAPTER XLVI.
The warden who brought Maslova to the office seated himself on the
window-sill, away from the table. This was a decisive moment for
Nekhludoff. He had been constantly reproaching himself for not telling her
at their first meeting of his intention to marry her, and was now determined
to do so. She was sitting on one side of the table, and Nekhludoff seated
himself on the other side, opposite her. The room was well lighted, and for
the first time Nekhludoff clearly saw her face from a short distance, and
noticed wrinkles around the eyes and lips and a slight swelling under her
eyes, and he pitied her even more than before.
Resting his elbows on the table so that he should not be heard by the warden,
whose face was of a Jewish type, with grayish side-whiskers, he said:
"If this petition fails we will appeal to His Majesty. Nothing will be left
undone."
"If it had been done before—if I had had a good lawyer"—she interrupted
him. "That lawyer of mine was such a little fool. He was only making me
compliments," she said, and began to laugh. "If they had only known that I
was your acquaintance, it would have been different. They think that
everybody is a thief."
"How strange she is to-day," thought Nekhludoff, and was about to tell her
what he had on his mind when she again began to speak.
"I wanted to tell you. There is an old woman here—we are even surprised—
such a good little woman, but there she is—she and her son, both in prison,
and everybody knows that they are innocent. They are accused of setting
fire, so they are in prison. She learned, you know, that I am acquainted with
you," said Maslova, turning her head and casting glances at him, "and she
says to me: 'Tell him,' she says, 'to call my son; he will tell him the whole
story.' Menshoff is his name. Well, will you do it? Such a good little woman.
You can see for yourself that she is not guilty. You will help them, dear,
won't you?" she said, glancing at him; then she lowered her eyes and smiled.

"Very well; I will do it," said Nekhludoff, his surprise at her easy manner
growing, "but I would like to talk to you about my own affair. Do you
remember what I told you that time?"
"You have spoken so much. What did you say that time?" she said,
continuing to smile and turning her head now to one side, now to the other.
"I said that I came to ask your forgiveness," he said.
"Oh! Forgiveness, forgiveness! That is all nonsense. You had better——"
"That I wish to atone for my sin," continued Nekhludoff, "and to atone not
by words but by deed. I have decided to marry you."
Her face suddenly showed fright. Her squinting eyes became fixed, and they
looked and did not look at him.
"What is that for?" And she frowned maliciously.
"I feel that before God I must do it."
"What God, now, are you talking about? You are not talking to the point.
God? What God? Why didn't you think of God then?" she said, and opening
her mouth, stopped short.
Nekhludoff only now smelled a strong odor of liquor and understood the
cause of her excitement.
"Be calm," he said.
"I have nothing to be calm about. You think I am drunk? Yes, I am drunk, but
I know what I am talking about," she said quickly, and her face became
purple. "I am a convict, while you are a lord, a prince, and needn't stay here
to soil your hands. Go to your princesses——"
"You cannot be too cruel to me; you do not know how I feel," he said in a
low voice, his whole body trembling. "You cannot imagine how strongly I
feel my guilt before you!"
"Feel my guilt," she mocked him maliciously. "You did not feel it then, but
thrust a hundred rubles in my hands. 'That's your price——'"

"I know, I know, but what am I to do now? I have decided not to leave you,"
he repeated; "and what I say I will do."
"And I say that you will not!" she said, and laughed aloud.
"Katinsha!" he began.
"Leave me. I am a convict, and you are a prince; and you have no business
here," she shrieked, violently releasing her hand from his, her wrath
knowing no limit.
"You wish to save yourself through me," she continued, hastening to pour
out all that had accumulated in her soul. "You have made me the means of
your enjoyment in life, and now you wish to make me the means of saving
you after death! You disgust me, as do your eye-glasses and that fat, dirty
face of yours. Go, go away!" she shrieked, energetically springing to her
feet.
The warden approached them.
"Don't you make so much noise! You know whom——"
"Please desist," said Nekhludoff.
"She must not forget herself," said the warden.
"Please wait a while," said Nekhludoff.
The warden returned to his seat on the window-sill.
Maslova again seated herself, her eyes downcast and her little hands
clutching each other.
Nekhludoff stood over her, not knowing what to do.
"You do not believe me," he said.
"That you wish to marry me? That will never happen. I will sooner hang
myself."
"But I will serve you anyway."

"That is your business. Only I don't want anything from you. Now, that is
certain," she said. "Oh, why did I not die then!" she added, and began to cry
piteously.
Nekhludoff could not speak; her tears called forth tears in his own eyes.
She raised her eyes, looked at him, as if surprised, and with her 'kerchief
began to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks.
The warden again approached them and reminded them that it was time to
part. Maslova rose.
"You are excited now. If possible I will call to-morrow. Meantime, think it
over," said Nekhludoff.
She made no answer, and without looking at him left the room, preceded by
the warden.

"Well, girl, good times are coming," said Korableva to Maslova when the
latter returned to the cell. "He seems to be stuck on you, so make the most of
it while he is calling. He will get you released. The rich can do anything."
"That's so," drawled the watch-woman. "The poor man will think ten times
before he will marry, while the rich man can satisfy his every whim. Yes, my
dear; there was a respectable man in our village, and he——"
"Have you spoken to him of my case?" asked the old woman.
But Maslova was silent. She lay down on her bunk, gazing with her
squinting eyes into the corner, and remained in that position till evening. Her
soul was in torment. That which Nekhludoff told her opened to her that
world in which she had suffered and which she had left, hating without
understanding it. She had now lost that forgetfulness in which she had lived,
and to live with a clear recollection of the past was painful. In the evening
she again bought wine, which she drank with her fellow-prisoners.

CHAPTER XLVII.
"So, that is how it is!" thought Nekhludoff as he made his way out of the
prison, and he only now realized the extent of his guilt. Had he not attempted
to efface and atone for his conduct, he should never have felt all the infamy
of it, nor she all the wrong perpetrated against her. Only now it all came out
in all its horror. He now for the first time perceived how her soul had been
debased, and she finally understood it. At first Nekhludoff had played with
his feelings and delighted in his own contrition; now he was simply
horrified. He now felt that to abandon her was impossible. And yet he could
not see the result of these relations.
At the prison gate some one handed Nekhludoff a note. He read it when on
the street. The note was written in a bold hand, with pencil, and contained
the following:
"Having learned that you are visiting the prison I thought it
would be well to see you. You can see me by asking the
authorities for an interview with me. I will tell you something
very important to your protege as well as to the politicals.
Thankfully, Vera Bogodukhovskaia"
"Bogodukhovskaia! Who is Bogodukhovskaia?" thought Nekhludoff,
entirely absorbed in the impression of his meeting with Maslova, and failing
at the first moment to recall either the name or the handwriting. "Oh, yes!"
he suddenly recalled. "The deacon's daughter at the bear-hunt."
Vera Bogodukhovskaia was a teacher in the obscure district of Novgorod,
whither Nekhludoff, on one occasion, went bear hunting with his friends.
This teacher had asked Nekhludoff to give her some money to enable her to
study. He gave it to her, and the incident dropped from his memory. And
now it seemed that this lady was a political prisoner, had probably learned
his history in prison, and was now offering her services. At that time
everything was easy and simple; now everything was difficult and complex.
Nekhludoff readily and joyfully recalled that time and his acquaintance with
Bogodukhovskaia. It was on the eve of Shrovetide, in the wilds about sixty

versts from the railroad. The hunt was successful; two bears were bagged,
and they were dining before their journey home, when the woodsman, in
whose hut they were stopping, came to tell them that the deacon's daughter
had come and wished to see Prince Nekhludoff.
"Is she good looking?" some one asked.
"Come, come!" said Nekhludoff, rising, and wondering why the deacon's
daughter should want him, assumed a grave expression and went to the
woodsman's hut.
In the hut there was a girl in a felt hat and short fur coat, sinewy, and with an
ugly and unpleasant face, relieved, however, by her pleasant eyes and raised
eyebrows.
"This is the Prince, Vera Efremovna," said the old hostess. "I will leave you."
"What can I do for you?" asked Nekhludoff.
"I—I—You see, you are rich and throw away your money on trifles, on a
chase. I know," began the girl, becoming confused, "but I wish but one thing;
I wish to be useful to people, and can do nothing because I know nothing."
"What, then, can I do for you?"
"I am a teacher, and would like to enter college, but they don't let me. It is
not exactly that they don't let me, but we have no means. Let me have some
money; when I am through with my studies I shall return it to you."
Her eyes were truthful and kindly, and the expression of resolution and
timidity on her face was so touching that Nekhludoff, as it was usual with
him, suddenly mentally placed himself in her position, understood and pitied
her.
"I think it is wrong for rich people to kill bears and get the peasants drunk.
Why don't they make themselves useful? I only need eighty rubles. Oh, if
you don't wish to, it is all the same to me," she said, angrily, interpreting the
grave expression on Nekhludoff's face to her disadvantage.
"On the contrary, I am very thankful to you for the opportunity——"

When she understood that he consented her face turned a purple color and
she became silent.
"I will fetch it immediately," said Nekhludoff.
He went into the entrance hall where he found an eavesdropping friend.
Without taking notice of his comrade's jests, he took the money from his
hand-bag and brought it to her.
"Please don't be thanking me. It is I who ought to be thankful to you."
It was pleasant to Nekhludoff to recall all that; it was pleasant to recall how
he came near quarreling with the army officer who attempted to make a bad
joke of it; how another comrade sided with him, which drew them more
closely together; how merry and successful was the hunt, and how happy he
felt that night returning to the railroad station. A long file of sleighs moved
noiselessly in pairs at a gentle trot along the narrow fir-lined path of the
forests, which were covered with a heavy layer of snowflakes. Some one
struck a red light in the dark, and the pleasant aroma of a good cigarette was
wafted toward him. Osip, the sleigh-tender, ran from sleigh to sleigh, knee-
deep in snow, telling of the elks that were roaming in the deep snow,
nibbling the bark of aspen trees, and of the bears emitting their warm breath
through the airholes of their wild haunts.
Nekhludoff remembered all that, and above all the happy consciousness of
his own health, strength and freedom from care. His lungs, straining his
tight-fitting fur coat, inhaled the frosty air; the trees, grazed by the shaft, sent
showers of white flakes into his face; his body was warm, his face ruddy; his
soul was without a care or blemish, or fear or desire. How happy he was!
But now? My God! How painful and unbearable it all was!

CHAPTER XLVIII.
Rising the next morning Nekhludoff recalled the events of the previous day
and was seized with fear.
But, notwithstanding this fear, he was even more determined than before to
carry out his plan already begun.
With this consciousness of the duty that lay upon him he drove to
Maslenikoff for permission to visit in jail, besides Maslova, the old woman
Menshova and her son, of whom Maslova had spoken to him. Besides, he
also wished to see Bogodukhovskaia, who might be useful to Maslova.
Nekhludoff had known Maslenikoff since they together served in the army.
Maslenikoff was the treasurer of the regiment. He was the most kind-hearted
officer, and possessed executive ability. Nothing in society was of any
interest to him, and he was entirely absorbed in the affairs of the regiment.
Nekhludoff now found him an administrator in the civil government. He was
married to a rich and energetic woman to whom was due his change of
occupation.
She laughed at him and patted him as she would a tamed animal. Nekhludoff
had visited them once the previous winter, but the couple seemed so
uninteresting to him that he never called again.
Maslenikoff's face became radiant when he saw Nekhludoff. His face was as
fat and red, his dress as excellent as when he served in the army. As an army
officer he was always neat, dressed in a tight uniform made according to the
latest style; now his dress fitted his well-fed body as perfectly. He wore a
uniform. Notwithstanding the difference in their age—Maslenikoff was
about forty—they familiarly "thoued" each other.
"Very glad you remembered me. Come to my wife. I have just ten minutes to
spare, and then I must to the session. My chief, you know, is away. I am
directing the affairs of the district," he said, with joy which he could not
conceal.

"I came to you on business."
"What's that?" Maslenikoff said in a frightened and somewhat stern voice,
suddenly pricking his ears.
"There is a person in jail in whom I am very much interested;" at the word
"jail" Maslenikoff's face became even more stern, "and I would like to have
the right of interview in the office instead of the common reception room,
and oftener than on the appointed days. I was told that it depended on you."
"Of course, mon cher, I am always ready to do anything for you,"
Maslenikoff said, touching his knees with both hands, as if desiring to soften
his own greatness. "I can do it, but you know I am caliph only for an hour."
"So you can give me a pass that will enable me to see her?"
"It is a woman?"
"Yes."
"What is the charge against her?"
"Poisoning. But she was irregularly convicted."
"Yes, there is justice for you! Ils n'en font point d'autres," he said, for some
reason in French. "I know that you do not agree with me, but c'est mon
opinion bien arretee," he added, repeating the opinion that had been
reiterated during the past year by a retrograde, conservative newspaper. "I
know you are a liberal."
"I don't know whether I am a liberal or something else," smilingly said
Nekhludoff, who always wondered at being joined to some party, or called a
liberal only because he held that a man must not be judged without being
heard; that all are equal before the law; that it is wrong to torture and beat
people generally, especially those that are not convicted. "I don't know
whether I am a liberal or not, but I do know that our present courts, bad as
they are, are nevertheless better than those that preceded them."
"And what lawyer have you retained?"
"I have retained Fanarin."

"Ah, Fanarin!" Maslenikoff said, frowning as he recalled how Fanarin,
examining him as a witness the year before, in the most polite manner made
him the butt of ridicule.
"I would not advise you to have anything to do with him. Fanarin est un
homme tare."
"I have another request to make of you," Nekhludoff said, without answering
him. "A long time ago I made the acquaintance of a girl teacher, a very
wretched creature. She is now in jail and desires to see me. Can you give me
a pass to her?"
Maslenikoff leaned his head to one side and began to reflect.
"She is a political."
"Yes, I was told so."
"You know politicals can only be seen by their relatives, but I will give you a
general pass. Je sais que vous n'abuserez pas——"
"What is the name of this your protege? Bogodukhovskaia? Elle est jolie?"
"Hideuse."
Maslenikoff disapprovingly shook his head, went to the table and on a sheet
of paper with a printed letter-head wrote in a bold hand: "The bearer, Prince
Dmitri Ivanovich Nekhludoff, is hereby permitted to visit the prisoners,
Maslova and Bogodukhovskaia, now detained in the prison," and signed his
name to it with a broad flourish.
"You will see now what order there is in prison. And to keep order there is
very difficult, because it is overcrowded, especially by those to be
transported. But I watch over them, and like the occupation. You will see
there are very many there, but they are content, and are faring well. It is
necessary to know how to deal with them. Some unpleasantness occurred
there a few days ago—disobedience. Another man in my place would have
treated it as a riot and made many people miserable, but we arranged it all
pleasantly. What is necessary is solicitude on the one hand, and prompt and
vigorous dealing on the other," he said, clenching his soft, white fist

projecting from under a white, starched cuff and adorned with a turquoise
ring—"solicitude and vigorous dealing."
"Well, I don't know about that," said Nekhludoff. "I was there twice, and I
was very much distressed by the sight."
"You know what I will tell you? You ought to get acquainted with Princess
Passek," continued Maslenikoff, who had become talkative; "she has entirely
devoted herself to this cause. Elle fait beaucoup de bien. Thanks to her and,
without false modesty, to myself, everything has been changed, and changed
so that none of the old horrors can be found there, and they are decidedly
well off there. You will see it. There is Fanarin. I am not personally
acquainted with him; besides, our roads do not meet because of my position
in society, but he is decidedly a bad man, and allows himself to state in court
such things, such things!"
"Well, thank you," said Nekhludoff, taking the document, and took leave of
his old comrade.
"Would you not like to see my wife?"
"No, thank you; I have no time now."
"Well, now, she will never forgive me," said Maslenikoff, conducting his old
comrade to the first landing, as he did with people of secondary importance,
among whom he reckoned Nekhludoff. "Do come but for a moment."
But Nekhludoff was firm, and while the footman and porter sprang toward
him, handing him his overcoat and cane, and opening the door, before which
a policeman stood, he excused himself, pleading want of time.
"Well, then, Thursday, please. That is her reception day. I will tell her!"
Maslenikoff shouted from the top of the stairs.

CHAPTER XLIX.
From Maslenikoff, Nekhludoff went directly to the prison and approached
the familiar apartments of the inspector. The sounds of a tuneless piano
again assailed his ears, but this time it was not a rhapsody that was played,
but a study by Clementi, and, as before, with unusual force, precision and
rapidity. The servant with a handkerchief around one eye said that the
captain was in, and showed Nekhludoff into the small reception-room, in
which was a lounge, a table and a lamp, one side of the rose-colored shade
of which was scorched, standing on a knitted woolen napkin. The inspector
appeared with an expression of sadness and torment on his face.
"Glad to see you. What can I do for you?" he said, buttoning up the middle
button of his uniform.
"I went to the vice-governor, and here is my pass," said Nekhludoff, handing
him the document. "I would like to see Maslova."
"Markova?" asked the inspector, who could not hear him on account of the
music.
"Maslova."
"O, yes! O, yes!"
The inspector rose and approached the door through which Clementi's
roulade was heard.
"Marusia; if you would only stop for a little while," he said in a voice which
showed that this music was the cross of his life; "I cannot hear anything."
The music ceased; discontented steps were heard, and some one looked
through the door.
The inspector, as if relieved by the cessation of the music, lit a thick
cigarette of light tobacco and offered one to Nekhludoff, which he refused.
"Can Maslova——"

"It is not convenient to see Maslova to-day," said the inspector.
"Why?"
"It is your own fault," slightly smiling, said the inspector. "Prince, you must
not give her any money. If you wish to give her money, leave it with me; I
will keep it for her. You see, you must have given her money yesterday, for
she bought wine—it is hard to eradicate that evil—and is intoxicated to-day.
In fact, she became unruly."
"Is it possible?"
"Why, I even had to employ strict measures, had her transferred to another
cell. She is very tractable, but, please do not give her money. That is their
failing."
Nekhludoff quickly recalled the incident of yesterday, and he was seized
with fear.
"And may I see Bogodukhovskaia, the political?" Nekhludoff asked, after
some silence.
"Well, yes," said the inspector. "What are you doing here?" he turned to a
five-year-old girl who came into the room, walking toward her father, her
eyes riveted on Nekhludoff. "Look out, or you will fall," he said, smiling, as
the little girl, walking with her head turned toward Nekhludoff, tripped on
the carpet and ran to her father.
"If she may be seen, I would go now."
"Oh yes; she may be seen, of course," said the inspector, embracing the little
girl, who was still looking at Nekhludoff. "All right——"
The inspector rose and gently turning the girl aside, walked into the
vestibule.
He had scarcely donned the overcoat handed him by the girl with the
bandaged eye and crossed the threshold when the distinct sounds of
Clementi's roulade broke out.
"She was at the Conservatory, but there is disorder in that institution. But she
is very gifted," said the inspector, walking down the stairs. "She intends to

appear at concerts."
The inspector and Nekhludoff neared the prison. The wicket immediately
opened at the approach of the inspector. The wardens standing to attention
followed him with their eyes. Four men with heads half shaved, carrying
large vessels, met him in the vestibule, and as they spied him slunk back.
One of them, in a particularly gloomy way, knit his brow, his black eyes
flashing fire.
"Of course, her talent must be perfected; it cannot be neglected. But in a
small apartment it is hard, you know," the inspector continued the
conversation without paying any attention to the prisoners, and dragging his
tired legs passed into the meeting-room, followed by Nekhludoff.
"Whom do you wish to see?" asked the inspector.
"Bogodukhovskaia."
"That is from the tower. You will have to wait a little," he turned to
Nekhludoff.
"Couldn't you let me see, meantime, the prisoners Menshov—mother and
son—who are charged with incendiarism?"
"That is from cell 21. Why, yes; they may be called out."
"Would you allow me to see the son in his cell?"
"It is quieter in the meeting-room."
"But it is interesting to see him there."
"Interesting!"
At that moment a dashing officer, the inspector's assistant, appeared at a side
door.
"Conduct the Prince to Menshov's cell—No. 21," said the inspector to his
assistant. "Then show him to the office. And I will call—what is her name?"
"Vera Bogodukhovskaia," said Nekhludoff.

The inspector's assistant was a light-haired young officer with dyed
mustache, who spread around him the odor of perfume.
"Follow me, please." He turned to Nekhludoff with a pleasant smile. "Does
our institution interest you?"
"Yes. And I am also interested in that man who, I was told, is innocent." The
assistant shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes, that may be," he said calmly, courteously admitting the guest into the
ill-smelling corridor. "But they also lie often. Walk in, please."
The doors of the cells were open, and some prisoners stood in the corridor.
Slightly nodding to the wardens and looking askance at the prisoners, who
either pressed against the walls, entered their cells, or, stopping at the doors,
stood erect like soldiers, the assistant escorted Nekhludoff through one
corridor into another, on the left, which was iron-bolted.
This corridor was darker and more ill-smelling than the first. There was a
row of cells on each side, the doors of which were locked. There was a hole
in each door—eyelet, so called—of about an inch in diameter. There was no
one in this corridor except an old warden with a wrinkled, sad face.
"Where is Menshov's cell?" asked the assistant.
"The eighth one on the left."
"Are these occupied?" asked Nekhludoff.
"All but one."

CHAPTER L.
"May I look in?" asked Nekhludoff.
"If you please," the assistant said with a pleasant smile, and began to make
inquiries of the warden. Nekhludoff looked through one of the openings. A
tall young man with a small black beard, clad only in his linen, walked
rapidly up and down the floor of his cell. Hearing a rustle at the door, he
looked up, frowned, and continued to walk.
Nekhludoff looked into the second opening. His eye met another large,
frightened eye. He hastily moved away. Looking into the third, he saw a
small-sized man sleeping curled up on a cot, his head covered with his
prison coat. In the fourth cell a broad-faced, pale-looking man sat with
lowered head, his elbows resting on his knees. Hearing steps, this man raised
his head and looked up. In his face and eyes was an expression of hopeless
anguish. He was apparently unconcerned about who it was that looked into
his cell. Whoever it might be, he evidently hoped for no good from any one.
Nekhludoff was seized with fear, and he hastened to Number 21—
Menshov's cell. The warden unlocked and opened the door. A young,
muscular man with a long neck, kindly, round eyes and small beard, stood
beside his cot, hastily donning his prison coat and, with frightened face,
looking at the two men who had entered. Nekhludoff was particularly struck
by the kindly, round eyes whose wondering and startled look ran from him to
the warden and back.
"This gentleman wishes to ask you about your case."
"Thank you."
"Yes, I was told about your case," said Nekhludoff, going into the depth of
the cell and stopping at the barred, dirty window, "and would like to hear it
from yourself."
Menshov also drew near the window and immediately began to relate the
particulars of his case—at first timidly, from time to time glancing at the
warden, then growing bolder and bolder. And when the warden had left the

cell to give some orders, his timidity left him entirely. Judging by his speech
and manner, his was a story of a simple, honest peasant, and it seemed very
strange to Nekhludoff to hear it from the lips of a prisoner in the garb of
disgrace and in prison. While listening to him, Nekhludoff examined the low
cot, with its straw mattress, the window, with its thick iron bars, the damp,
plastered walls, the pitiful face and the figure of the unfortunate, mutilated
peasant in bast shoes and prison coat, and he became sad; he would not
believe that what this kind-hearted man told him was true. And it was still
harder to think that this truthful story should be false, and that kindly face
should deceive him. His story, in short, was that soon after his wedding a
tapster enticed away his wife. He had recourse to the law everywhere, and
the tapster was everywhere acquitted. Once he took her away by force, but
she ran away the following day. He went to the seducer, demanding his wife.
The tapster told him that she was not there, although he saw her when
coming in, and ordered him to depart. He would not go. Then the tapster and
another workman beat him until he bled, and the following day the tapster's
house took fire. He and his mother were charged with incendiarism,
although at the time the fire broke out he was visiting a friend.
"And you really did not set the fire?"
"I never even thought of such a thing, master. The villain must have done it
himself. They say that he had just insured his house. And he said that I and
my mother came and threatened him. It is true, I abused him at that time—
couldn't help it—but I did not set the fire, and was not even in the
neighborhood when the fire started. He set the fire purposely on the day I
was there with my mother. He did it for the insurance money, and threw it on
us."
"Is it possible?"
"As true as there is a living God, master. Do help us!" He was about to bow
to the ground, but Nekhludoff forcibly prevented him. "Release me. I am
suffering here innocently," he continued. His face suddenly began to twitch;
tears welled up in his eyes, and, rolling up the sleeve of his coat, he began to
wipe his eyes with the dirty sleeve of his shirt.
"Have you finished?" asked the warden.

"Yes. Cheer up; I will do what I can for you," Nekhludoff said, and walked
out. Menshov stood in the door, so that when the warden closed it he pushed
him in. While the warden was locking the door, Menshov looked through the
hole.

CHAPTER LI.
It was dinner time when Nekhludoff retraced his steps through the wide
corridor, and the cells were open. The prisoners, in light yellow coats, short,
wide trousers and prison shoes, eyed him greedily. Nekhludoff experienced
strange feelings and commiseration for the prisoners, and, for some reason,
shame that he should so calmly view it.
In one of the corridors a man, clattering with his prison shoes, ran into one
of the cells, and immediately a crowd of people came out, placed themselves
in his way, and bowed.
"Your Excellency—I don't know what to call you—please order that our
case be decided."
"I am not the commander. I do not know anything."
"No matter. Tell them, the authorities, or somebody," said an indignant voice,
"to look into our case. We are guilty of no offense, and have been in prison
the second month now."
"How so? Why?" asked Nekhludoff.
"We don't know ourselves why, but we have been here the second month."
"That is true," said the assistant inspector. "They were taken because they
had no passports, and they were to be transported to their district, but the
prison had burned down there, and the authorities asked us to keep them
here. Those belonging to other districts were transported, but these we keep
here."
"Is that the only reason?" asked Nekhludoff, stopping in the doorway.
The crowd, consisting of about forty men, all in prison garb, surrounded
Nekhludoff and the assistant. Several voices began talking at once. The
assistant stopped them.
"Let one of you speak."

A tall old man of good mien came forward. He told Nekhludoff that they
were all imprisoned on the ground that they had no passports, but that, as a
matter of fact, they had passports which had expired and were not renewed
for about two weeks. It happened every year, but they were never even fined.
And now they were imprisoned like criminals.
"We are all masons and belong to the same association. They say that the
prison has burned down, but that isn't our fault. For God's sake, help us!"
Nekhludoff listened, but scarcely understood what the old man was saying.
"How is that? Can it be possible that they are kept in prison for that sole
reason?" said Nekhludoff, turning to the assistant.
"Yes, they ought to be sent to their homes," said the assistant.
At that moment a small-sized man, also in prison attire, pushed his way
through the crowd and began to complain excitedly that they were being
tortured without any cause.
"Worse than dogs——" he began.
"Tut, tut! do not talk too much, or else you know——"
"Know what?" said the little man desperately. "Are we guilty of anything?"
"Silence!" shouted the assistant, and the little man subsided.
"What a peculiar state of things!" Nekhludoff said to himself as he ran the
gauntlet, as it were, of a hundred eyes that followed him through the
corridor.
"Is it possible that innocent people are held in durance here?" Nekhludoff
said, when they emerged from the corridor.
"What can we do? However, many of them are lying. If you ask them, they
all claim to be innocent," said the assistant inspector; "although some are
there really without any cause whatever."
"But these masons don't seem to be guilty of any offense."

"That is true so far as the masons are concerned. But those people are
spoiled. Some measure of severity is necessary. They are not all as innocent
as they look. Only yesterday we were obliged to punish two of them."
"Punish, how?" asked Nekhludoff.
"By flogging. It was ordered——"
"But corporal punishment has been abolished."
"Not for those that have been deprived of civil rights."
Nekhludoff recalled what he had seen the other day while waiting in the
vestibule, and understood that the punishment had then been taking place,
and with peculiar force came upon him that mingled feeling of curiosity,
sadness, doubt, and moral, almost passing over into physical, nausea which
he had felt before, but never with such force.
Without listening to the assistant or looking around him, he hastily passed
through the corridor and ascended to the office. The inspector was in the
corridor, and, busying himself with some affair, had forgot to send for
Bogodukhovskaia. He only called it to mind when Nekhludoff entered the
office.
"I will send for her immediately. Take a seat," he said.

CHAPTER LII.
The office consisted of two rooms. In the first room, which had two dirty
windows and the plastering on the walls peeled off, a black measuring rod,
for determining the height of prisoners, stood in one corner, while in another
hung a picture of Christ. A few wardens stood around in this room. In the
second room, in groups and pairs, about twenty men and women were sitting
along the walls, talking in low voices. A writing table stood near one of the
windows.
The inspector seated himself at the writing table and offered Nekhludoff a
chair standing near by. Nekhludoff seated himself and began to examine the
people in the room.
His attention was first of all attracted by a young man with a pleasant face,
wearing a short jacket, who was standing before a man prisoner and a girl,
gesticulating and talking to them in a heated manner. Beside them sat an old
man in blue eye-glasses, immovably holding the hand of a woman in prison
garb and listening to her. A boy in high-school uniform, with an expression
of fright on his face, stood gazing on the old man. Not far from them, in the
corner, a pair of lovers were sitting. She was a very young, pretty, stylishly-
dressed girl with short-cropped, flaxen hair and an energetic face; he was a
fine-featured, handsome youth, with wavy hair, and in a prison coat. They
occupied the corner, whispering to each other, apparently wrapped in their
love. Nearest of all to the table was a gray-haired woman in black, evidently
the mother of a consumptive young man in a rubber jacket, who stood before
her. Her eyes were fixed on him, and her tears prevented her speaking, which
she several times attempted to do, but was forced to desist. The young man
held a piece of paper in his hand, and, evidently not knowing what to do,
with an angry expression on his face was folding and crumpling it. Sitting
beside the weeping mother, and patting her on the shoulder, was a stout,
pretty girl with red cheeks, in a gray dress and cape. Everything in this girl
was beautiful—the white hands, the wavy, short hair, the strong nose and
lips; but the principal charm of her face were her hazel, kindly, truthful,
sheep eyes. Her beautiful eyes turned on Nekhludoff at the moment he

entered, and met his. But she immediately turned them again on her mother,
and whispered to her something. Not far from the lovers a dark man with
gloomy face sat talking angrily to a clean-shaven visitor resembling a
Skopetz (a sect of castrates). At the very door stood a young man in a rubber
jacket, evidently more concerned about the impression he was making on the
visitors than what he was saying. Nekhludoff sat down beside the inspector
and looked around him with intense curiosity. He was amused by a short-
haired boy coming near him and asking him in a shrill voice:
"And whom are you waiting for?"
The question surprised Nekhludoff, but, seeing the boy's serious, intelligent
face, with bright, attentive eyes, gravely answered that he was awaiting a
woman acquaintance.
"Well, is she your sister?" asked the boy.
"No, she is not my sister," Nekhludoff answered with surprise. "And with
whom are you?"
"I am with mamma. She is a political," said the boy.
"Maria Pavlovna, take away Kolia!" said the inspector, evidently finding
Nekhludoff's conversation with the boy contrary to the law.
Maria Pavlovna, the same beautiful woman who had attracted Nekhludoff's
attention, rose and with heavy, long strides approached him.
"What is he asking you? Who you are?" she asked, slightly smiling with her
beautifully curved lips, and confidingly looking at him with her prominent,
kindly eyes, as though expecting Nekhludoff to know that her relations to
everybody always have been, are and ought to be simple, affable, and
brotherly. "He must know everything," she said, and smiled into the face of
the boy with such a kindly, charming smile that both the boy and Nekhludoff
involuntarily also smiled.
"Yes, he asked me whom I came to see."
"Maria Pavlovna, you know that it is not permitted to speak to strangers,"
said the inspector.

"All right," she said, and, taking the little hand of the boy into her own white
hand, she returned to the consumptive's mother.
"Whose boy is that?" Nekhludoff asked the inspector.
"He is the son of a political prisoner, and was born in prison."
"Is it possible?"
"Yes, and now he is following his mother to Siberia."
"And that girl?"
"I cannot answer it," said the inspector, shrugging his shoulders. "Ah, there
is Bogodukhovskaia."

CHAPTER LIII.
The short-haired, lean, yellow-faced Vera Efremovna, with her large, kindly
eyes, entered timidly through the rear door.
"Well, I thank you for coming here," she said, pressing Nekhludoff's hand.
"You remember me? Let us sit down."
"I did not expect to find you here."
"Oh, I am doing excellently—so well, indeed, that I desire nothing better,"
said Vera Efremovna, looking frightened, as usual, with her kindly, round
eyes at Nekhludoff, and turning her very thin, sinewy neck, which projected
from under the crumpled, dirty collar of her waist.
Nekhludoff asked her how she came to be in prison. She related her case to
him with great animation. Her discourse was interspersed with foreign
scientific terms about propaganda, disorganization, groups, sections and sub-
sections, which, she was perfectly certain, everybody knew, but of which
Nekhludoff had never even heard.
She was evidently sure that it was both interesting and pleasant to him to
know all that she was relating. Nekhludoff, however, looked at her pitiful
neck, her thin, tangled hair, and wondered why she was telling him all that.
He pitied her, but not as he pitied the peasant Menshov with his hands and
face white as potato sprouts, and innocently languishing in an ill-smelling
prison. He pitied her on account of the evident confusion that reigned in her
head. She seemed to consider herself a heroine, and showed off before him.
And this made her particularly pitiful. This trait Nekhludoff noticed in other
people then in the room. His arrival attracted their attention, and he felt that
they changed their demeanor because of his presence. This trait was also
present in the young man in the rubber jacket, in the woman in prison
clothes, and even in the actions of the two lovers. The only people who did
not possess this trait were the consumptive young man, the beautiful girl
with sheep eyes, and the dark-featured man who was talking to the beardless
man who resembled a Skopetz.

The affair of which Vera Efremovna wished to speak to Nekhludoff
consisted of the following: A chum of hers, Shustova, who did not even
belong to her sub-section, was arrested because in her dwelling were found
books and papers which had been left with her for safe keeping. Vera
Efremovna thought that it was partly her fault that Shustova was imprisoned,
and implored Nekhludoff, who was well connected, to do everything in his
power to effect her release.
Of herself, she related that, after having graduated as midwife, she joined
some party. At first everything went on smoothly, but afterward one of the
party was caught, the papers were seized, and then all were taken in a police
drag-net.
"They also took me, and now I am going to be transported," she wound up
her story. "But that is nothing. I feel excellently," and she smiled piteously.
Nekhludoff asked her about the girl with the sheep eyes, and Vera
Efremovna told him that she was the daughter of a general, that she had
assumed the guilt of another person, and was now going to serve at hard
labor in Siberia.
"An altruistic, honest person," said Vera Efremovna.
The other case of which Vera Efremovna wished to speak concerned
Maslova. As the history of every prisoner was known to everyone in prison,
she knew Maslova's history, and advised him to procure her removal to the
ward for politicals, or, at least, to the hospital, which was just now crowded,
requiring a larger staff of nurses.
Nekhludoff said that he could hardly do anything, but promised to make an
attempt when he reached St. Petersburg.

CHAPTER LIV.
Their conversation was interrupted by the inspector, who announced that it
was time to depart. Nekhludoff rose, took leave of Vera Efremovna, and
strode to the door, where he stopped to observe what was taking place before
him.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the time is up," said the inspector as he was going
out. But neither visitors nor prisoners stirred.
The inspector's demand only called forth greater animation, but no one
thought of departing. Some got up and talked standing; some continued to
talk sitting; others began to cry and take leave. The young man continued to
crumple the bit of paper, and he made such a good effort to remain calm that
his face seemed to bear an angry expression. His mother, hearing that the
visit was over, fell on his shoulder and began to sob. The girl with the sheep
eyes—Nekhludoff involuntarily followed her movements—stood before the
sobbing mother, pouring words of consolation into her ear. The old man with
the blue eye-glasses held his daughter by the hand and nodded affirmatively
to her words. The young lovers rose, holding each other's hands and silently
looking into each other's eyes.
"Those are the only happy people here," said the young man in the rubber
jacket who stood near Nekhludoff, pointing to the young lovers.
Seeing the glances of Nekhludoff and the young man, the lovers—the
convict and the flaxen-haired girl—stretched their clasping hands, threw
back their heads, and began to dance in a circle.
"They will be married this evening in the prison, and she will go with him to
Siberia," said the young man.
"Who is he, then?"
"He is a penal convict. Although they are making merry, it is very painful to
listen," added the young man, listening to the sobbing of the old man with
the blue eye-glasses.

"Please, please don't compel me to take severe measures," said the inspector,
several times repeating the same thing. "Please, please," he said, weakly and
irresolutely. "Well, now, this cannot go on. Please, now come. For the last
time I repeat it," he said, in a sad voice, seating himself and rising again;
lighting and then extinguishing his cigarette.
Finally the prisoners and visitors began to depart—the former passing
through the inner, the latter through the outer, door. First the man in the
rubber coat passed out; then the consumptive and the dark-featured convict;
next Vera Efremovna and Maria Pavlovna, and the boy who was born in the
prison.
The visitors also filed out. The old man with the blue eye-glasses started
with a heavy gait, and after him came Nekhludoff.
"What a peculiar state of things!" said the talkative young man to
Nekhludoff on the stairs, as though continuing the interrupted conversation.
"It is fortunate that the captain is a kind-hearted man, and does not enforce
the rules. But for him it would be tantalizing. As it is, they talk together and
relieve their feelings."
When Nekhludoff, talking to this man, who gave his name as Medyntzev,
reached the entrance-hall, the inspector, with weary countenance,
approached him.
"So, if you wish to see Maslova, then please call to-morrow," he said,
evidently desiring to be pleasant.
"Very well," said Nekhludoff, and hastened away. As on the former occasion,
besides pity he was seized with a feeling of doubt and a sort of moral nausea.
"What is all that for?" he asked himself, but found no answer.

CHAPTER LV.
On the following day Nekhludoff drove to the lawyer and told him of the
Menshovs' case, asking him to take up their defense. The lawyer listened to
him attentively, and said that if the facts were really as told to Nekhludoff,
he would undertake their defense without compensation. Nekhludoff also
told him of the hundred and thirty men kept in prison through some
misunderstanding, and asked him whose fault he thought it was. The lawyer
was silent for a short while, evidently desiring to give an accurate answer.
"Whose fault it is? No one's," he said decisively. "If you ask the prosecutor,
he will tell you that it is Maslenikoff's fault, and if you ask Maslenikoff, he
will tell you that it is the prosecutor's fault. It is no one's fault."
"I will go to Maslenikoff and tell him."
"That is useless," the lawyer retorted, smiling. "He is—he is not your friend
or relative, is he? He is such a blockhead, and, saving your presence, at the
same time such a sly beast!"
Nekhludoff recalled what Maslenikoff had said about the lawyer, made no
answer, and, taking leave, directed his steps toward Maslenikoff's residence.
Two things Nekhludoff wanted of Maslenikoff. First, to obtain Maslova's
transfer to the hospital, and to help, if possible, the hundred and thirty
unfortunates. Although it was hard for him to be dealing with this man, and
especially to ask favors of him, yet it was the only way of gaining his end,
and he had to go through it.
As Nekhludoff approached Maslenikoff's house, he saw a number of
carriages, cabs and traps standing in front of it, and he recalled that this was
the reception day to which he had been invited. While Nekhludoff was
approaching the house a carriage was standing near the curb, opposite the
door, and a lackey in a cockaded silk hat and cape, was seating a lady, who,
raising the long train of her skirt, displayed the sharp joints of her toes
through the thin slippers. Among the carriages he recognized the covered
landau of the Korchagins. The gray-haired, rosy-cheeked driver deferentially

raised his hat. Nekhludoff had scarcely asked the porter where Michael
Ivanovich (Maslenikoff) was, when the latter appeared on the carpeted
stairway, escorting a very important guest, such as he usually escorted not to
the upper landing, but to the vestibule. This very important military guest,
while descending the stairs, was conversing in French about a lottery for the
benefit of orphan asylums, giving his opinion that it was a good occupation
for ladies. "They enjoy themselves while they are raising money."
"Qu'elles s'amusent et que le bon Dieu les bénisse. Ah, Nekhludoff, how do
you do? You haven't shown yourself for a long time," he greeted Nekhludoff.
"Allez présenter vos devoirs à madame. The Korchagins are here, too.
Toutes les jolies femmes de la ville," he said, holding out and somewhat
raising his military shoulders for his overcoat, which was being placed on
him by his own magnificent lackey in gold-braided uniform. "Au revoir,
mon cher." Then he shook Maslenikoff's hand.
"Well, now let us go upstairs. How glad I am," Maslenikoff began excitedly,
seizing Nekhludoff by the arm, and, notwithstanding his corpulence, nimbly
leading him up the stairs. Maslenikoff was in a particularly happy mood,
which Nekhludoff could not help ascribing to the attention shown him by the
important person. Every attention shown him by an important person put
him into such an ecstasy as may be observed in a fawning little dog when its
master pats it, strokes it, and scratches under its ears. It wags its tail, shrinks,
wriggles, and, straightening its ears, madly runs in a circle. Maslenikoff was
ready to do the same thing. He did not notice the grave expression on
Nekhludoff's face, nor hear what he was saying, but irresistibly dragged him
into the reception-room. Nekhludoff involuntarily followed.
"Business afterward. I will do anything you wish," said Maslenikoff, leading
him through the parlor. "Announce Prince Nekhludoff to Her Excellency,"
he said on the way to a lackey. The lackey, in an ambling gait, ran ahead of
them. "Vous n'avez qu'à ordonner. But you must see my wife without fail.
She would not forgive my failure to present you last time you were here."
The lackey had already announced him when they entered, and Anna
Ignatievna, the vice-governess—Mrs. General, as she called herself—sat on
a couch surrounded by ladies. As Nekhludoff approached she was already
leaning forward with a radiant smile on her face. At the other end of the
reception-room women sat around a table, while men in military uniforms

and civil attire stood over them. An incessant cackle came from that
direction.
"Enfin! Why do you estrange yourself? Have we offended you in any way?"
With these words, presupposing an intimacy between her and Nekhludoff,
which never existed, Anna Ignatievna greeted him.
"Are you acquainted? Madam Beliavskaia—Michael Ivanovich Chernoff.
Take a seat here."
"Missy, venez donc à notre table. On vous opportera votre thé. And you," she
turned to the officer who was conversing with Missy, evidently forgetting his
name, "come here, please. Will you have some tea, Prince?"
"No, no; I will never agree with you. She simply did not love him," said a
woman's voice.
"But she loved pie."
"Eternally those stupid jests," laughingly interfered another lady in a high
hat and dazzling with gold and diamonds.
"C'est excellent, these waffles, and so light! Let us have some more."
"Well, how soon are you going to leave us?"
"Yes, this is the last day. That is why we came here."
"Such a beautiful spring! How pleasant it is in the country!"
Missy in her hat and some dark, striped dress which clasped her waist
without a wrinkle, was very pretty. She blushed when she saw Nekhludoff.
"I thought you had left the city," she said to him.
"Almost. Business keeps me here. I come here also for business."
"Call on mamma. She is very anxious to see you," she said, and, feeling that
she was lying, and that he understood it, her face turned a still deeper purple.
"I shall hardly have the time," gloomily answered Nekhludoff, pretending
not to see that she was blushing.

Missy frowned angrily, shrugged her shoulders, and turned to an elegant
officer, who took from her hands the empty teacup and valiantly carried it to
another table, his sword striking every object it encountered.
"You must also contribute toward the asylum."
"I am not refusing, only I wish to keep my contribution for the lottery. There
I will show all my liberality."
"Don't forget, now," a plainly dissimulating laugh was heard.
The reception day was brilliant, and Anna Ignatievna was delighted.
"Mika told me that you busy yourself in the prisons. I understand it very
well," she said to Nekhludoff. "Mika"—she meant her stout husband,
Maslenikoff—"may have his faults, but you know that he is kind. All these
unfortunate prisoners are his children. He does not look on them in any other
light. Il est d'une bonté——"
She stopped, not finding words to express bonté of a husband, and
immediately, smiling, turned to an old, wrinkled woman in lilac-colored
bows who had just entered.
Having talked as much and as meaninglessly as it was necessary to preserve
the decorum, Nekhludoff arose and went over to Maslenikoff.
"Will you please hear me now?"
"Ah! yes. Well, what is it?"
"Come in here."
They entered a small Japanese cabinet and seated themselves near the
window.

CHAPTER LVI.
"Well, je suis à vous. Will you smoke a cigarette? But wait; we must not soil
the things here," and he brought an ash-holder. "Well?"
"I want two things of you."
"Is that so?"
Maslenikoff's face became gloomy and despondent. All traces of that
animation of the little dog whom its master had scratched under the ears
entirely disappeared. Voices came from the reception-room. One, a woman's
voice, said: "Jamais, jamais je ne croirais;" another, a man's voice from the
other corner, was telling something, constantly repeating: "La Comtesse
Vorouzoff" and "Victor Apraksine." From the third side only a humming
noise mingled with laughter was heard. Maslenikoff listened to the voices;
so did Nekhludoff.
"I want to talk to you again about that woman."
"Yes; who was innocently condemned. I know, I know."
"I would like her to be transferred to the hospital. I was told that it can be
done."
Maslenikoff pursed up his lips and began to meditate.
"It can hardly be done," he said. "However, I will consult about it, and will
wire you to-morrow."
"I was told that there are many sick people in the hospital, and they need
assistants."
"Well, yes. But I will let you know, as I said."
"Please do," said Nekhludoff.
There was a burst of general and even natural laughter in the reception-
room.

"That is caused by Victor," said Maslenikoff, smiling. "He is remarkably
witty when in high spirits."
"Another thing," said Nekhludoff. "There are a hundred and thirty men
languishing in prison for the only reason that their passports were not
renewed in time. They have been in prison now for a month."
And he related the causes that kept them there.
"How did you come to know it?" asked Nekhludoff, and his face showed
disquietude and displeasure.
"I was visiting a prisoner, and these people surrounded me and asked——"
"What prisoner were you visiting?"
"The peasant who is innocently accused, and for whom I have obtained
counsel. But that is not to the point. Is it possible that these innocent people
are kept in prison only because they failed to renew their passports?"
"That is the prosecutor's business," interrupted Maslenikoff, somewhat
vexed. "Now, you say that trials must be speedy and just. It is the duty of the
assistant prosecutor to visit the prisons and see that no one is innocently kept
there. But these assistants do nothing but play cards."
"So you can do nothing for them?" Nekhludoff asked gloomily, recalling the
words of the lawyer, that the governor would shift the responsibility.
"I will see to it. I will make inquiries immediately."
"So much the worse for her. C'est un souffre-douleur," came from the
reception-room, the voice of a woman apparently entirely indifferent to what
she was saying.
"So much the better; I will take this," from the other side was heard a man's
playful voice, and the merry laughter of a woman who refused him
something.
"No, no, for no consideration," said a woman's voice.
"Well, then, I will do everything," repeated Maslenikoff, extinguishing the
cigarette with his white hand, on which was a turquoise ring. "Now, let us go

to the ladies."
"And yet another question," said Nekhludoff, without going into the
reception-room, and stopping at the door. "I was told that some people in the
prison were subjected to corporal punishment. Is it true?"
Maslenikoff's face flushed.
"Ah! you have reference to that affair? No, mon cher, you must positively
not be admitted there—you want to know everything. Come, come; Annette
is calling us," he said, seizing Nekhludoff's arm with the same excitement he
evinced after the attention shown him by the important person, but this time
alarming, and not joyful.
Nekhludoff tore himself loose, and, without bowing or saying anything,
gloomily passed through the reception-room, the parlor and by the lackeys,
who sprang to their feet in the ante-chamber, to the street.
"What is the matter with him? What did you do to him?" Annette asked her
husband.
"That is à la française," said some one.
"Rather à la zoulon."
"Oh, he has always been queer."
Some one arose, some one arrived, and the chirping continued.
The following morning Nekhludoff received from Maslenikoff a letter on
heavy, glossy paper, bearing a coat-of-arms and seals, written in a fine, firm
hand, in which he said that he had written to the prison physician asking that
Maslova be transferred, and that he hoped his request would be acceded to.
It was signed, "Your loving senior comrade," followed by a remarkably
skillful flourish.
"Fool!" Nekhludoff could not help exclaiming, especially because he felt
that by the word "comrade" Maslenikoff was condescending, i. e., although
he considered himself a very important personage, he nevertheless was not
too proud of his greatness, and called himself his comrade.

CHAPTER LVII.
One of the most popular superstitions consists in the belief that every man is
endowed with definite qualities—that some men are kind, some wicked;
some wise, some foolish; some energetic, some apathetic, etc. This is not
true. We may say of a man that he is oftener kind than wicked; oftener wise
than foolish; oftener energetic than apathetic, and vice versa. But it would
not be true to say of one man that he is always kind or wise, and of another
that he is always wicked or foolish. And yet we thus divide people. This is
erroneous. Men are like rivers—the water in all of them, and at every point,
is the same, but every one of them is now narrow, now swift, now wide, now
calm, now clear, now cold, now muddy, now warm. So it is with men. Every
man bears within him the germs of all human qualities, sometimes
manifesting one quality, sometimes another; and often does not resemble
himself at all, manifesting no change. With some people these changes are
particularly sharp. And to this class Nekhludoff belonged. These changes in
him had both physical and spiritual causes; and one of these changes he was
now undergoing.
That feeling of solemnity and joy of rejuvenation which he had experienced
after the trial and after his first meeting with Katiousha had passed away,
and, after the last meeting, fear and even disgust toward her had taken its
place. He was also conscious that his duty was burdensome to him. He had
decided not to leave her, to carry out his intention of marrying her, if she so
desired; but this was painful and tormenting to him.
On the day following his visit to Maslenikoff he again went to the prison to
see her.
The inspector permitted him to see her; not in the office, however, nor in the
lawyer's room, but in the women's visiting-room. Notwithstanding his kind-
heartedness, the inspector was more reserved than formerly. Evidently
Nekhludoff's conversations with Maslenikoff had resulted in instructions
being given to be more careful with this visitor.

"You may see her," he said, "only please remember what I told you as to
giving her money. And as to her transfer to the hospital, about which His
Excellency has written, there is no objection to it, and the physician also
consented. But she herself does not wish it. 'I don't care to be chambermaid
to that scurvy lot,' she said. That is the kind of people they are, Prince," he
added.
Nekhludoff made no answer and asked to be admitted to her. The inspector
sent the warden, and Nekhludoff followed him into the empty visiting-room.
Maslova was already there, quietly and timidly emerging from behind the
grating. She approached close to Nekhludoff, and, looking past him, quietly
said:
"Forgive me, Dmitri Ivanovich; I have spoken improperly the other day."
"It is not for me to forgive you——" Nekhludoff began.
"But you must leave me," she added, and in the fearfully squinting eyes with
which she glanced at him Nekhludoff again saw a strained and spiteful
expression.

EASTER SERVICES.
"But why should I leave you?"
"So."
"Why so?"
She again looked at him with that spiteful glance, as it seemed to him.
"Well, then, I will tell you," she said. "You leave me—I tell you that truly. I
cannot. You must drop that entirely," she said, with quivering lips, and
became silent. "That is true. I would rather hang myself."
Nekhludoff felt that in this answer lurked a hatred for him, an unforgiven
wrong, but also something else—something good and important. This
reiteration of her refusal in a perfectly calm state destroyed in Nekhludoff's
soul all his doubts, and brought him back to his former grave, solemn and
benign state of mind.

"Katiousha, I repeat what I said," he said, with particular gravity. "I ask you
to marry me. If, however, you do not wish to, and so long as you do not wish
to, I will be wherever you will be, and follow you wherever you may be
sent."
"That is your business. I will speak no more," she said, and again her lips
quivered.
He was also silent, feeling that he had no strength to speak.
"I am now going to the country, and from there to St. Petersburg," he said
finally. "I will press your—our case, and with God's help the sentence will
be set aside."
"I don't care if they don't. I deserved it, if not for that, for something else,"
she said, and he saw what great effort she had to make to repress her tears.
"Well, have you seen Menshova?" she asked suddenly, in order to hide her
agitation. "They are innocent, are they not?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Such a wonderful little woman!" she said.
He related everything he had learned from Menshova, and asked her if she
needed anything. She said she needed nothing.
They were silent again.
"Well, and as to the hospital," she said suddenly, casting on him her
squinting glance, "if you wish me to go, I will go; and I will stop wine
drinking, too."
Nekhludoff silently looked in her eyes. They were smiling.
"That is very good," was all he could say.
"Yes, yes; she is an entirely different person," thought Nekhludoff, for the
first time experiencing, after his former doubts, the to him entirely new
feeling of confidence in the invincibility of love.

Returning to her ill-smelling cell, Maslova removed her coat and sat down
on her cot, her hands resting on her knees. In the cell were only the
consumptive with her babe, the old woman, Menshova, and the watch-
woman with her two children. The deacon's daughter had been removed to
the hospital; the others were washing. The old woman lay on the cot
sleeping; the children were in the corridor, the door to which was open. The
consumptive with the child in her arms and the watch-woman, who did not
cease knitting a stocking with her nimble fingers, approached Maslova.
"Well, have you seen him?" they asked.
Maslova dangled her feet, which did not reach the floor, and made no
answer.
"What are you whimpering about?" said the watch-woman. "Above all, keep
up your spirits. Oh, Katiousha! Well?" she said, rapidly moving her fingers.
Maslova made no answer.
"The women went washing. They say that to-day's alms were larger. Many
things have been brought, they say," said the consumptive.
"Finashka!" shouted the watch-woman. "Where are you, you little rogue?"
She drew out one of the knitting needles, stuck it into the ball of thread and
stocking, and went out into the corridor.
At this moment the inmates of the cell, with bare feet in their prison shoes,
entered, each bearing a loaf of twisted bread, some even two. Theodosia
immediately approached Maslova.
"Why, anything wrong?" she asked, lovingly, looking with her bright, blue
eyes at Maslova. "And here is something for our tea," and she placed the
leaves on the shelf.
"Well, has he changed his mind about marrying you?" asked Korableva.
"No, he has not, but I do not wish to," answered Maslova, "and I told him
so."
"What a fool!" said Korableva, in her basso voice.

"What is the good of marrying if they cannot live together?" asked
Theodosia.
"Is not your husband going with you?" answered the watch-woman.
"We are legally married," said Theodosia. "But why should he marry her
legally if he cannot live with her?"
"What a fool! Why, if he marries her he will make her rich!"
"He said: 'Wherever you may be, I will be with you,'" said Maslova.
"He may go if he likes; he needn't if he don't. I will not ask him. He is now
going to St. Petersburg to try to get me out. All the ministers there are his
relatives," she continued, "but I don't care for them."
"Sure enough," Korableva suddenly assented, reaching down into her bag,
and evidently thinking of something else. "What do you say—shall we have
some wine?"
"Not I," answered Maslova. "Drink yourselves."

PART SECOND.

CHAPTER I.
The Senate could hear the case in two weeks, and by that time Nekhludoff
intended to be in St. Petersburg, and, in case of an adverse decision, to
petition the Emperor, as the lawyer had advised. In case the appeal failed, for
which, his lawyer had told him, he must be prepared, as the grounds of
appeal were very weak, the party of convicts to which Maslova belonged
would be transported in May. It was therefore necessary, in order to be
prepared to follow Maslova to Siberia, upon which Nekhludoff was firmly
resolved, to go to the villages and arrange his affairs there.
First of all, he went to the Kusminskoie estate, the nearest, largest black-
earth estate, which brought the greatest income. He had lived on the estate in
his childhood and youth, and had also twice visited it in his manhood, once
when, upon the request of his mother, he brought a German manager with
whom he went over the affairs of the estate. So that he knew its condition
and the relations the peasants sustained toward the office, i. e., the
landowner. Their relations toward the office were such that they have always
been in absolute dependence upon it. Nekhludoff had already known it when
as a student he professed and preached the doctrines of Henry George, and in
carrying out which he had distributed his father's estate among the peasants.
True, after his military career, when he was spending twenty thousand rubles
a year, those doctrines ceased to be necessary to the life he was leading,
were forgotten, and not only did he not ask himself where the money came
from, but tried not to think of it. But the death of his mother, the inheritance,
and the necessity of taking care of his property, i. e., his lands, again raised
the question in his mind of his relation to private ownership of land. A month
before Nekhludoff would have argued that he was powerless to change the
existing order of things; that he was not managing the estate, and living and
receiving his income far away from the estate, would feel more or less at
ease. But now he resolved that, although there was before him a trip to
Siberia and complex and difficult relations to the prison world, for which
social standing, and especially money, were necessary, he could not,
nevertheless, leave his affairs in their former condition, but must, to his own
detriment, change them. For this purpose he had decided not to work the

land himself, but, by renting it at a low price to the peasants, to make it
possible for them to live independent of the landlord. Often, while
comparing the position of the landlord with that of the owner of serfs,
Nekhludoff found a parallel in the renting of the land to the peasants, instead
of working it by hired labor, to what the slave-owners did when they
substituted tenancy for serfdom. That did not solve the question, but it was a
step toward its solution; it was a transition from a grosser to a less gross
form of ownership of man. He also intended to act thus.
Nekhludoff arrived at Kusminskoie about noon. In everything simplifying
his life, he did not wire from the station of his arrival, but hired a two-horse
country coach. The driver was a young fellow in a nankeen regulation coat,
belted below the waist, sitting sidewise on the box. He was the more willing
to carry on a conversation because the broken-down, lame, emaciated,
foaming shaft-horse could then walk, which these horses always preferred.
The driver spoke about the manager of the Kusminskoie estate, not knowing
that he was carrying its master, Nekhludoff purposely refrained from
enlightening him.
"A dandy German," he said, turning half around, cracking his long whip now
over the heads, now under the horses. "There is nothing here to compare
with his fine team of three bay horses. You ought to see him driving out with
his wife! I took some guests to his house last Christmas—he had a fine tree.
You couldn't find the like of it in the whole district! He robbed everybody,
right and left. But what does he care? He is bossing everybody. They say he
bought a fine estate."
Nekhludoff thought that he was indifferent to the manner of the German's
management, and to the way he was profiting by it. But the story of the
driver with the long waist was unpleasant to him. He was enchanted with the
fine weather; the darkening clouds, sometimes obscuring the sun; the fields
over which the larks soared; the woods, just covering up the top and bottom
with green; the meadows on which the flocks and horses browsed, and the
fields on which plowmen were already seen—but a feeling of dissatisfaction
crept over him. And when he asked himself the reason for it, he recalled the
driver's account of the German's management.

But by the time he was busying himself with the affairs of Kusminskoie he
had forgotten it.
After an examination of the books and his conversation with the clerk, who
artlessly set forth the advantages of the peasants having small holdings and
the fact that they were hemmed in by the master's land, Nekhludoff grew
only more determined to put an end to his ownership, and give the land to
the peasants. From the books and his conversations with the clerk he learned
that, as before, two-thirds of the best arable land was cultivated by his own
men, and the rest by peasants who were paid five rubles per acre—that is to
say, for five rubles the peasant undertook to plow, harrow and sow an acre of
land three times, then mow it, bind or press it, and carry it to the barn. In
other words, he was paid five rubles for what hired, cheap labor would cost
at least ten rubles. Again, the prices paid by the peasants to the office for
necessaries were enormous. They worked for meadow, for wood, for potatoe
seed, and they were almost all in debt to the office. Thus, the rent charged
the peasants for lands beyond the fields was four times as great as it could
bring on a five per cent. basis.
Nekhludoff knew all that before, but he was now learning it as something
new, and only wondered why he and all those who stood in a similar position
could fail to see the enormity of such relations. The arguments of the clerk
that not one-fourth of the value of the stock could be realized on a sale, that
the peasants would permit the land to run to waste, only strengthened his
determination and confirmed him in his belief that he was doing a good deed
by giving the land to the peasants, and depriving himself of the greater part
of his income. Desiring to dispose of the land forthwith, he asked the
manager to call together the peasants of the three villages surrounded by his
lands the very next day, for the purpose of declaring to them his intention
and agreeing with them as to the price.
With a joyful consciousness of his firmness, in spite of the arguments of the
manager, and his readiness to make sacrifices for the peasants, Nekhludoff
left the office, and, reflecting on the coming arrangement, he strolled around
the house, through the flower-garden, which lay opposite the manager's
house, and was neglected this year; over the lawn-tennis ground, overgrown
with chicory, and through the alleys lined with lindens, where it had been his
wont to smoke his cigar, and where, three years before, the pretty visitor,
Kirimova, flirted with him. Having made an outline of a speech, which he

was to deliver to the peasants the following day, Nekhludoff went to the
manager's house, and after further deliberating upon the proper disposition
of the stock, he calmly and contentedly retired to a room prepared for him in
the large building.
In this clean room, the walls of which were covered with views of Venice,
and with a mirror hung between two windows, there was placed a clean
spring bedstead and a small table with water and matches. On a large table
near the mirror lay his open traveling-bag with toilet articles and books
which he brought with him; one Russian book on criminology, one in
German, and a third in English treating of the same subject. He intended to
read them in spare moments while traveling through the villages, but as he
looked on them now he felt that his mind was far from these subjects.
Something entirely different occupied him.
In one corner of the room there stood an ancient arm-chair with
incrustations, and the sight of this chair standing in his mother's bed-room
suddenly raised in his soul an unexpected feeling. He suddenly felt sorry for
the house that would decay, the gardens which would be neglected, the
woods which would be cut down, and all the cattle-houses, courts, stables,
sheds, machinery, horses, cows which had been accumulated with such
effort, although not by him. At first it seemed to him easy to abandon all
that, but now he was loth to part with it, as well as the land and one-half of
the income which would be so useful now. And immediately serviceable
arguments come to his aid, by which it appeared that it was not wise to give
the land to the peasants and destroy his estate.
"I have no right to own the land. And if I do not own the land, I cannot keep
the property intact. Besides, I will now go to Siberia, and for that reason I
need neither the house nor the estate," whispered one voice. "All that is
true," whispered another voice, "but you will not pass all your life in Siberia.
If you should marry, you may have children. And you must hand over the
estate to them in the same condition in which you found it. There are duties
toward the land. It is easy to give away the land, to destroy everything; but it
is very hard to accumulate it. Above all, you must mark out a plan of your
life, and dispose of your property accordingly. And, then, are you acting as
you do in order to satisfy conscientious scruples, or for the praise you expect
of people?" Nekhludoff asked himself, and could not help acknowledging
that the talk that it would occasion influenced his decision. And the more he

thought the more questions raised themselves, and the more perplexing they
appeared. To rid himself of these thoughts he lay down on the fresh-made
bed, intending to go over them again the next day with a clearer mind. But
he could not fall asleep for a long time. Along with the fresh air, through the
open window, came the croaking of frogs, interrupted by the whistling of
nightingales, one of which was in a lilac bush under the window. Listening
to the nightingales and the frogs, Nekhludoff recalled the music of the
inspector's daughter; and, thinking of that music, he recalled Maslova—how,
like the croaking of a frog, her lips trembled when she said, "You must drop
that." Then the German manager descended to the frogs. He should have
been held back, but not only did he come down, but he was transformed into
Maslova and started to taunt him: "I am a convict, and you are a Prince."
"No, I shall not yield," thought Nekhludoff, and came to. "Am I acting
properly or improperly?" he asked himself. "I don't know; I will know to-
morrow." And he began to descend to where the manager and Maslova were.
And there everything ended.

CHAPTER II.
With a feeling of timidity and shame Nekhludoff the following morning,
walked out to meet the peasants who had gathered at a small square in front
of the house. As he approached them the peasants removed their caps, and
for a long time Nekhludoff could not say anything. Although he was going to
do something for the peasants which they never dared even to think of, his
conscience was troubled. The peasants stood in a fine, drizzling rain, waiting
to hear what their master had to say, and Nekhludoff was so confused that he
could not open his mouth. The calm, self-confident German came to his
relief. This strong, overfed man, like Nekhludoff himself, made a striking
contrast to the emaciated, wrinkled faces of the peasants, and the bare
shoulder-bones sticking out from under their caftans.
"The Prince came to befriend you—to give you the land, but you are not
worthy of it," said the German.
"Why not worthy, Vasily Karlych? Have we not labored for you? We are
much satisfied with our late mistress—may she enjoy eternal life!—and we
are grateful to the young Prince for thinking of us," began a red-haired
peasant with a gift of gab.
"We are not complaining of our masters," said a broad-faced peasant with a
long beard. "Only we are too crowded here."
"That is what I called you here for—to give you the land, if you wish it,"
said Nekhludoff.
The peasants were silent, as if misunderstanding him, or incredulous.
"In what sense do you mean to give us the land?" asked a middle-aged
peasant in a caftan.
"To rent it to you, that you might use it at a low price."
"That is the loveliest thing," said an old man.
"If the payment is not above our means," said another.

"Of course we will take the land."
"It is our business—we get our sustenance from the land."
"So much the better for you. All you have to do is to take the money. And
what sins you will spare yourself——"
"The sin is on you," said the German. "If you would only work and keep
things in order——"
"We cannot, Vasily Karlych," said a lean old man with a pointed nose. "You
ask, Who let the horse feed in the field? But who did it? Day in and day out
—and every day is as long as a year—I worked with the scythe, and as I fell
asleep the horse went among the oats. And now you are fleecing me."
"You should keep order."
"It is easy for you to say keep order. But we have no strength," retorted a
middle-aged peasant, all covered with hair.
"I told you to fence it in."
"You give us the timber," said an unsightly little peasant. "When I cut a joist
last summer, intending to make a fence, you locked me up for three months
in the castle to feed the insects. There was a fence for you!"
"Is that true?" asked Nekhludoff of the manager.
"Der erste dich im dorfe," said the manager in German. "He was caught
every year in the woods. You must learn to respect other people's property."
"Do we not respect you?" said an old man. "We cannot help respecting you,
because you have us in your hands, and you are twisting us into rope."
"If you would only abstain from doing wrong," said the manager. "It is pretty
hard to wrong you."
"And who battered my face last summer? Of course, there is no use going to
law with a rich man."
"You only keep within bounds of the law."

This was evidently a wordy tourney of which the participants hardly knew
the purpose. Nekhludoff tried to get back to business.
"Well, what do you say? Do you wish the land, and what price do you set on
it?"
"It is your goods; you name the price."
Nekhludoff set the price, and though much lower than the prevailing price,
the peasants began to bargain, finding it high. He expected that his offer
would be accepted with pleasure, but there was no sign of satisfaction. Only
when the question was raised whether the whole community would take the
land, or have individual arrangements did he know that it was profitable for
them. For there resulted fierce quarrels between those who wished to
exclude the weak ones and bad payers from participating in the land, and
those whom it was sought to exclude. But the German finally arranged the
price and time of payment, and the peasants, noisily talking, returned to the
village.
The price was about thirty per cent. lower than the one prevailing in the
district, and Nekhludoff's income was reduced to almost one-half, but, with
money realized from the sale of the timber and yet to be realized from the
sale of the stock, it was amply sufficient for him. Everything seemed to be
satisfactory, and yet Nekhludoff felt sad and lonesome, but, above all, his
conscience troubled him. He saw that although the peasants spoke words of
thanks, they were not satisfied and expected something more. The result was
that while he deprived himself of much, he failed to do that which the
peasants expected.
On the following day, after the contract was signed, Nekhludoff, with an
unpleasant feeling of having left something undone, seated himself in the
"dandy" three-horse team and took leave of the peasants, who were shaking
their heads in doubt and dissatisfaction. Nekhludoff was dissatisfied with
himself—he could not tell why, but he felt sad, and was ashamed of
something.

CHAPTER III.
From Kusminskoie Nekhludoff went to Panovo, the estate left him by his
aunts, and where he had first seen Katiousha. He intended to dispose of this
land in the same manner as he disposed of the other, and also desired to learn
all there was known about Katiousha, and to find out if it was true that their
child had died.
As he sat at the window observing the familiar scenery of the now somewhat
neglected estate, he not only recalled, but felt himself as he was fourteen
years ago; fresh, pure and filled with the hope of endless possibilities. But as
it happens in a dream, he knew that that was gone, and he became very sad.
Before breakfast he made his way to the hut of Matrena Kharina, Katiousha's
aunt, who was selling liquor surreptitiously, for information about the child,
but all he could learn from her was that the child had died on the way to a
Moskow asylum; in proof of which the midwife had brought a certificate.
On his way back he entered the huts of some peasants, and inquired about
their mode of living. The same complaints of the paucity of land, hunger and
degradation he heard everywhere. He saw the same pinched faces,
threadbare homespuns, bare feet and bent shoulders.
In front of a particularly dilapidated hut stood a number of women with
children in their arms, and among them he noticed a lean, pale-faced woman,
easily holding a bloodless child in a short garment made of pieces of stuff.
This child was incessantly smiling. Nekhludoff knew that it was the smile of
suffering. He asked who that woman was.
It transpired that the woman's husband had been in prison for the past six
months—"feeding the insects"—as they termed it, for cutting down two
lindens.
Nekhludoff turned to the woman, Anisia.
"How do you fare?" he asked. "What do you live on?"
"How do I live? I sometimes get some food," and she began to sob.

The grave face of the child, however, spread into a broad smile, and its thin
legs began to wriggle.
Nekhludoff produced his pocketbook and gave the woman ten rubles. He
had scarcely made ten steps when he was overtaken by another woman with
a child; then an old woman, and again another woman. They all spoke of
their poverty and implored his help. Nekhludoff distributed the sixty rubles
that were in his pocketbook and returned home, i. e., to the wing inhabited
by the clerk. The clerk, smiling, met Nekhludoff with the information that
the peasants would gather in the evening, as he had ordered. Nekhludoff
thanked him and strolled about the garden, meditating on what he had seen.
"The people are dying in large numbers, and are used to it; they have
acquired modes of living natural to a people who are becoming extinct—the
death of children, exhausting toil for women, insufficiency of food for all,
especially for the aged—all comes and is received naturally. They were
reduced to this condition gradually, so that they cannot see the horror of it,
and bear it uncomplainingly. Afterward, we, too, come to consider this
condition natural; that it ought to be so."
All this was so clear to him now that he could not cease wondering how it
was that people could not see it; that he himself could not see that which is
so patent. It was perfectly clear that children and old people were dying for
want of milk, and they had no milk because they had not land enough to feed
the cattle and also raise bread and hay. And he devised a scheme by which he
was to give the land to the people, and they were to pay an annual rent which
was to go to the community, to be used for common utilities and taxes. This
was not the single-tax, but it was the nearest approach to it under present
conditions. The important part consisted in that he renounced his right to
own land.
When he returned to the house, the clerk, with a particularly happy smile on
his face, offered him dinner, expressing his fear that it might spoil.
The table was covered with a gloomy cloth, an embroidered towel serving as
a napkin, and on the table, in vieux-saxe, stood a soup-bowl with a broken
handle, filled with potato soup and containing the same rooster that he had
seen carried into the house on his arrival. After the soup came the same
rooster, fried with feathers, and cakes made of cheese-curds, bountifully
covered with butter and sugar. Although the taste of it all was poor,

Nekhludoff kept on eating, being absorbed in the thoughts which relieved
him of the sadness that oppressed him on his return from the village.
After dinner Nekhludoff with difficulty seated the superserviceable clerk,
and in order to make sure of himself and at the same time to confide to some
one the thoughts uppermost in his mind, told him of his project and asked his
opinion. The clerk smiled, as though he had been thinking of the same thing,
and was very glad to hear it, but in reality did not understand it, not because
Nekhludoff did not express himself plainly enough, but because, according
to this project, Nekhludoff deprived himself of advantages for the benefit of
others, whereas the truth that every man strives to obtain advantages at the
expense of others, was so firmly rooted in the clerk's mind, that he thought
that he misunderstood Nekhludoff when the latter said that the entire income
of the land was to go into the community's treasury.
"I understand. So you will draw the interest on the capital?" he said,
becoming radiant.
"No, no. I transfer the land to them entirely."
"In that case you will get no income?" asked the clerk and he ceased to
smile.
"I relinquish that."
The clerk sighed deeply, then began to smile again. Now he understood. He
understood that Nekhludoff's mind was not entirely sound, and he
immediately tried to find a way of profiting by Nekhludoff's project, and
endeavored to so construe it that he might turn it to his own advantage.
When, however, he understood that there was no such opportunity, he ceased
to take interest in the projects, and continued to smile only to please his
master. Seeing that the clerk could not understand him, Nekhludoff
dismissed him from his presence, seated himself at the ink-stained table and
proceeded to commit his project to paper.
The sun was already descending behind the unfolding lindens, and the
mosquitos filled the room, stinging him. While he was finishing his notes,
Nekhludoff heard the lowing of cattle in the village, the creaking of the
opening gates and the voices of the peasants who were coming to meet their

master. Nekhludoff told the clerk not to call them before the office, that he
would go and meet them at any place in the village, and gulping down a
glass of tea offered him by the clerk, he went to the village.

CHAPTER IV.
The crowd stood talking in front of the house of the bailiff, and as
Nekhludoff approached, the conversation ceased and the peasants, like those
of Kusminskoie, removed their caps. It was a coarser crowd than the
peasants of Kusminskoie, and almost all the peasants wore bast shoes and
homespun shirts and caftans. Some of them were bare-footed and only in
their shirts.
With some effort Nekhludoff began his speech by declaring that he intended
to surrender the land to them. The peasants were silent, and there was no
change in the expression of their faces.
"Because I consider," said Nekhludoff, blushing, "that every man ought to
have the right to use the land."
"Why, certainly." "That is quite right," voices of peasants were heard.
Nekhludoff continued, saying that the income from the land should be
distributed among all, and he therefore proposed that they take the land and
pay into the common treasury such rent as they may decide upon, such
money to be used for their own benefit. Exclamations of consent and
approbation continued to be heard, but the faces of the peasants became
more and more grave, and the eyes that at first were fixed on the master were
lowered, as if desiring not to shame him with the fact that his cunning was
understood by all, and that he could not fool anybody.
Nekhludoff spoke very clearly, and the peasants were sensible folks; but he
was not understood, and could not be understood by them for the same
reason which prevented the clerk from understanding him for a long time.
They were convinced that it was natural for every man to look out for his
own interest. And as to the land owners, the experience of several
generations had taught them long ago that these were always serving their
own interests.
"Well, what rate do you intend to assess," asked Nekhludoff.

"Why assess? We cannot do that? The land is yours; it is for you to say,"
some in the crowd said.
"But understand that you are to use the money for the common wants."
"We cannot do it. The community is one thing, and this is another thing."
"You must understand," said the smiling clerk, wishing to explain the offer,
"that the Prince is giving you the land for money which is to go into the
community's treasury."
"We understand it very well," said a toothless old man without raising his
eyes. "Something like a bank, only we must pay in time. We cannot do it; it
is hard enough as it is. That will ruin us entirely."
"That is to no purpose. We would rather continue as before," said several
dissatisfied and even rough voices.
The resistance was particularly hot when Nekhludoff mentioned that he
would draw a contract which he himself and they would have to sign.
"What is the good of a contract? We will keep on working as we did before.
We don't care for it. We are ignorant people."
"We cannot consent, because that is an uncustomary thing. Let it be as it was
before. If you would only do away with the seed," several voices were heard.
"Doing away with the seed" meant that under the present regime the sowing-
seed was chargeable to the peasants, and they asked that it be furnished by
the master.
"So you refuse to take the land?" asked Nekhludoff, turning to a middle-
aged, bare-footed peasant in tattered caftan and with a radiant face who held
his cap straight in front of him, like a soldier hearing "Hats off!"
"Yes, sir," said this peasant.
"Then you have enough land?" asked Nekhludoff.
"No, sir," said the ex-soldier, with artificial cheerfulness, holding his torn
cap before him, as though offering it to anyone deserving to take it.

"Think it over at your leisure," said the surprised Nekhludoff, again
repeating his offer.
"There is nothing to think over; as we said, so it will be," the toothless,
gloomy old man said angrily.
"I will stay here all day to-morrow. If you alter your decision, let me know."
The peasants made no answer.
On their return to the office the clerk explained to Nekhludoff that it was not
a want of good sense that prevented their acceptance of the offer; that when
gathered in assembly they always acted in that stubborn manner.
Nekhludoff then asked him to summon for the following day several of the
most intelligent peasants to whom he would explain his project at greater
length.
Immediately after the departure of the smiling clerk, Nekhludoff heard angry
women's voices interrupted by the voice of the clerk. He listened.
"I have no more strength. You want the cross on my breast," said an
exasperated voice.
"She only ran in," said another voice. "Give her up, I say. Why do you
torture the beast, and keep the milk from the children?"
Nekhludoff walked around the house where he saw two disheveled women,
one of whom was evidently pregnant, standing near the staircase. On the
stairs, with his hands in the pockets of his crash overcoat, stood the clerk.
Seeing their master, the women became silent and began to arrange their
'kerchiefs, which had fallen from their heads, while the clerk took his hands
out of his pockets and began to smile.
The clerk explained that the peasants purposely permitted their calves, and
even cows, to roam over the master's meadows. That two cows belonging to
these women had been caught on the meadow and driven into an inclosure.
The clerk demanded from the women thirty copecks per cow, or two days'
work.

"Time and again I told them," said the smiling clerk, looking around at
Nekhludoff, as if calling him to witness, "to look out for cows when driving
them to feed."
"I just went to see to the child, and they walked away."
"Don't leave them when you undertake to look after them."
"And who would feed my child?"
"If they had only grazed, at least, they would have no pains in their
stomachs. But they only walked in."
"All the meadows are spoiled," the clerk turned to Nekhludoff. "If they are
not made to pay there will be no hay left."
"Don't be sinning," cried the pregnant woman. "My cow was never caught."
"But now that she was caught, pay for her, or work."
"Well, then, I will work. But return me the cow; don't torture her," she cried
angrily. "It is bad enough as it is; I get no rest, either day or night. Mother-
in-law is sick; my husband is drunk. Single-handed I have to do all the work,
and I have no strength. May you choke yourself!" she shouted and began to
weep.
Nekhludoff asked the clerk to release the cows and returned to the house,
wondering why people do not see what is so plain.

CHAPTER V.
Whether it was because there were fewer peasants present, or because he
was not occupied with himself, but with the matter in hand, Nekhludoff felt
no agitation when the seven peasants chosen from the villagers responded to
the summons.
He first of all expressed his views on private ownership of land.
"As I look upon it," he said, "land ought not to be the subject of purchase
and sale, for if land can be sold, then those who have money will buy it all in
and charge the landless what they please for the use of it. People will then be
compelled to pay for the right to stand on the earth," he added, quoting
Spencer's argument.
"There remains to put on wings and fly," said an old man with smiling eyes
and gray beard.
"That's so," said a long-nosed peasant in a deep basso.
"Yes, sir," said the ex-soldier.
"The old woman took some grass for the cow. They caught her, and to jail
she went," said a good-natured, lame peasant.
"There is land for five miles around, but the rent is higher than the land can
produce," said the toothless, angry old man.
"I am of the same opinion as you," said Nekhludoff, "and that is the reason I
want to give you the land."
"Well, that would be a kind deed," said a broad-shouldered old peasant with
a curly, grayish beard like that of Michael Angelo's Moses, evidently
thinking that Nekhludoff intended to rent out the land.
"That is why I came here. I do not wish to own the land any longer, but it is
necessary to consider how to dispose of it."
"You give it to the peasants—that's all," said the toothless, angry peasant.

For a moment Nekhludoff was confused, seeing in these words doubt of the
sincerity of his purpose. But he shook it off, and took advantage of the
remark to say what he intended.
"I would be only too glad to give it," he said, "but to whom and how shall I
give it? Why should I give it to your community rather than to the Deminsky
community?" Deminsky was a neighboring village with very little land.
They were all silent. Only the ex-soldier said, "Yes, sir."
"And now tell me how would you distribute the land?"
"How? We would give each an equal share," said an oven-builder, rapidly
raising and lowering his eyebrows.
"How else? Of course divide it equally," said a good-natured, lame peasant,
whose feet, instead of socks, were wound in a white strip of linen.
This decision was acquiesced in by all as being satisfactory.
"But how?" asked Nekhludoff, "are the domestics also to receive equal
shares?"
"No, sir," said the ex-soldier, assuming a cheerful mood. But the sober-
minded tall peasant disagreed with him.
"If it is to be divided, everybody is to get an equal share," after considering
awhile, he said in a deep basso.
"That is impossible," said Nekhludoff, who was already prepared with his
objection. "If everyone was to get an equal share, then those who do not
themselves work would sell their shares to the rich. Thus the land would
again get into the hands of the rich. Again, the people that worked their own
shares would multiply, and the landlords would again get the landless into
their power."
"Yes, sir," the ex-soldier hastily assented.
"The selling of land should be prohibited; only those that cultivate it
themselves should be allowed to own it," said the oven-builder, angrily
interrupting the soldier.

To this Nekhludoff answered that it would be difficult to determine whether
one cultivated the land for himself or for others.
Then the sober-minded old man suggested that the land should be given to
them as an association, and that only those that took part in cultivating it
should get their share.
Nekhludoff was ready with arguments against this communistic scheme, and
he retorted that in such case it would be necessary that all should have
plows, that each should have the same number of horses, and that none
should lag behind, or that everything should belong to society, for which the
consent of every one was necessary.
"Our people will never agree," said the angry old man.
"There will be incessant fighting among them," said the white-bearded
peasant with the shining eyes. "The women will scratch each other's eyes
out."
"The next important question is," said Nekhludoff, "how to divide the land
according to quality. You cannot give black soil to some and clay and sand to
others."
"Let each have a part of both," said the oven-builder.
To this Nekhludoff answered that it was not a question of dividing the land
in one community, but of the division of land generally among all the
communities. If the land is to be given gratis to the peasants, then why
should some get good land, and others poor land? There would be a rush for
the good land.
"Yes, sir," said the ex-soldier.
The others were silent.
"You see, it is not as simple as it appears at first sight," said Nekhludoff. "We
are not the only ones, there are other people thinking of the same thing. And
now, there is an American, named George, who devised the following
scheme, and I agree with him."

"What is that to you? You are the master; you distribute the land, and there is
an end to it," said the angry peasant.
This interruption somewhat confused Nekhludoff, but he was glad to see that
others were also dissatisfied with this interruption.
"Hold on, Uncle Semen; let him finish," said the old man in an impressive
basso.
This encouraged Nekhludoff, and he proceeded to explain the single-tax
theory of Henry George.
"The land belongs to no one—it belongs to the Creator."
"That's so!"
"Yes, sir."
"The land belongs to all in common. Every one has an equal right to it. But
there is good land, and there is poor land. And the question is, how to divide
the land equally. The answer to this is, that those who own the better land
should pay to those who own the poorer the value of the better land. But as it
is difficult to determine how much anyone should pay, and to whom, and as
society needs money for common utilities, let every land owner pay to
society the full value of his land—less, if it is poorer; more, if it is better.
And those who do not wish to own land will have their taxes paid by the
land owners."
"That's correct," said the oven-builder. "Let the owner of the better land pay
more."
"What a head that Jhorga had on him!" said the portly old peasant with the
curls.
"If only the payments were reasonable," said the tall peasant, evidently
understanding what it was leading to.
"The payments should be such that it would be neither too cheap nor too
dear. If too dear, it would be unprofitable; if too cheap, people would begin
to deal in land. This is the arrangement I would like you to make."
Voices of approval showed that the peasants understood him perfectly.

"What a head!" repeated the broad-shouldered peasant with the curls,
meaning "Jhorga."
"And what if I should choose to take land?" said the clerk, smiling.
"If there is an unoccupied section, take and cultivate it," said Nekhludoff.
"What do you want land for? You are not hungering without land," said the
old man with the smiling eyes.
Here the conference ended.
Nekhludoff repeated his offer, telling the peasants to consult the wish of the
community, before giving their answer.
The peasants said that they would do so, took leave of Nekhludoff and
departed in a state of excitement. For a long time their loud voices were
heard, and finally died away about midnight.

The peasants did not work the following day, but discussed their master's
proposition. The community was divided into two factions. One declared the
proposition profitable and safe; the other saw in the proposition a plot which
it feared the more because it could not understand it. On the third day,
however, the proposition was accepted, the fears of the peasants having been
allayed by an old woman who explained the master's action by the
suggestion that he began to think of saving his soul. This explanation was
confirmed by the large amount of money Nekhludoff had distributed while
he remained in Panov. These money gifts were called forth by the fact that
here, for the first time, he learned to what poverty the peasants had been
reduced and though he knew that it was unwise, he could not help
distributing such money as he had, which was considerable.
As soon as it became known that the master was distributing money, large
crowds of people from the entire surrounding country came to him asking to
be helped. He had no means of determining the respective needs of the
individuals, and yet he could not help giving these evidently poor people

money. Again, to distribute money indiscriminately was absurd. His only
way out of the difficulty was to depart, which he hastened to do.
On the third day of his visit to Panov, Nekhludoff, while looking over the
things in the house, in one of the drawers of his aunt's chiffonnier, found a
picture representing a group of Sophia Ivanovna, Catherine Ivanovna,
himself, as student, and Katiousha—neat, fresh, beautiful and full of life. Of
all the things in the house Nekhludoff removed this picture and the letters.
The rest he sold to the miller for a tenth part of its value.
Recalling now the feeling of pity over the loss of his property which he had
experienced in Kusminskoie, Nekhludoff wondered how he could have done
so. Now he experienced the gladness of release and the feeling of novelty
akin to that experienced by an explorer who discovers new lands.

CHAPTER VI.
It was evening when Nekhludoff arrived in the city, and as he drove through
the gas-lit streets to his house, it looked to him like a new city. The odor of
camphor still hung in the air through all the rooms, and Agrippina, Petrovna
and Kornei seemed tired out and dissatisfied, and even quarreled about the
packing of the things, the use of which seemed to consist chiefly in being
hung out, dried and packed away again. His room was not occupied, but was
not arranged for his coming, and the trunks blocked all the passages, so that
his coming interfered with those affairs which, by some strange inertia, were
taking place in this house. This evident foolishness, to which he had once
been a party, seemed so unpleasant to Nekhludoff, after the impressions he
had gained of the want in the villages, that he decided to move to a hotel the
very next day, leaving the packing to Agrippina until the arrival of his sister.
He left the house in the morning, hired two modest and not over-clean
furnished rooms near the prison, and went to his lawyer.
After the storms and rains came those cold, piercing winds that usually occur
in the fall. Protected only by a light overcoat, Nekhludoff was chilled to the
bone. He walked quickly in order to warm himself.
The village scenes came to his mind—the women, children and old men,
whose poverty and exhaustion he had noticed as if for the first time,
especially that oldish child which twisted its little calfless legs—and he
involuntarily compared them with the city folks. Passing by the butcher, fish
and clothing shops, he was struck, as if it was the first time he looked upon
them—by the physical evidences of the well-being of such a large number of
clean, well-fed shopkeepers which was not to be seen anywhere in the
villages. Equally well fed were the drivers in quilted coats and buttons on
their backs, porters, servant girls, etc. In all these people he now
involuntarily saw those same village folks whom privation had driven to the
city. Some of them were able to take advantage of the conditions in the city
and became happy proprietors themselves; others were reduced to even
greater straits and became even more wretched. Such wretchedness
Nekhludoff saw in a number of shoemakers that he saw working near the

window of a basement; in the lean, pale, disheveled washerwomen ironing
with bare hands before open windows from which soap-laden steam poured
out; in two painters, aproned and bare-footed, who were covered with paint
from temple to heel. In their sunburnt, sinewy, weak hands, bared above the
elbows, they carried a bucket of paint and incessantly cursed each other.
Their faces were wearied and angry. The same expression of weariness and
anger he saw in the dusty faces of the truck drivers; on the swollen and
tattered men, women and children who stood begging on the street corners.
Similar faces were seen in the windows of the tea-houses which Nekhludoff
passed. Around the dirty tables, loaded with bottles and tea services,
perspiring men with red, stupefied faces sat shouting and singing, and white-
aproned servants flitted to and fro.
"Why have they all gathered here?" thought Nekhludoff, involuntarily
inhaling, together with the dust, the odor of rancid oil spread by the fresh
paint.
On one of the streets he suddenly heard his name called above the rattling of
the trucks. It was Shenbok, with curled and stiffened mustache and radiant
face. Nekhludoff had lost sight of him long ago, but heard that on leaving his
regiment and joining the cavalry, notwithstanding his debts he managed to
hold his own in rich society.
"I am glad I met you. There is not a soul in the city. How old you have
grown, my boy! I only recognized you by your walk. Well, shall we have
dinner together? Where can we get a good meal here?"
"I hardly think I will have the time," answered Nekhludoff, who wished to
get rid of his friend without offending him. "What brings you here?" he
asked.
"Business, my boy. Guardianship affairs. I am a guardian, you know. I have
charge of Samanoff's business—the rich Samanoff, you know. He is a
spendthrift, and there are fifty-four thousand acres of land!" he said with
particular pride, as if he had himself made all these acres. "The affairs were
fearfully neglected. The land was rented to the peasants, who did not pay
anything and were eighty thousand rubles in arrears. In one year I changed
everything, and realized seventy per cent. more for the estate. Eh?" he asked,
with pride.

Nekhludoff recalled a rumor that for the very reason that Shenbok
squandered his own wealth and was inextricably in debt, he was appointed
guardian over a rich old spendthrift, and was now evidently obtaining an
income from the guardianship.
Nekhludoff refused to take dinner with Shenbok, or accompany him to the
horse races, to which the latter invited him, and after an exchange of
commonplaces the two parted.
"Is it possible that I was like him?" thought Nekhludoff. "Not exactly, but I
sought to be like him, and thought that I would thus pass my life."

The lawyer received him immediately on his arrival, although it was not his
turn. The lawyer expressed himself strongly on the detention of the
Menshovs, declaring that there was not a particle of evidence against them
on record.
"If the case is tried here, and not in the district, I will stake anything on their
discharge. And the petition in behalf of Theodosia Brinkova is ready. You
had better take it with you to St. Petersburg and present it there. Otherwise
there will begin an inquiry which will have no end. Try to reach some people
who have influence with the commission on petitions. Well, that's all, isn't
it?"
"No. Here they write me——"
"You seem to be the funnel into which all the prison complaints are poured. I
fear you will not hold them all."
"But this case is simply shocking," said Nekhludoff, and related the
substance of it.
"What is it that surprises you?"
"Everything. I can understand the orderly who acted under orders, but the
assistant prosecutor who drew the indictment is an educated man——"

"That is the mistake. We are used to think that the prosecuting officers—the
court officers generally—are a kind of new, liberal men. And so they were at
one time, but not now. The only thing that concerns these officers is to draw
their salaries on the 20th of every month. Their principles begin and end
with their desire to get more. They will arrest, try and convict anybody——.
I am always telling these court officers that I never look upon them without
gratitude," continued the lawyer, "because it is due to their kindness that I,
you and all of us are not in jail. To deprive any one of us of all civil rights
and send him to Siberia is the easiest thing imaginable."
"But if everything depends on the pleasure of the prosecutor, who can
enforce the law or not, then what is the use of the courts?"
The lawyer laughed merrily.
"That is the question you are raising. Well, my dear sir, that is philosophy.
However, we can discuss that. Come to my house next Saturday. You will
find there scholars, litterateurs, artists. We will have a talk on social
questions," said the lawyer, pronouncing the words "social questions" with
ironical pathos. "Are you acquainted with my wife? Call on Saturday."
"I will try," answered Nekhludoff, feeling that he was saying an untruth; that
if there was anything he would try hard to do it was not to be present at the
lawyer's amid the scholars, litterateurs and artists.
The laughter with which the lawyer met Nekhludoff's remark concerning the
uselessness of courts if the prosecutors can do what they please, and the
intonation with which he pronounced the words "philosophy" and "social
questions," showed how utterly unlike himself were the lawyer and the
people of his circle, both in character and in views of life.

CHAPTER VII.
It was late and the distance to the prison was long, so Nekhludoff hired a
trap. On one of the streets the driver, who was a middle-aged man with an
intelligent and good-natured face, turned to Nekhludoff and pointed to an
immense building going up.
"What a huge building there is going up!" he said with pride, as if he had a
part in the building of it.
It was really a huge structure, built in a complex, unusual style. A
scaffolding of heavy pine logs surrounded the structure, which was fenced in
by deal boards. It was as busy a scene as an ant hill.
Nekhludoff wondered that these people, while their wives were killing
themselves with work at home, and their children starving, should think it
necessary to build that foolish and unnecessary house for some foolish and
unnecessary man.
"Yes, a foolish building," he spoke his thought aloud.
"How foolish?" retorted the offended driver. "Thanks to them, the people get
work. It is not foolish."
"But the work is unnecessary."
"It must be necessary if they are building it," said the driver. "It gives the
people food."
Nekhludoff became silent, the more so because it was too noisy to be heard.
When they had reached the macadamized road near the prison the driver
again turned to Nekhludoff.
"And what a lot of people are coming to the city—awful," he said, turning
around on the box and pointing to a party of laborers with saws, axes, coats
and sacks thrown over their shoulders, and coming from the opposite
direction.

"More than in former years?" asked Nekhludoff.
"No comparison. The masters are kicking them about like shavings. The
market places are glutted with them."
"What is the reason?"
"They have multiplied. They have no homes."
"And what if they have multiplied! Why do they not remain in the villages?"
"There is nothing to do there. There is no land."
Nekhludoff experienced that which happens with a sore place—it is struck
oftener than any other part of the body. But it only seems so because it is
more noticeable.
"Can it be possible that it is everywhere the same?" he thought, and asked
the driver how much land there was in his village; how much he himself
owned, and why he lived in the city.
"There is but an acre to every person. We are renting three acres. There is my
father and brother. Another brother is in the army. They are managing it. But
there is really nothing to manage, and my brother intended to go to
Moskow."
"Is there no land for rent?"
"Where could one get land nowadays? The masters' children have
squandered theirs. The merchants have it all in their hands. One cannot rent
it from them; they cultivate it themselves. Our lands are held by a
Frenchman who bought them of the former landlord. He won't rent any of it,
and that is all."
"What Frenchman?"
"Dufar, the Frenchman—you may have heard. He is making wigs for the
actors. He is now our master, and does what he pleases with us. He is a good
man himself, but his wife is Russian—and what a cur! She is robbing the
people—simply awful! But here is the prison. Shall I drive up to the front? I
think they don't admit through the front."

CHAPTER VIII.
With a faint heart and with horror at the thought that he might find Maslova
in an inebriate condition and persistently antagonistic, and at the mystery
which she was to him, Nekhludoff rang the bell and inquired of the inspector
about Maslova. She was in the hospital.
A young physician, impregnated with carbolic acid, came out into the
corridor and sternly asked Nekhludoff what he wanted. The physician
indulged the prisoners' shortcomings and often relaxed the rules in their
favor, for which he often ran afoul of the prison officials and even the head
physician. Fearing that Nekhludoff might ask something not permitted by
the rules, and, moreover, desiring to show that he made no exceptions in
favor of anybody, he feigned anger.
"There are no women here; this is the children's ward," he said.
"I know it, but there is a nurse here who had been transferred from the
prison."
"Yes, there are two. What do you wish, then?"
"I am closely related to one of them, Maslova," said Nekhludoff, "and would
like to see her. I am going to St. Petersburg to enter an appeal in her case. I
would like to hand her this; it is only a photograph," and he produced an
envelope from his pocket.
"Yes, you may do that," said the softened physician, and turning to an old
nurse in a white apron, told her to call Maslova. "Won't you take a seat, or
come into the reception-room?"
"Thank you," said Nekhludoff, and taking advantage of the favorable change
in the physician's demeanor, asked him what they thought of Maslova in the
hospital.
"Her work is fair, considering the conditions amid which she had lived,"
answered the physician. "But there she comes."

The old nurse appeared at one of the doors, and behind her came Maslova.
She wore a white apron over a striped skirt; a white cap on her head hid her
hair. Seeing Nekhludoff she flushed, stopped waveringly, then frowned, and
with downcast eyes approached him with quick step. Coming near him she
stood for a moment without offering her hand, then she did offer her hand
and became even more flushed. Nekhludoff had not seen her since the
conversation in which she excused herself for her impetuosity, and he
expected to find her in a similar mood. But she was entirely different to-day;
there was something new in the expression of her face; something timid and
reserved, and, as it seemed to him, malevolent toward him. He repeated the
words he had said to the physician and handed her the envelope with the
photograph which he had brought from Panov.
"It is an old picture which I came across in Panov. It may please you to have
it. Take it."
Raising her black eyebrows she looked at him with her squinting eyes, as
though asking, "What is that for?" Then she silently took the envelope and
tucked it under her apron.
"I saw your aunt there," said Nekhludoff.
"Did you?" she said, with indifference.
"How do you fare here?" asked Nekhludoff.
"Fairly well," she said.
"It is not very hard?"
"Not very. I am not used to it yet."
"I am very glad. At any rate, it is better than there."
"Than where?" she said, and her face became purple.
"There, in the prison," Nekhludoff hastened to say.
"Why better?" she asked.
"I think the people here are better. There are no such people here as there."

"There are many good people there."
"I did what I could for the Menshovs and hope they will be freed," said
Nekhludoff.
"May God grant it. Such a wonderful little woman," she said, repeating her
description of the old woman, and slightly smiled.
"I am going to-day to St. Petersburg. Your case will be heard soon, and, I
hope, will be reversed."
"It is all the same now, whether they reverse it or not," she said.
"Why now?"
"So," she answered, and stealthily glanced at him inquiringly.
Nekhludoff understood this answer and this glance as a desire on her part to
know if he were still holding to his decision, or had changed it since her
refusal.
"I don't know why it is all the same to you," he said, "but to me it really is all
the same whether you are acquitted or not. In either case, I am ready to do
what I said," he said, with determination.
She raised her head, and her black, squinting eyes fixed themselves on his
face and past it, and her whole face became radiant with joy. But her words
were in an entirely different strain.
"Oh, you needn't talk that way," she said.
"I say it that you may know."
"Everything has been already said, and there is no use talking any more," she
said, with difficulty repressing a smile.
There was some noise in the ward. A child was heard crying.
"I think I am called," she said, looking around with anxiety.
"Well, then, good-by," he said.

She pretended not to see his extended hand, turned round, and endeavoring
to hide her elation, she walked away with quick step.
"What is taking place in her? What is she thinking? What are her feelings? Is
she putting me to a test, or is she really unable to forgive me? Can she not
say what she thinks and feels, or simply will not? Is she pacified or
angered?" Nekhludoff asked himself, but could give no answer. One thing he
knew, however, and that was that she had changed; that a spiritual
transformation was taking place in her, and this transformation united him
not only to her, but to Him in whose name it was taking place. And this
union caused him joyful agitation.
Returning to the ward where eight children lay in their beds, Maslova began
to remake one of the beds, by order of the Sister, and, leaning over too far
with the sheet, slipped and nearly fell. The convalescing boy, wound in
bandages to his neck, began to laugh. Maslova could restrain herself no
longer, and seating herself on the bedstead she burst into loud laughter,
infecting several children, who also began to laugh. The Sister angrily
shouted:
"What are you roaring about? Think you this is like the place you came
from? Go fetch the rations."
Maslova stopped laughing, and taking a dish went on her errand, but
exchanging looks with the bandaged boy, who giggled again.
Several times during the day, when Maslova remained alone, she drew out a
corner of the picture and looked at it with admiration, but in the evening,
when she and another nurse retired for the night, she removed the picture
from the envelope and immovably looked with admiration at the faces; her
own, his and the aunt's, their dresses, the stairs of the balcony, the bushes in
the background, her eyes feasting especially on herself, her young, beautiful
face with the hair hanging over her forehead. She was so absorbed that she
failed to notice that the other nurse had entered.
"What is that? Did he give it you?" asked the stout, good-natured nurse,
leaning over the photograph.
"Is it possible that that is you?"

"Who else?" Maslova said, smiling and looking into her companion's face.
"And who is that? He himself? And that is his mother?"
"His aunt. Couldn't you recognize me?" asked Maslova.
"Why, no. I could never recognize you. The face is entirely different. That
must have been taken about ten years ago."
"Not years, but a lifetime," said Maslova, and suddenly her face became
sullen and a wrinkle formed between her eyebrows.
"Yours was an easy life, wasn't it?"
"Yes, easy," Maslova repeated, closing her eyes and shaking her head.
"Worse than penal servitude."
"Why so?"
"Because. From eight in the evening to four in the morning—every day the
same."
"Then why don't they get out?"
"They like to, but cannot. But what is the use of talking!" cried Maslova, and
she sprang to her feet, threw the photograph into the drawer of the table, and
suppressing her angry tears, ran into the corridor, slamming the door.
Looking on the photograph she imagined herself as she had been at the time
the photograph was made, and dreamed how happy she had been and might
still be with him. The words of her companion reminded her what she was
now—reminded her of all the horror of that life which she then felt but
confusedly, and would not allow herself to admit. Only now she vividly
recalled all those terrible nights, particularly one Shrovetide night. She
recalled how she, in a low-cut, wine-bespattered, red silk dress, with a red
bow in her dishevelled hair, weak, jaded and tipsy, after dancing attendance
upon the guest, had seated herself, at two in the morning, near the thin, bony,
pimpled girl-pianist and complained of her hard life. The girl said that her
life was also disagreeable to her, and that she wished to change her
occupation. Afterward their friend Clara joined them, and all three suddenly
decided to change their life. They were about to leave the place when the
drunken guests became noisy, the fiddler struck up a lively song of the first

figure of a Russian quadrille, the pianist began to thump in unison, a little
drunken man in a white necktie and dress coat caught her up. Another man,
stout and bearded, and also in a dress coat, seized Clara, and for a long time
they whirled, danced, shouted and drank. Thus a year passed, a second and a
third. How could she help changing! And the cause of it all was he. And
suddenly her former wrath against him rose in her; and she felt like chiding
and reproving him. She was sorry that she had missed the opportunity of
telling him again that she knew him, and would not yield to him; that she
would not allow him to take advantage of her spiritually as he had done
corporeally; that she would not allow him to make her the subject of his
magnanimity. And in order to deaden the painful feeling of pity for herself
and the useless reprobation of him, she yearned for wine. And she would
have broken her word and drunk some wine had she been in the prison. But
here wine could only be obtained from the assistant surgeon, and she was
afraid of him, because he pursued her with his attentions, and all relations
with men were disgusting to her. For some time she sat on a bench in the
corridor, and returning to her closet, without heeding her companion's
questions, she wept for a long time over her ruined life.

CHAPTER IX.
Nekhludoff had four cases in hand: Maslova's appeal, the petition of
Theodosia Birukova, the case of Shustova's release, by request of Vera
Bogodukhovskaia, and the obtaining of permission for a mother to visit her
son kept in a fortress, also by Bogodukhovskaia's request.
Since his visit to Maslenikoff, especially since his trip to the country,
Nekhludoff felt an aversion for that sphere in which he had been living
heretofore, and in which the sufferings borne by millions of people in order
to secure the comforts and pleasures of a few, were so carefully concealed
that the people of that sphere did not and could not see these sufferings, and
consequently the cruelty and criminality of their own lives.
Nekhludoff could no longer keep up relations with these people without
reproving himself. And yet the habits of his past life, the ties of friendship
and kinship, and especially his one great aim of helping Maslova and the
other unfortunates, drew him into that sphere against his will; and he was
compelled to ask the aid and services of people whom he had not only
ceased to respect but who called forth his indignation and contempt.
Arriving at St. Petersburg, and stopping at his aunt's, the wife of an ex-
Minister of State, he found himself in the very heart of the aristocratic circle.
It was unpleasant to him, but he could do no different. Not to stop at his
aunt's was to offend her. Besides, through her connections she could be of
great service to him in those affairs for the sake of which he came to St.
Petersburg.
"What wonders I hear about you!" said Countess Catherine Ivanovna
Charskaia, while Nekhludoff was drinking the coffee brought him
immediately after his arrival. "Vous posez pour un Howard. You are helping
the convicts; making the rounds of the prisons; reforming them."
"You are mistaken; I never had such intentions."
"Why, that is not bad. Only, I understand, there is some love affair—come,
tell me."

Nekhludoff related the story of Maslova, exactly as it happened.
"Yes, yes, I remember. Poor Hellen told me at the time you lived at the old
maids' house that, I believe, they wished you to marry their ward." Countess
Catherine Ivanovna always hated Nekhludoff's aunts on his father's side.
"So, that is she? Elle est encore jolie?"
Aunt Catherine Ivanovna was a sixty-year-old, healthy, jolly, energetic,
talkative woman. She was tall, very stout, with a black, downy mustache on
her upper lip. Nekhludoff loved her, and since childhood had been
accustomed to get infected with her energy and cheerfulness.
"No, ma tante, all that belongs to the past. I only wish to help her, because
she is innocent, and it is my fault that she was condemned, her whole
wrecked life is upon my conscience. I feel it to be my duty to do for her what
I can."
"But how is it? I was told that you wish to marry her."
"I do wish it, it is true; but she doesn't."
Catherine Ivanovna raised her eyebrows and silently looked at Nekhludoff in
surprise. Suddenly her face changed and assumed a pleased expression.
"Well, she is wiser than you are. Ah! what a fool you are! And you would
marry her?"
"Certainly."
"After what she has been?"
"The more so—is it not all my fault?"
"Well, you are simply a crank," said the aunt, suppressing a smile. "You are
an awful crank, but I love you for the very reason that you are such an awful
crank," she repeated, the word evidently well describing, according to her
view, the mental and moral condition of her nephew. "And how opportune.
You know, Aline has organized a wonderful asylum for Magdalens. I visited
it once. How disgusting they are! I afterward washed myself from head to
foot. But Aline is corps et ame in this affair. So we will send her, your
Magdalen, to her. If any one will reform her, it is Aline."

"But she was sentenced to penal servitude. I came here for the express
purpose of obtaining a reversal of her sentence. That is my first business to
you."
"Is that so? Where is the case now?"
"In the Senate."
"In the Senate? Why, my dear cousin Levoushka is in the Senate. However,
he is in the Heraldry Department. Let me see. No, of the real ones I do not
know any. Heaven knows what a mixture they are: either Germans, such as
Ge, Fe, De—tout l'alphabet—or all sorts of Ivanvas, Semenovs, Nikitins, or
Ivaneukos, Semeneukos, Nikitenkas pour varier. Des gens de l'autre monde.
However, I will tell my husband. He knows all sorts of people. I will tell
him. You explain it to him, for he never understands me. No matter what I
may say, he always says that he cannot understand me. C'est un parti pris.
Everybody understands, only he does not understand."
At that moment a servant in knee-breeches entered with a letter on a silver
tray.
"Ah, that is from Aline. Now you will have an opportunity to hear
Kisiweather."
"Who is that Kisiweather?"
"Kisiweather? Come around to-day and you will find out who he is. He
speaks so that the most hardened criminals fall on their knees and weep, and
repent."
Countess Catherine Ivanovna, however strange it might be, and how so little
it agreed with her character, was a follower of that teaching which held that
essence of Christianity consisted in a belief in redemption. She visited the
meetings where sermons were delivered on this teaching then in vogue, and
invited the adherents to her own house. Although this teaching rejected all
rites, images and even the sacraments, the Princess had images hanging in all
her rooms, even over her bedstead, and she complied with all the ritual
requirements of the church, seeing nothing contradictory in that.
"Your Magdalen ought to hear him; she would become converted," said the
Countess. "Don't fail to come to-night. You will hear him then. He is a

remarkable man."
"It is not interesting to me, ma tante."
"I tell you it is interesting. You must come to-night. Now, what else do you
want me to do? Videz votre sac."
"There is the man in the fortress."
"In the fortress? Well, I can give you a note to Baron Kriegmuth. C'est un
très-brave homme. But you know him yourself. He was your father's
comrade. Il donne dans le spiritisme. But that is nothing. He is a kind man.
What do you want there?"
"It is necessary to obtain permission for a mother to visit her son who is
incarcerated there. But I was told that Cherviansky and not Kriegmuth is the
person to be applied to."
"I do not like Cherviansky, but he is Mariette's husband. I will ask her; she
will do it for me. Elle est tres gentille."
"There is another woman I wish you would speak to her about. She has been
in prison for several months, and no one knows for what."
"Oh, no; she herself surely knows for what. They know very well. And it
serves them right, those short-haired ones."
"I do not know whether it serves them right or not. But they are suffering.
You are a Christian, and believe in the Gospel, and yet are so pitiless."
"That has nothing to do with it. The Gospel is one thing; what I dislike is
another thing. It would be worse if I pretended to like the Nihilists,
especially the female Nihilists, when as a matter of fact I hate them."
"Why do you hate them?"
"Why do they meddle in other people's affairs? It is not a woman's business."
"But you have nothing against Mariette occupying herself with business,"
said Nekhludoff.

"Mariette? Mariette is Mariette, but who is she? A conceited ignoramus who
wants to teach everybody."
"They do not wish to teach; they only wish to help the people."
"We know without them who should and who should not be helped."
"But the people are impoverished. I have just been in the country. Is it proper
that peasants should overwork themselves without getting enough to eat,
while we are living in such wasteful luxury?"
"What do you wish me to do? You would like to see me work and not eat
anything?"
"No, I do not wish you not to eat," smiling involuntarily, answered
Nekhludoff. "I only wish that we should all work, and all have enough to
eat."
The aunt again raised her eyebrows and gazed at him with curiosity.
"Mon cher, vous finirez mal," she said.
At that moment a tall, broad-shouldered general entered the room. It was
Countess Charskaia's husband, a retired Minister of State.
"Ah, Dmitri, how do you do?" he said, putting out his clean-shaven cheek.
"When did you get here?"
He silently kissed his wife on the forehead.
"Non, il est impayable." Countess Catherine Ivanovna turned to her husband.
"He wants me to do washing on the river and feast on potatoes. He is an
awful fool, but, nevertheless, do for him what he asks. An awful crank," she
corrected herself. "By the way, they say that Kamenskaia is in a desperate
condition; her life is despaired of," she turned to her husband. "You ought to
visit her."
"Yes, it is awful," said the husband.
"Go, now, and have a talk together; I must write some letters."

Nekhludoff had just reached the room next to the reception-room when she
shouted after him:
"Shall I write then to Mariette?"
"If you please, ma tante."
"I will learn that which you want to say about the short-haired en blanc, and
she will have her husband attend to it. Don't think that I am angry. They are
hateful, your protegees, but—je ne leur veux pas de mal. But God forgive
them. Now, go, and don't forget to come in the evening; you will hear
Kisiweather. We will also pray. And if you do not resist, ca vous fera
beaucoup de bien. I know that Hellen and all of you are very backward in
that respect. Now, au revoir."

CHAPTER X.
The man in whose power it was to lighten the condition of the prisoners in
St. Petersburg had earned a great number of medals, which, except for a
white cross in his button-hole, he did not wear, however. The old general
was of the German barons, and, as it was said of him, had become childish.
He had served in the Caucasus, where he had received this cross; then in
Poland and in some other place, and now he held the office which gave him
good quarters, maintenance and honor. He always strictly carried out the
orders of his superiors, and considered their execution of great importance
and significance, so much so that while everything in the world could be
changed, these orders, according to him, were above the possibility of any
alteration.
As Nekhludoff was approaching the old general's house the tower clock
struck two. The general was at the time sitting with a young artist in the
darkened reception-room, at a table, the top of which was of inlaid work,
both of them turning a saucer on a sheet of paper. Holding each others
fingers over the saucer, placed face downward, they pulled in different
directions over the paper on which were printed all the letters of the
alphabet. The saucer was answering the general's question. How would souls
recognize each other after death?
At the moment one of the servants entered with Nekhludoff's card, the soul
of Jeanne D'Arc was speaking through the saucer. The soul had already said,
"They will recognize each other," which was duly entered on a sheet of
paper. When the servant entered, the saucer, stopping first on the letter p,
then on the letter o, reached the letter s and began to jerk one way and
another. That was because, as the general thought, the next letter was to be l,
that is to say, Jeanne D'Arc, according to his idea, intended to say that souls
would recognize each other only after they had been purged of everything
mundane, or something to that effect, and that therefore the next letter ought
to be l (posl, i. e., after); the artist, on the other hand, thought that the next
letter would be v; that the soul intended to say that souls would recognize
each other by the light—posv (ietu) that would issue from the ethereal body

of the souls. The general, gloomily knitting his brow, gazed fixedly on the
hands, and imagining that the saucer moved itself, pulled it toward the letter
l. The young, anaemic artist, with his oily hair brushed behind his ears,
looked into the dark corner of the room, with his blue, dull eyes, and
nervously twitching his lips, pulled toward the letter v. The general frowned
at the interruption, and, after a moment's silence, took the card, put on his
pince-nez and, groaning from pain in his loins, rose to his full height,
rubbing his benumbed fingers.
"Show him into the cabinet."
"Permit me, Your Excellency, to finish it myself," said the artist, rising. "I
feel a presence."
"Very well; finish it," said the general with austerity, and went, with firm,
long strides, into the cabinet.
"Glad to see you," said the general in a rough voice to Nekhludoff, pointing
to an arm-chair near the desk. "How long have you been in St. Petersburg?"
Nekhludoff said that he had but lately arrived.
"Is your mother, the Princess, well?"
"My mother is dead."
"Beg pardon; I was very sorry. My son told me that he had met you."
The general's son was making the same career as his father, and was very
proud of the business with which he was entrusted.
"Why, I served with your father. We were friends, comrades. Are you in
service?"
"No, I am not."
The general disapprovingly shook his head.
"I have a request to make of you, general," said Nekhludoff.
"Very glad. What can I do for you?"
"If my request be out of season, please forgive me. But I must state it."

"What is it?"
"There is a man, Gurkevitch, kept in prison under your jurisdiction. His
mother asks to be permitted to visit him, or, at least to send him books."
The general expressed neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction at Nekhludoff's
request, but, inclining his head to one side, seemed to reflect. As a matter of
fact he was not reflecting; Nekhludoff's question did not even interest him,
knowing very well that his answer would be as the law requires. He was
simply resting mentally without thinking of anything.
"That is not in my discretion, you know," he said, having rested awhile.
"There is a law relating to visits, and whatever that law permits, that is
permitted. And as to books, there is a library, and they are given such books
as are allowed."
"Yes, but he wants scientific books; he wishes to study."
"Don't believe that." The general paused. "It is not for study that they want
them, but so, it is simply unrest."
"But their time must be occupied somehow?"
"They are always complaining," retorted the general. "We know them."
He spoke of them in general as of some peculiar race of people.
"They have such conveniences here as is seldom seen in a prison," he
continued.
And as though justifying himself, he began to recount all the conveniences
enjoyed by the prisoners in a manner to make one believe that the chief aim
of the institution consisted in making it a pleasant place of abode.
"Formerly, it is true, the regulations were very harsh, but now their condition
is excellent. They get three dishes, one of which is always of meat—chopped
meat or cutlet. Sundays they get a fourth dish—dessert. May God grant that
every Russian could feed so well."
The general, like all old men, evidently having committed to memory the
oft-repeated words, proceeded to prove how exacting and ungrateful the
prisoners were by repeating what he had told many times before.

"They are furnished books on spiritual topics, also old journals. We have a
library of suitable books, but they seldom read them. At first they appear to
be interested, and then it is found that the pages of all the new books are
barely half cut, and of the old ones there is no evidence of any thumb-marks
at all. We even tried," with a remote semblance of a smile the general
continued, "to put a piece of paper between the pages, and it remained
untouched. Writing, too, is allowed. A slate is given them, also a slate-pencil,
so that they may write for diversion. They can wipe it out and write again.
And yet they don't write. No, they become quiet very soon. At first they are
uneasy, but afterward they even grow stout and become very quiet."
Nekhludoff listened to the hoarse, feeble voice; looked on that fleshless
body, those faded eyes under the gray eyebrows, those sunken, shaved
cheeks, supported by a military collar, that white cross, and understood that
to argue and explain to him the meaning of those words were futile. But,
making another effort, he asked him about the prisoner, Shustova, whose
release, he had received information, had been ordered, through the efforts
of Mariette.
"Shustova? Shustova—I don't remember them all by name. There are so
many of them," he said, evidently reproving them for being so numerous. He
rang the bell and called for the secretary.
While a servant was going after the secretary he admonished Nekhludoff to
go into service, saying that the country was in need of honest, noble men.
"I am old, and yet I am serving to the extent of my ability."
The secretary came and reported that there were no papers received relating
to Shustova, who was still in prison.
"As soon as we receive an order we release them the very same day. We do
not keep them; we do not particularly value their presence," said the general,
again with a waggish smile, which had the effect only of making his face
wry.
"Good-by, my dear," he continued. "Don't be offended for advising you, for I
do so only because I love you. Have nothing to do with the prisoners. You
will never find innocent people among them. They are the most immoral set.
We know them," he said, in a tone of voice which did not permit the

possibility of doubt. "You had better take an office. The Emperor and the
country need honest people. What if I and such as you refused to serve? Who
would be left? We are complaining of conditions, but refuse to aid the
government."
Nekhludoff sighed deeply, made a low bow, pressed the bony hand
condescendingly extended, and departed.
The general disapprovingly shook his head, and, rubbing his loins, went to
the reception-room, where the artist awaited him with the answer of Jeanne
D'Arc. The general put on his pince-nez and read: "They will recognize each
other by the light issuing from the ethereal bodies."
"Ah!" said the general, approvingly, closing his eyes. "But how will one
recognize another when all have the same light?" he asked, and again
crossing his fingers with those of the artist, seated himself at the table.

Nekhludoff's driver drove up to the gate.
"It is very dull here, sir," he said, turning to Nekhludoff. "It was very
tiresome, and I was about to drive away."
"Yes, tiresome," assented Nekhludoff with a deep sigh, resting his eyes on
the clouds and the Neva, dotted with variegated boats and steamers.

CHAPTER XI.
With a note from Prince Ivan Michaelovitch, Nekhludoff went to Senator
Wolf—un homme très comme il faut, as the Prince had described him.
Wolf had just breakfasted and, as usual, was smoking a cigar, to aid his
digestion, when Nekhludoff arrived. Vladimir Vasilievitch Wolf was really
un homme très comme il faut, and this quality he placed above all else; from
the height of it he looked upon all other people, and could not help valuing
this quality, because, thanks to it, he had gained a brilliant career—the same
career he strove for; that is to say, through marriage he obtained a fortune,
which brought him a yearly income of eighteen thousand rubles, and by his
own efforts he obtained a senatorship. He considered himself not only un
homme très comme il faut, but a man of chivalric honesty. By honesty he
understood the refusal to take bribes from private people. But to do
everything in his power to obtain all sorts of traveling expenses, rents and
disbursements he did not consider dishonest. Nor did he consider it dishonest
to rob his wife and sister-in-law of their fortunes. On the contrary, he
considered that a wise arrangement of his family affairs.
The home circle of Vladimir Vasilievitch consisted of his characterless wife,
her sister, whose fortune he managed to get into his own hands by selling her
property and depositing the money in his own name, and his gentle, scared,
homely daughter, who was leading a solitary, hard life, and whose only
diversion consisted in visiting the religious meetings at Aline's and Countess
Catherine Ivanovna's.
The son of Vladimir Vasilievitch, a good-natured, bearded boy of fifteen,
who at that age had already commenced to drink and lead a depraved life
which lasted till he was twenty years old, was driven from the house for the
reason that he did not pass examinations in any school, and keeping bad
company, and, running into debt, he had compromised his father. The father
paid once for his son two hundred and thirty rubles, and paid six hundred
rubles a second time, but declared that that was the last time, and if the son
did not reform he would drive him from the house and have nothing to do
with him. Not only did the son not reform, but contracted another debt of a

thousand rubles, and told his father that he did not care if he was driven from
the house, since life at home was torture to him. Then Vladimir Vasilievitch
told his son that he could go where he pleased; that he was no longer his son.
Since then no one in the house dared to speak of his son to him. And
Vladimir Vasilievitch was quite certain that he had arranged his family
affairs in the best possible manner.
Wolf, with a flattering and somewhat derisive smile—it was an involuntary
expression of his consciousness of his comme il faut superiority—halted in
his exercise long enough to greet Nekhludoff and read the note.
"Please take a seat, but you must excuse me. If you have no objection I will
walk," he said, putting his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and treading
lightly up and down the diagonal of the large cabinet, furnished in an austere
style. "Very glad to make your acquaintance, and, of course, to please the
Count Ivan Michaelovitch," emitting the fragrant, blue smoke, and carefully
removing the cigar from his mouth so as not to lose the ashes.
"I would like to ask you to hasten the hearing of the appeal, because if the
prisoner is to go to Siberia, it would be desirable that she go as soon as
possible," said Nekhludoff.
"Yes, yes, with the first steamer from Nijhni; I know," said Wolf, with his
condescending smile, who always knew everything in advance, whatever the
subject mentioned to him. "What is the name of the prisoner?"
"Maslova."
Wolf walked to the table and looked into the papers.
"That's right—Maslova. Very well; I will ask my associates. We will hear the
case Wednesday."
"May I wire my lawyer?"
"So you have a lawyer? What for? But if you wish it, all right."
"The grounds of appeal may be insufficient," said Nekhludoff, "but I think it
may be seen from the case that the sentence was the result of a
misunderstanding."

"Yes, yes; that may be so, but the Senate cannot enter into the merits of the
case," said Vladimir Vasilievitch, sternly, glancing at the ashes of his cigar.
"The Senate only looks after the proper interpretation and application of the
law."
"This, I think, is an exceptional case."
"I know; I know. All cases are exceptional. We will do what the law requires.
That is all." The ashes were still intact, but had already cracked and were in
danger of collapse. "And do you often visit St. Petersburg?" asked Wolf,
holding the cigar so that the ashes would not fall. The ashes were unstable,
however, and Wolf carefully carried them to the ash-holder, into which they
were finally precipitated.
"What an awful catastrophe Kamensky met with," said Wolf. "A fine young
man, and an only son. Especially the condition of the mother"—he went on
repeating almost word for word the story of a duel of which all St.
Petersburg was talking at the time. After a few more words about Countess
Catherine Ivanovna and her passion for the new religious tendency which
Vladimir Vasilievitch neither praised nor condemned, but which, for un
homme très comme il faut, was evidently superfluous, he rang the bell.
Nekhludoff bowed himself out.
"If it is convenient for you, come to dinner," said Wolf, extending his hand,
"say on Wednesday. I will then give you a definite answer."
It was already late, and Nekhludoff drove home, that is, to his aunt's.