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Resurrection

C >> Count Leo Tolstoy >> Resurrection




But his excitement passed at once. The marechal do noblesse, of
the district in which his largest estate lay, wrote only to let
Nekhludoff know that there was to be a special meeting towards
the end of May, and that Nekhludoff was to be sure and come to
"_donner un coup d'epaule_," at the important debates concerning
the schools and the roads, as a strong opposition by the
reactionary party was expected.

The marechal was a liberal, and was quite engrossed in this
fight, not even noticing the misfortune that had befallen him.

Nekhludoff remembered the dreadful moments he had lived through;
once when he thought that the husband had found him out and was
going to challenge him, and he was making up his mind to fire
into the air; also the terrible scene he had with her when she
ran out into the park, and in her excitement tried to drown
herself in the pond.

"Well, I cannot go now, and can do nothing until I get a reply
from her," thought Nekhludoff. A week ago he had written her a
decisive letter, in which he acknowledged his guilt, and his
readiness to atone for it; but at the same time he pronounced
their relations to be at an end, for her own good, as he
expressed it. To this letter he had as yet received no answer.
This might prove a good sign, for if she did not agree to break
off their relations, she would have written at once, or even come
herself, as she had done before. Nekhludoff had heard that there
was some officer who was paying her marked attention, and this
tormented him by awakening jealousy, and at the same time
encouraged him with the hope of escape from the deception that
was oppressing him.

The other letter was from his steward. The steward wrote to tell
him that a visit to his estates was necessary in order to enter
into possession, and also to decide about the further management
of his lands; whether it was to continue in the same way as when
his mother was alive, or whether, as he had represented to the
late lamented princess, and now advised the young prince, they
had not better increase their stock and farm all the land now
rented by the peasants themselves. The steward wrote that this
would be a far more profitable way of managing the property; at
the same time, he apologised for not having forwarded the 3,000
roubles income due on the 1st. This money would be sent on by the
next mail. The reason for the delay was that he could not get the
money out of the peasants, who had grown so untrustworthy that he
had to appeal to the authorities. This letter was partly
disagreeable, and partly pleasant. It was pleasant to feel that
he had power over so large a property, and yet disagreeable,
because Nekhludoff had been an enthusiastic admirer of Henry
George and Herbert Spencer. Being himself heir to a large
property, he was especially struck by the position taken up by
Spencer in Social Statics, that justice forbids private
landholding, and with the straightforward resoluteness of his
age, had not merely spoken to prove that land could not be looked
upon as private property, and written essays on that subject at
the university, but had acted up to his convictions, and,
considering it wrong to hold landed property, had given the small
piece of land he had inherited from his father to the peasants.
Inheriting his mother's large estates, and thus becoming a landed
proprietor, he had to choose one of two things: either to give up
his property, as he had given up his father's land ten years
before, or silently to confess that all his former ideas were
mistaken and false.

He could not choose the former because he had no means but the
landed estates (he did not care to serve); moreover, he had
formed luxurious habits which he could not easily give up.
Besides, he had no longer the same inducements; his strong
convictions, the resoluteness of youth, and the ambitious desire
to do something unusual were gone. As to the second course, that
of denying those clear and unanswerable proofs of the injustice
of landholding, which he had drawn from Spencer's Social Statics,
and the brilliant corroboration of which he had at a later period
found in the works of Henry George, such a course was impossible
to him.



CHAPTER IV.

MISSY.

When Nekhludoff had finished his coffee, he went to his study to
look at the summons, and find out what time he was to appear at
the court, before writing his answer to the princess. Passing
through his studio, where a few studies hung on the walls and,
facing the easel, stood an unfinished picture, a feeling of
inability to advance in art, a sense of his incapacity, came over
him. He had often had this feeling, of late, and explained it by
his too finely-developed aesthetic taste; still, the feeling was
a very unpleasant one. Seven years before this he had given up
military service, feeling sure that he had a talent for art, and
had looked down with some disdain at all other activity from the
height of his artistic standpoint. And now it turned out that he
had no right to do so, and therefore everything that reminded him
of all this was unpleasant. He looked at the luxurious fittings
of the studio with a heavy heart, and it was in no cheerful mood
that he entered his study, a large, lofty room fitted up with a
view to comfort, convenience, and elegant appearance. He found
the summons at once in a pigeon hole, labelled "immediate," of
his large writing table. He had to appear at the court at 11
o'clock.

Nekhludoff sat down to write a note in reply to the princess,
thanking her for the invitation, and promising to try and come to
dinner. Having written one note, he tore it up, as it seemed too
intimate. He wrote another, but it was too cold; he feared it
might give offence, so he tore it up, too. He pressed the button
of an electric bell, and his servant, an elderly, morose-looking
man, with whiskers and shaved chin and lip, wearing a grey cotton
apron, entered at the door.

"Send to fetch an isvostchik, please."

"Yes, sir."

"And tell the person who is waiting that I send thanks for the
invitation, and shall try to come."

"Yes, sir."

"It is not very polite, but I can't write; no matter, I shall see
her today," thought Nekhludoff, and went to get his overcoat.

When he came out of the house, an isvostchik he knew, with
india-rubber tires to his trap, was at the door waiting for him.
"You had hardly gone away from Prince Korchagin's yesterday," he
said, turning half round, "when I drove up, and the Swiss at the
door says, 'just gone.'" The isvostchik knew that Nekhludoff
visited at the Korchagins, and called there on the chance of
being engaged by him.

"Even the isvostchiks know of my relations with the Korchagins,"
thought Nekhludoff, and again the question whether he should not
marry Princess Korchagin presented itself to him, and he could
not decide it either way, any more than most of the questions
that arose in his mind at this time.

It was in favour of marriage in general, that besides the
comforts of hearth and home, it made a moral life possible, and
chiefly that a family would, so Nekhludoff thought, give an aim
to his now empty life.

Against marriage in general was the fear, common to bachelors
past their first youth, of losing freedom, and an unconscious awe
before this mysterious creature, a woman.

In this particular case, in favour of marrying Missy (her name
was Mary, but, as is usual among a certain set, a nickname had
been given her) was that she came of good family, and differed in
everything, manner of speaking, walking, laughing, from the
common people, not by anything exceptional, but by her "good
breeding"--he could find no other term for this quality, though
he prized it very highly---and, besides, she thought more of him
than of anybody else, therefore evidently understood him. This
understanding of him, i.e., the recognition of his superior
merits, was to Nekhludoff a proof of her good sense and correct
judgment. Against marrying Missy in particular, was, that in all
likelihood, a girl with even higher qualities could be found,
that she was already 27, and that he was hardly her first love.
This last idea was painful to him. His pride would not reconcile
itself with the thought that she had loved some one else, even in
the past. Of course, she could not have known that she should
meet him, but the thought that she was capable of loving another
offended him. So that he had as many reasons for marrying as
against it; at any rate, they weighed equally with Nekhludoff,
who laughed at himself, and called himself the ass of the fable,
remaining like that animal undecided which haycock to turn to.

"At any rate, before I get an answer from Mary Vasilievna (the
marechal's wife), and finish completely with her, I can do
nothing," he said to himself. And the conviction that he might,
and was even obliged, to delay his decision, was comforting.
"Well, I shall consider all that later on," he said to himself,
as the trap drove silently along the asphalt pavement up to the
doors of the Court.

"Now I must fulfil my public duties conscientiously, as I am in
the habit of always doing, and as I consider it right to do.
Besides, they are often interesting." And he entered the hall of
the Law Courts, past the doorkeeper.



CHAPTER V.

THE JURYMEN.

The corridors of the Court were already full of activity. The
attendants hurried, out of breath, dragging their feet along the
ground without lifting them, backwards and forwards, with all
sorts of messages and papers. Ushers, advocates, and law officers
passed hither and thither. Plaintiffs, and those of the accused
who were not guarded, wandered sadly along the walls or sat
waiting.

"Where is the Law Court?" Nekhludoff asked of an attendant.

"Which? There is the Civil Court and the Criminal Court."

"I am on the jury."

"The Criminal Court you should have said. Here to the right, then
to the left--the second door."

Nekhludoff followed the direction.

Meanwhile some of the Criminal Court jurymen who were late had
hurriedly passed into a separate room. At the door mentioned two
men stood waiting.

One, a tall, fat merchant, a kind-hearted fellow, had evidently
partaken of some refreshments and a glass of something, and was
in most pleasant spirits. The other was a shopman of Jewish
extraction. They were talking about the price of wool when
Nekhludoff came up and asked them if this was the jurymen's room.

"Yes, my dear sir, this is it. One of us? On the jury, are you?"
asked the merchant, with a merry wink.

"Ah, well, we shall have a go at the work together," he
continued, after Nekhludoff had answered in the affirmative. "My
name is Baklasheff, merchant of the Second Guild," he said,
putting out his broad, soft, flexible hand.

"With whom have I the honour?"

Nekhludoff gave his name and passed into the jurymen's room.

Inside the room were about ten persons of all sorts. They had
come but a short while ago, and some were sitting, others walking
up and down, looking at each other, and making each other's
acquaintance. There was a retired colonel in uniform; some were
in frock coats, others in morning coats, and only one wore a
peasant's dress.

Their faces all had a certain look of satisfaction at the
prospect of fulfilling a public duty, although many of them had
had to leave their businesses, and most were complaining of it.

The jurymen talked among themselves about the weather, the early
spring, and the business before them, some having been
introduced, others just guessing who was who. Those who were not
acquainted with Nekhludoff made haste to get introduced,
evidently looking upon this as an honour, and he taking it as his
due, as he always did when among strangers. Had he been asked why
he considered himself above the majority of people, he could not
have given an answer; the life he had been living of late was not
particularly meritorious. The fact of his speaking English,
French, and German with a good accent, and of his wearing the
best linen, clothes, ties, and studs, bought from the most
expensive dealers in these goods, he quite knew would not serve
as a reason for claiming superiority. At the same time he did
claim superiority, and accepted the respect paid him as his due,
and was hurt if he did not get it. In the jurymen's room his
feelings were hurt by disrespectful treatment. Among the jury
there happened to be a man whom he knew, a former teacher of his
sister's children, Peter Gerasimovitch. Nekhludoff never knew his
surname, and even bragged a bit about this. This man was now a
master at a public school. Nekhludoff could not stand his
familiarity, his self-satisfied laughter, his vulgarity, in
short.

"Ah ha! You're also trapped." These were the words, accompanied
with boisterous laughter, with which Peter Gerasimovitch greeted
Nekhludoff. "Have you not managed to get out of it?"

"I never meant to get out of it," replied Nekhludoff, gloomily,
and in a tone of severity.

"Well, I call this being public spirited. But just wait until you
get hungry or sleepy; you'll sing to another tune then."

"This son of a priest will be saying 'thou' [in Russian, as in
many other languages, "thou" is used generally among people very
familiar with each other, or by superiors to inferiors] to me
next," thought Nekhludoff, and walked away, with such a look of
sadness on his face, as might have been natural if he had just
heard of the death of all his relations. He came up to a group
that had formed itself round a clean-shaven, tall, dignified man,
who was recounting something with great animation. This man was
talking about the trial going on in the Civil Court as of a case
well known to himself, mentioning the judges and a celebrated
advocate by name. He was saying that it seemed wonderful how the
celebrated advocate had managed to give such a clever turn to the
affair that an old lady, though she had the right on her side,
would have to pay a large sum to her opponent. "The advocate is a
genius," he said.

The listeners heard it all with respectful attention, and several
of them tried to put in a word, but the man interrupted them, as
if he alone knew all about it.

Though Nekhludoff had arrived late, he had to wait a long time.
One of the members of the Court had not yet come, and everybody
was kept waiting.



CHAPTER VI.

THE JUDGES.

The president, who had to take the chair, had arrived early. The
president was a tall, stout man, with long grey whiskers. Though
married, he led a very loose life, and his wife did the same, so
they did not stand in each other's way. This morning he had
received a note from a Swiss girl, who had formerly been a
governess in his house, and who was now on her way from South
Russia to St. Petersburg. She wrote that she would wait for him
between five and six p.m. in the Hotel Italia. This made him wish
to begin and get through the sitting as soon as possible, so as
to have time to call before six p.m. on the little red-haired
Clara Vasilievna, with whom he had begun a romance in the country
last summer. He went into a private room, latched the door, took
a pair of dumb-bells out of a cupboard, moved his arms 20 times
upwards, downwards, forwards, and sideways, then holding the
dumb-bells above his head, lightly bent his knees three times.

"Nothing keeps one going like a cold bath and exercise," he said,
feeling the biceps of his right arm with his left hand, on the
third finger of which he wore a gold ring. He had still to do the
moulinee movement (for he always went through those two exercises
before a long sitting), when there was a pull at the door. The
president quickly put away the dumb-bells and opened the door,
saying, "I beg your pardon."

One of the members, a high-shouldered, discontented-looking man,
with gold spectacles, came into the room. "Matthew Nikitich has
again not come," he said, in a dissatisfied tone.

"Not yet?" said the president, putting on his uniform. "He is
always late."

"It is extraordinary. He ought to be ashamed of himself," said
the member, angrily, and taking out a cigarette.

This member, a very precise man, had had an unpleasant encounter
with his wife in the morning, because she had spent her allowance
before the end of the month, and had asked him to give her some
money in advance, but he would not give way to her, and they had
a quarrel. The wife told him that if he were going to behave so,
he need not expect any dinner; there would be no dinner for him
at home. At this point he left, fearing that she might carry out
her threat, for anything might be expected from her. "This comes
of living a good, moral life," he thought, looking at the
beaming, healthy, cheerful, and kindly president, who, with
elbows far apart, was smoothing his thick grey whiskers with his
fine white hands over the embroidered collar of his uniform. "He
is always contented and merry while I am suffering."

The secretary came in and brought some document.

"Thanks, very much," said the president, lighting a cigarette.
"Which case shall we take first, then?"

"The poisoning case, I should say," answered the secretary, with
indifference.

"All right; the poisoning case let it be," said the president,
thinking that he could get this case over by four o'clock, and
then go away. "And Matthew Nikitich; has he come?"

"Not yet."

"And Breve?"

"He is here," replied the secretary.

"Then if you see him, please tell him that we begin with the
poisoning case." Breve was the public prosecutor, who was to read
the indictment in this case.

In the corridor the secretary met Breve, who, with up lifted
shoulders, a portfolio under one arm, the other swinging with the
palm turned to the front, was hurrying along the corridor,
clattering with his heels.

"Michael Petrovitch wants to know if you are ready?" the secretary
asked.

"Of course; I am always ready," said the public prosecutor. "What
are we taking first?"

"The poisoning case."

"That's quite right," said the public prosecutor, but did not
think it at all right. He had spent the night in a hotel playing
cards with a friend who was giving a farewell party. Up to five
in the morning they played and drank, so he had no time to look
at this poisoning case, and meant to run it through now. The
secretary, happening to know this, advised the president to begin
with the poisoning case. The secretary was a Liberal, even a
Radical, in opinion.

Breve was a Conservative; the secretary disliked him, and envied
him his position.

"Well, and how about the Skoptzy?" [a religious sect] asked the
secretary.

"I have already said that I cannot do it without witnesses, and
so I shall say to the Court."

"Dear me, what does it matter?"

"I cannot do it," said Breve; and, waving his arm, he ran into
his private room.

He was putting off the case of the Skoptzy on account of the
absence of a very unimportant witness, his real reason being that
if they were tried by an educated jury they might possibly be
acquitted.

By an agreement with the president this case was to be tried in
the coming session at a provincial town, where there would be
more peasants, and, therefore, more chances of conviction.

The movement in the corridor increased. The people crowded most
at the doors of the Civil Court, in which the case that the
dignified man talked about was being heard.

An interval in the proceeding occurred, and the old woman came
out of the court, whose property that genius of an advocate had
found means of getting for his client, a person versed in law who
had no right to it whatever. The judges knew all about the case,
and the advocate and his client knew it better still, but the
move they had invented was such that it was impossible not to
take the old woman's property and not to hand it over to the
person versed in law.

The old woman was stout, well dressed, and had enormous flowers
on her bonnet; she stopped as she came out of the door, and
spreading out her short fat arms and turning to her advocate, she
kept repeating. "What does it all mean? just fancy!"

The advocate was looking at the flowers in her bonnet, and
evidently not listening to her, but considering some question or
other.

Next to the old woman, out of the door of the Civil Court, his
broad, starched shirt front glistening from under his low-cut
waistcoat, with a self-satisfied look on his face, came the
celebrated advocate who had managed to arrange matters so that
the old woman lost all she had, and the person versed in the law
received more than 100,000 roubles. The advocate passed close to
the old woman, and, feeling all eyes directed towards him, his
whole bearing seemed to say: "No expressions of deference are
required."



CHAPTER VII.

THE OFFICIALS OF THE COURT.

At last Matthew Nikitich also arrived, and the usher, a thin man,
with a long neck and a kind of sideways walk, his nether lip
protruding to one side, which made him resemble a turkey, came
into the jurymen's room.

This usher was an honest man, and had a university education, but
could not keep a place for any length of time, as he was subject
to fits of drunkenness. Three months before a certain countess,
who patronised his wife, had found him this place, and he was
very pleased to have kept it so long.

"Well, sirs, is everybody here?" he asked, putting his pince-nez
on his nose, and looking round.

"Everybody, I think," said the jolly merchant.

"All right; we'll soon see." And, taking a list from his pocket,
he began calling out the names, looking at the men, sometimes
through and sometimes over his pince-nez.

"Councillor of State, [grades such as this are common in Russia,
and mean very little] J. M. Nikiforoff!"

"I am he," said the dignified-looking man, well versed in the
habits of the law court.

"Ivan Semionovitch Ivanoff, retired colonel!"

"Here!" replied a thin man, in the uniform of a retired officer.

"Merchant of the Second Guild, Peter Baklasheff!"

"Here we are, ready!" said the good-humoured merchant, with a
broad smile.

"Lieutenant of the Guards, Prince Dmitri Nekhludoff!"

"I am he," answered Nekhludoff.

The usher bowed to him, looking over his pince-nez, politely and
pleasantly, as if wishing to distinguish him from the others.

"Captain Youri Demitrievitch-Dantchenko, merchant; Grigori
Euphimitch Kouleshoff," etc. All but two were present.

"Now please to come to the court, gentlemen," said the usher,
pointing to the door, with an amiable wave of his hand.

All moved towards the door, pausing to let each other pass. Then
they went through the corridor into the court.

The court was a large, long room. At one end there was a raised
platform, with three steps leading up to it, on which stood a
table, covered with a green cloth trimmed with a fringe of a
darker shade. At the table were placed three arm-chairs, with
high-carved oak backs; on the wall behind them hung a
full-length, brightly-coloured portrait of the Emperor in uniform
and ribbon, with one foot in advance, and holding a sword. In the
right corner hung a case, with an image of Christ crowned with
thorns, and beneath it stood a lectern, and on the same side the
prosecuting attorney's desk. On the left, opposite the desk, was
the secretary's table, and in front of it, nearer the public, an
oak grating, with the prisoners' bench, as yet unoccupied, behind
it. Besides all this, there were on the right side of the
platform high-backed ashwood chairs for the jury, and on the
floor below tables for the advocates. All this was in the front
part of the court, divided from the back by a grating.

The back was all taken up by seats in tiers. Sitting on the front
seats were four women, either servant or factory girls, and two
working men, evidently overawed by the grandeur of the room, and
not venturing to speak above a whisper.

Soon after the jury had come in the usher entered, with his
sideward gait, and stepping to the front, called out in a loud
voice, as if he meant to frighten those present, "The Court is
coming!" Every one got up as the members stepped on to the
platform. Among them the president, with his muscles and fine
whiskers. Next came the gloomy member of the Court, who was now
more gloomy than ever, having met his brother-in-law, who
informed him that he had just called in to see his sister (the
member's wife), and that she had told him that there would be no
dinner there.

"So that, evidently, we shall have to call in at a cook shop,"
the brother-in-law added, laughing.

"It is not at all funny," said the gloomy member, and became
gloomier still.

Then at last came the third member of the Court, the same Matthew
Nikitich, who was always late. He was a bearded man, with large,
round, kindly eyes. He was suffering from a catarrh of the
stomach, and, according to his doctor's advice, he had begun
trying a new treatment, and this had kept him at home longer than
usual. Now, as he was ascending the platform, he had a pensive
air. He was in the habit of making guesses in answer to all sorts
of self-put questions by different curious means. Just now he had
asked whether the new treatment would be beneficial, and had
decided that it would cure his catarrh if the number of steps
from the door to his chair would divide by three. He made 26
steps, but managed to get in a 27th just by his chair.

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