Resurrection
“What are you saying?” exclaimed Nekhludoff. This time he did not notice
the teacher’s familiarity.
“Why, we did not put in our answer ‘Guilty, but without intent of
causing death.’ The secretary just told me the public prosecutor is for
condemning her to 15 years’ penal servitude.”
“Well, but it was decided so,” said the foreman.
Peter Gerasimovitch began to dispute this, saying that since she did
not take the money it followed naturally that she could not have had any
intention of committing murder.
“But I read the answer before going out,” said the foreman, defending
himself, “and nobody objected.”
“I had just then gone out of the room,” said Peter Gerasimovitch,
turning to Nekhludoff, “and your thoughts must have been wool-gathering
to let the thing pass.”
“I never imagined this,” Nekhludoff replied.
“Oh, you didn’t?”
“Oh, well, we can get it put right,” said Nekhludoff.
“Oh, dear no; it’s finished.”
Nekhludoff looked at the prisoners. They whose fate was being decided
still sat motionless behind the grating in front of the soldiers.
Maslova was smiling. Another feeling stirred in Nekhludoff’s soul. Up to
now, expecting her acquittal and thinking she would remain in the town,
he was uncertain how to act towards her. Any kind of relations with her
would be so very difficult. But Siberia and penal servitude at once cut
off every possibility of any kind of relations with her. The wounded
bird would stop struggling in the game-bag, and no longer remind him of
its existence.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE TRIAL--THE SENTENCE.
Peter Gerasimovitch’s assumption was correct. The president came back
from the debating room with a paper, and read as follows:--“April 28th,
188-. By His Imperial Majesty’s ukase No. ----- The Criminal Court, on
the strength of the decision of the jury, in accordance with Section
3 of Statute 771, Section 3 of Statutes 770 and 777, decrees that the
peasant, Simeon Kartinkin, 33 years of age, and the meschanka Katerina
Maslova, 27 years of age, are to be deprived of all property rights and
to be sent to penal servitude in Siberia, Kartinkin for eight, Maslova
for four years, with the consequences stated in Statute 25 of the code.
The meschanka Botchkova, 43 years of age, to be deprived of all special
personal and acquired rights, and to be imprisoned for three years with
consequences in accord with Statute 48 of the code. The costs of the
case to be borne equally by the prisoners; and, in the case of their
being without sufficient property, the costs to be transferred to the
Treasury. Articles of material evidence to be sold, the ring to be
returned, the phials destroyed.” Botchkova was condemned to prison,
Simeon Kartinken and Katerina Maslova to the loss of all special rights
and privileges and to penal servitude in Siberia, he for eight and she
for four years.
Kartinkin stood holding his arms close to his sides and moving his lips.
Botchkova seemed perfectly calm. Maslova, when she heard the sentence,
blushed scarlet. “I’m not guilty, not guilty!” she suddenly cried, so
that it resounded through the room. “It is a sin! I am not guilty! I
never wished--I never thought! It is the truth I am saying--the truth!”
and sinking on the bench she burst into tears and sobbed aloud. When
Kartinkin and Botchkova went out she still sat crying, so that a
gendarme had to touch the sleeve of her cloak.
“No; it is impossible to leave it as it is,” said Nekhludoff to himself,
utterly forgetting his bad thoughts. He did not know why he wished to
look at her once more, but hurried out into the corridor. There was
quite a crowd at the door. The advocates and jury were going out,
pleased to have finished the business, and he was obliged to wait a few
seconds, and when he at last got out into the corridor she was far
in front. He hurried along the corridor after her, regardless of the
attention he was arousing, caught her up, passed her, and stopped. She
had ceased crying and only sobbed, wiping her red, discoloured face with
the end of the kerchief on her head. She passed without noticing him.
Then he hurried back to see the president. The latter had already left
the court, and Nekhludoff followed him into the lobby and went up to
him just as he had put on his light grey overcoat and was taking the
silver-mounted walking-stick which an attendant was handing him.
“Sir, may I have a few words with you concerning some business I have
just decided upon?” said Nekhludoff. “I am one of the jury.”
“Oh, certainly, Prince Nekhludoff. I shall be delighted. I think we
have met before,” said the president, pressing Nekhludoff’s hand and
recalling with pleasure the evening when he first met Nekhludoff, and
when he had danced so gaily, better than all the young people. “What can
I do for you?”
“There is a mistake in the answer concerning Maslova. She is not guilty
of the poisoning and yet she is condemned to penal servitude,” said
Nekhludoff, with a preoccupied and gloomy air.
“The Court passed the sentence in accordance with the answers you
yourselves gave,” said the president, moving towards the front door;
“though they did not seem to be quite in accord.” And he remembered
that he had been going to explain to the jury that a verdict of “guilty”
meant guilty of intentional murder unless the words “without intent to
take life” were added, but had, in his hurry to get the business over,
omitted to do so.
“Yes, but could not the mistake be rectified?”
“A reason for an appeal can always be found. You will have to speak to
an advocate,” said the president, putting on his hat a little to one
side and continuing to move towards the door.
“But this is terrible.”
“Well, you see, there were two possibilities before Maslova,” said the
president, evidently wishing to be as polite and pleasant to Nekhludoff
as he could. Then, having arranged his whiskers over his coat collar, he
put his hand lightly under Nekhludoff’s elbow, and, still directing his
steps towards the front door, he said, “You are going, too?”
“Yes,” said Nekhludoff, quickly getting his coat, and following him.
They went out into the bright, merry sunlight, and had to raise their
voices because of the rattling of the wheels on the pavement.
“The situation is a curious one, you see,” said the president; “what lay
before this Maslova was one of two things: either to be almost acquitted
and only imprisoned for a short time, or, taking the preliminary
confinement into consideration, perhaps not at all--or Siberia. There is
nothing between. Had you but added the words, ‘without intent to cause
death,’ she would have been acquitted.”
“Yes, it was inexcusable of me to omit that,” said Nekhludoff.
“That’s where the whole matter lies,” said the president, with a smile,
and looked at his watch. He had only three-quarters of an hour left
before the time appointed by his Clara would elapse.
“Now, if you like to speak to the advocates you’ll have to find a reason
for an appeal; that can be easily done.” Then, turning to an isvostchik,
he called out, “To the Dvoryanskaya 30 copecks; I never give more.”
“All right, your honour; here you are.”
“Good-afternoon. If I can be of any use, my address is House Dvornikoff,
on the Dvoryanskaya; it’s easy to remember.” And he bowed in a friendly
manner as he got into the trap and drove off.
CHAPTER XXV.
NEKHLUDOFF CONSULTS AN ADVOCATE.
His conversation with the president and the fresh air quieted Nekhludoff
a little. He now thought that the feelings experienced by him had been
exaggerated by the unusual surroundings in which he had spent the whole
of the morning, and by that wonderful and startling coincidence. Still,
it was absolutely necessary to take some steps to lighten Maslova’s
fate, and to take them quickly. “Yes, at once! It will be best to find
out here in the court where the advocate Fanarin or Mikishin lives.”
These were two well-known advocates whom Nekhludoff called to mind. He
returned to the court, took off his overcoat, and went upstairs. In the
first corridor he met Fanarin himself. He stopped him, and told him that
he was just going to look him up on a matter of business.
Fanarin knew Nekhludoff by sight and name, and said he would be very
glad to be of service to him.
“Though I am rather tired, still, if your business will not take very
long, perhaps you might tell me what it is now. Will you step in here?”
And he led Nekhludoff into a room, probably some judge’s cabinet. They
sat down by the table.
“Well, and what is your business?”
“First of all, I must ask you to keep the business private. I do not
want it known that I take an interest in the affair.”
“Oh, that of course. Well?”
“I was on the jury to-day, and we have condemned a woman to Siberia,
an innocent woman. This bothers me very much.” Nekhludoff, to his own
surprise, blushed and became confused. Fanarin glanced at him rapidly,
and looked down again, listening.
“Well?”
“We have condemned a woman, and I should like to appeal to a higher
court.”
“To the Senate, you mean,” said Fanarin, correcting him.
“Yes, and I should like to ask you to take the case in hand.” Nekhludoff
wanted to get the most difficult part over, and added, “I shall take the
costs of the case on myself, whatever they may be.”
“Oh, we shall settle all that,” said the advocate, smiling with
condescension at Nekhludoff’s inexperience in these matters. “What is
the case?”
Nekhludoff stated what had happened.
“All right. I shall look the case through to-morrow or the day
after--no--better on Thursday. If you will come to me at six o’clock I
will give you an answer. Well, and now let us go; I have to make a few
inquiries here.”
Nekhludoff took leave of him and went out. This talk with the advocate,
and the fact that he had taken measures for Maslova’s defence, quieted
him still further. He went out into the street. The weather was
beautiful, and he joyfully drew in a long breath of spring air. He was
at once surrounded by isvostchiks offering their services, but he went
on foot. A whole swarm of pictures and memories of Katusha and his
conduct to her began whirling in his brain, and he felt depressed and
everything appeared gloomy. “No, I shall consider all this later on; I
must now get rid of all these disagreeable impressions,” he thought to
himself.
He remembered the Korchagin’s dinner and looked at his watch. It was
not yet too late to get there in time. He heard the ring of a passing
tramcar, ran to catch it, and jumped on. He jumped off again when they
got to the market-place, took a good isvostchik, and ten minutes later
was at the entrance of the Korchagins’ big house.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE HOUSE OF KORCHAGIN.
“Please to walk in, your excellency,” said the friendly, fat doorkeeper
of the Korchagins’ big house, opening the door, which moved noiselessly
on its patent English hinges; “you are expected. They are at dinner.
My orders were to admit only you.” The doorkeeper went as far as the
staircase and rang.
“Are there any strangers?” asked Nekhludoff, taking off his overcoat.
“Mr. Kolosoff and Michael Sergeivitch only, besides the family.”
A very handsome footman with whiskers, in a swallow-tail coat and white
gloves, looked down from the landing.
“Please to walk up, your excellency,” he said. “You are expected.”
Nekhludoff went up and passed through the splendid large dancing-room,
which he knew so well, into the dining-room. There the whole Korchagin
family--except the mother, Sophia Vasilievna, who never left her
cabinet--were sitting round the table. At the head of the table sat old
Korchagin; on his left the doctor, and on his right, a visitor, Ivan
Ivanovitch Kolosoff, a former Marechal de Noblesse, now a bank director,