Resurrection
pray in temples; and had ordered that every one should pray in solitude,
had forbidden to erect temples, saying that He had come to destroy
them, and that one should worship, not in a temple, but in spirit and
in truth; and, above all, that He had forbidden not only to judge, to
imprison, to torment, to execute men, as was being done here, but had
prohibited any kind of violence, saying that He had come to give freedom
to the captives.
No one present seemed conscious that all that was going on here was the
greatest blasphemy and a supreme mockery of that same Christ in whose
name it was being done. No one seemed to realise that the gilt cross
with the enamel medallions at the ends, which the priest held out to the
people to be kissed, was nothing but the emblem of that gallows on which
Christ had been executed for denouncing just what was going on here.
That these priests, who imagined they were eating and drinking the body
and blood of Christ in the form of bread and wine, did in reality eat
and drink His flesh and His blood, but not as wine and bits of bread,
but by ensnaring “these little ones” with whom He identified Himself,
by depriving them of the greatest blessings and submitting them to most
cruel torments, and by hiding from men the tidings of great joy which
He had brought. That thought did not enter into the mind of any one
present.
The priest did his part with a quiet conscience, because he was brought
up from childhood to consider that the only true faith was the faith
which had been held by all the holy men of olden times and was still
held by the Church, and demanded by the State authorities. He did not
believe that the bread turned into flesh, that it was useful for the
soul to repeat so many words, or that he had actually swallowed a bit of
God. No one could believe this, but he believed that one ought to hold
this faith. What strengthened him most in this faith was the fact that,
for fulfilling the demands of this faith, he had for the last 15 years
been able to draw an income, which enabled him to keep his family, send
his son to a gymnasium and his daughter to a school for the daughters of
the clergy. The deacon believed in the same manner, and even more firmly
than the priest, for he had forgotten the substance of the dogmas of
this faith, and knew only that the prayers for the dead, the masses,
with and without the acathistus, all had a definite price, which real
Christians readily paid, and, therefore, he called out his “have mercy,
have mercy,” very willingly, and read and said what was appointed, with
the same quiet certainty of its being necessary to do so with which
other men sell faggots, flour, or potatoes. The prison inspector and the
warders, though they had never understood or gone into the meaning of
these dogmas and of all that went on in church, believed that they must
believe, because the higher authorities and the Tsar himself believed in
it. Besides, though faintly (and themselves unable to explain why), they
felt that this faith defended their cruel occupations. If this faith
did not exist it would have been more difficult, perhaps impossible, for
them to use all their powers to torment people, as they were now doing,
with a quiet conscience. The inspector was such a kind-hearted man that
he could not have lived as he was now living unsupported by his faith.
Therefore, he stood motionless, bowed and crossed himself zealously,
tried to feel touched when the song about the cherubims was being sung,
and when the children received communion he lifted one of them, and held
him up to the priest with his own hands.
The great majority of the prisoners believed that there lay a mystic
power in these gilt images, these vestments, candles, cups, crosses,
and this repetition of incomprehensible words, “Jesu sweetest” and “have
mercy”--a power through which might be obtained much convenience in this
and in the future life. Only a few clearly saw the deception that was
practised on the people who adhered to this faith, and laughed at it in
their hearts; but the majority, having made several attempts to get the
conveniences they desired, by means of prayers, masses, and candles, and
not having got them (their prayers remaining unanswered), were each of
them convinced that their want of success was accidental, and that
this organisation, approved by the educated and by archbishops, is very
important and necessary, if not for this, at any rate for the next life.
Maslova also believed in this way. She felt, like the rest, a mixed
sensation of piety and dulness. She stood at first in a crowd behind a
railing, so that she could see no one but her companions; but when those
to receive communion moved on, she and Theodosia stepped to the front,
and they saw the inspector, and, behind him, standing among the warders,
a little peasant, with a very light beard and fair hair. This was
Theodosia’s husband, and he was gazing with fixed eyes at his wife.
During the acathistus Maslova occupied herself in scrutinising him and
talking to Theodosia in whispers, and bowed and made the sign of the
cross only when every one else did.
CHAPTER XLI.
VISITING DAY--THE MEN’S WARD.
Nekhludoff left home early. A peasant from the country was still driving
along the side street and calling out in a voice peculiar to his trade,
“Milk! milk! milk!”
The first warm spring rain had fallen the day before, and now wherever
the ground was not paved the grass shone green. The birch trees in the
gardens looked as if they were strewn with green fluff, the wild cherry
and the poplars unrolled their long, balmy buds, and in shops and
dwelling-houses the double window-frames were being removed and the
windows cleaned.
In the Tolkoochi [literally, jostling market, where second-hand clothes
and all sorts of cheap goods are sold] market, which Nekhludoff had to
pass on his way, a dense crowd was surging along the row of booths, and
tattered men walked about selling top-boots, which they carried under
their arms, and renovated trousers and waistcoats, which hung over their
shoulders.
Men in clean coats and shining boots, liberated from the factories, it
being Sunday, and women with bright silk kerchiefs on their heads and
cloth jackets trimmed with jet, were already thronging at the door of
the traktir. Policemen, with yellow cords to their uniforms and carrying
pistols, were on duty, looking out for some disorder which might
distract the ennui that oppressed them. On the paths of the boulevards
and on the newly-revived grass, children and dogs ran about, playing,
and the nurses sat merrily chattering on the benches. Along the streets,
still fresh and damp on the shady side, but dry in the middle, heavy
carts rumbled unceasingly, cabs rattled and tramcars passed ringing by.
The air vibrated with the pealing and clanging of church bells, that
were calling the people to attend to a service like that which was now
being conducted in the prison. And the people, dressed in their Sunday
best, were passing on their way to their different parish churches.
The isvostchik did not drive Nekhludoff up to the prison itself, but to
the last turning that led to the prison.
Several persons--men and women--most of them carrying small bundles,
stood at this turning, about 100 steps from the prison. To the right
there were several low wooden buildings; to the left, a two-storeyed
house with a signboard. The huge brick building, the prison proper, was
just in front, and the visitors were not allowed to come up to it. A
sentinel was pacing up and down in front of it, and shouted at any one
who tried to pass him.
At the gate of the wooden buildings, to the right, opposite the
sentinel, sat a warder on a bench, dressed in uniform, with gold cords,
a notebook in his hands. The visitors came up to him, and named the
persons they wanted to see, and he put the names down. Nekhludoff also
went up, and named Katerina Maslova. The warder wrote down the name.
“Why--don’t they admit us yet?” asked Nekhludoff.
“The service is going on. When the mass is over, you’ll be admitted.”
Nekhludoff stepped aside from the waiting crowd. A man in tattered
clothes, crumpled hat, with bare feet and red stripes all over his face,
detached himself from the crowd, and turned towards the prison.
“Now, then, where are you going?” shouted the sentinel with the gun.
“And you hold your row,” answered the tramp, not in the least abashed by
the sentinel’s words, and turned back. “Well, if you’ll not let me in,
I’ll wait. But, no! Must needs shout, as if he were a general.”
The crowd laughed approvingly. The visitors were, for the greater
part, badly-dressed people; some were ragged, but there were also
some respectable-looking men and women. Next to Nekhludoff stood a
clean-shaven, stout, and red-cheeked man, holding a bundle, apparently
containing under-garments. This was the doorkeeper of a bank; he had
come to see his brother, who was arrested for forgery. The good-natured
fellow told Nekhludoff the whole story of his life, and was going to
question him in turn, when their attention was aroused by a student and
a veiled lady, who drove up in a trap, with rubber tyres, drawn by a
large thoroughbred horse. The student was holding a large bundle. He
came up to Nekhludoff, and asked if and how he could give the rolls he
had brought in alms to the prisoners. His fiancee wished it (this lady
was his fiancee), and her parents had advised them to take some rolls to
the prisoners.
“I myself am here for the first time,” said Nekhludoff, “and don’t know;
but I think you had better ask this man,” and he pointed to the warder
with the gold cords and the book, sitting on the right.
As they were speaking, the large iron door with a window in it opened,
and an officer in uniform, followed by another warder, stepped out.
The warder with the notebook proclaimed that the admittance of visitors
would now commence. The sentinel stepped aside, and all the visitors
rushed to the door as if afraid of being too late; some even ran. At
the door there stood a warder who counted the visitors as they came
in, saying aloud, 16, 17, and so on. Another warder stood inside the
building and also counted the visitors as they entered a second door,
touching each one with his hand, so that when they went away again
not one visitor should be able to remain inside the prison and not
one prisoner might get out. The warder, without looking at whom he was
touching, slapped Nekhludoff on the back, and Nekhludoff felt hurt by
the touch of the warder’s hand; but, remembering what he had come about,
he felt ashamed of feeling dissatisfied and taking offence.
The first apartment behind the entrance doors was a large vaulted room
with iron bars to the small windows. In this room, which was called the
meeting-room, Nekhludoff was startled by the sight of a large picture of
the Crucifixion.
“What’s that for?” he thought, his mind involuntarily connecting the
subject of the picture with liberation and not with imprisonment.
He went on, slowly letting the hurrying visitors pass before, and
experiencing a mingled feeling of horror at the evil-doers locked up in
this building, compassion for those who, like Katusha and the boy they
tried the day before, must be here though guiltless, and shyness and
tender emotion at the thought of the interview before him. The warder
at the other end of the meeting-room said something as they passed, but
Nekhludoff, absorbed by his own thoughts, paid no attention to him, and
continued to follow the majority of the visitors, and so got into the
men’s part of the prison instead of the women’s.
Letting the hurrying visitors pass before him, he was the last to get
into the interviewing-room. As soon as Nekhludoff opened the door of