Resurrection
steps, Nekhludoff set off for the Senate. There he was shown into the
office where he found a great many very polite and very clean officials
in the midst of a magnificent apartment. Maslova’s petition was received
and handed on to that Wolf, to whom Nekhludoff had a letter from his
uncle, to be examined and reported on.
“There will be a meeting of the Senate this week,” the official said to
Nekhludoff, “but Maslova’s case will hardly come before that meeting.”
“It might come before the meeting on Wednesday, by special request,” one
of the officials remarked.
During the time Nekhludoff waited in the office, while some information
was being taken, he heard that the conversation in the Senate was all
about the duel, and he heard a detailed account of how a young man,
Kaminski, had been killed. It was here he first heard all the facts of
the case which was exciting the interest of all Petersburg. The story
was this: Some officers were eating oysters and, as usual, drinking very
much, when one of them said something ill-natured about the regiment to
which Kaminski belonged, and Kaminski called him a liar. The other hit
Kaminski. The next day they fought. Kaminski was wounded in the stomach
and died two hours later. The murderer and the seconds were arrested,
but it was said that though they were arrested and in the guardhouse
they would be set free in a fortnight.
From the Senate Nekhludoff drove to see an influential member of the
petition Committee, Baron Vorobioff, who lived in a splendid house
belonging to the Crown. The doorkeeper told Nekhludoff in a severe tone
that the Baron could not be seen except on his reception days; that he
was with His Majesty the Emperor to-day, and the next day he would again
have to deliver a report. Nekhludoff left his uncle’s letter with the
doorkeeper and went on to see the Senator Wolf. Wolf had just had his
lunch, and was as usual helping digestion by smoking a cigar and pacing
up and down the room, when Nekhludoff came in. Vladimir Vasilievitch
Wolf was certainly _un homme tres comme il faut_, and prized this
quality very highly, and from that elevation he looked down at everybody
else. He could not but esteem this quality of his very highly, because
it was thanks to it alone that he had made a brilliant career, the very
career he desired, i.e., by marriage he obtained a fortune which brought
him in 18,000 roubles a year, and by his own exertions the post of a
senator. He considered himself not only _un homme tres comme il faut_,
but also a man of knightly honour. By honour he understood not accepting
secret bribes from private persons. But he did not consider it dishonest
to beg money for payment of fares and all sorts of travelling expenses
from the Crown, and to do anything the Government might require of him
in return. To ruin hundreds of innocent people, to cause them to be
imprisoned, to be exiled because of their love for their people and the
religion of their fathers, as he had done in one of the governments of
Poland when he was governor there. He did not consider it dishonourable,
but even thought it a noble, manly and patriotic action. Nor did he
consider it dishonest to rob his wife and sister-in-law, as he had
done, but thought it a wise way of arranging his family life. His family
consisted of his commonplace wife, his sister-in-law, whose fortune
he had appropriated by selling her estate and putting the money to his
account, and his meek, frightened, plain daughter, who lived a lonely,
weary life, from which she had lately begun to look for relaxation in
evangelicism, attending meetings at Aline’s, and the Countess Katerina
Ivanovna. Wolf’s son, who had grown a beard at the age of 15, and had at
that age begun to drink and lead a depraved life, which he continued to
do till the age of 20, when he was turned out by his father because
he never finished his studies, moved in a low set and made debts which
committed the father. The father had once paid a debt of 250 roubles for
his son, then another of 600 roubles, but warned the son that he did it
for the last time, and that if the son did not reform he would be turned
out of the house and all further intercourse between him and his family
would he put a stop to. The son did not reform, but made a debt of a
thousand roubles, and took the liberty of telling his father that life
at home was a torment anyhow. Then Wolf declared to his son that he
might go where he pleased--that he was no son of his any longer. Since
then Wolf pretended he had no son, and no one at home dared speak to him
about his son, and Vladimir Vasilievitch Wolf was firmly convinced that
he had arranged his family life in the best way. Wolf stopped pacing
up and down his study, and greeted Nekhludoff with a friendly though
slightly ironical smile. This was his way of showing how comme il faut
he was, and how superior to the majority of men. He read the note which
Nekhludoff handed to him.
“Please take a seat, and excuse me if I continue to walk up and down,
with your permission,” he said, putting his hands into his coat pockets,
and began again to walk with light, soft steps across his large, quietly
and stylishly furnished study. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance
and of course very glad to do anything that Count Ivan Michaelovitch
wishes,” he said, blowing the fragrant blue smoke out of his mouth and
removing his cigar carefully so as not to drop the ash.
“I should only like to ask that the case might come on soon, so that
if the prisoner has to go to Siberia she might set off early,” said
Nekhludoff.
“Yes, yes, with one of the first steamers from Nijni. I know,” said
Wolf, with his patronising smile, always knowing in advance whatever one
wanted to tell him.
“What is the prisoner’s name?”
“Maslova.”
Wolf went up to the table and looked at a paper that lay on a piece of
cardboard among other business papers.
“Yes, yes. Maslova. All right, I will ask the others. We shall hear the
case on Wednesday.”
“Then may I telegraph to the advocate?”
“The advocate! What’s that for? But if you like, why not?”
“The causes for appeal may be insufficient,” said Nekhludoff, “but
I think the case will show that the sentence was passed owing to a
misunderstanding.”
“Yes, yes; it may be so, but the Senate cannot decide the case on its
merits,” said Wolf, looking seriously at the ash of his cigar. “The
Senate only considers the exactness of the application of the laws and
their right interpretation.”
“But this seems to me to be an exceptional case.”
“I know, I know! All cases are exceptional. We shall do our duty. That’s
all.” The ash was still holding on, but had began breaking, and was in
danger of falling.
“Do you often come to Petersburg?” said Wolf, holding his cigar so that
the ash should not fall. But the ash began to shake, and Wolf carefully
carried it to the ashpan, into which it fell.
“What a terrible thing this is with regard to Kaminski,” he said. “A
splendid young man. The only son. Especially the mother’s position,” he
went on, repeating almost word for word what every one in Petersburg
was at that time saying about Kaminski. Wolf spoke a little about the
Countess Katerina Ivanovna and her enthusiasm for the new religious
teaching, which he neither approved nor disapproved of, but which was
evidently needless to him who was so comme il faut, and then rang the
bell.
Nekhludoff bowed.
“If it is convenient, come and dine on Wednesday, and I will give you a
decisive answer,” said Wolf, extending his hand.
It was late, and Nekhludoff returned to his aunt’s.
CHAPTER XVII.
COUNTESS KATERINA IVANOVNA’S DINNER PARTY.
Countess Katerina Ivanovna’s dinner hour was half-past seven, and the
dinner was served in a new manner that Nekhludoff had not yet seen
anywhere. After they had placed the dishes on the table the waiters left
the room and the diners helped themselves. The men would not let the
ladies take the trouble of moving, and, as befitted the stronger sex,
they manfully took on themselves the burden of putting the food on
the ladies’ plates and of filling their glasses. When one course was
finished, the Countess pressed the button of an electric bell fitted
to the table and the waiters stepped in noiselessly and quickly carried
away the dishes, changed the plates, and brought in the next course.
The dinner was very refined, the wines very costly. A French chef was
working in the large, light kitchens, with two white-clad assistants.
There were six persons at dinner, the Count and Countess, their son
(a surly officer in the Guards who sat with his elbows on the table),
Nekhludoff, a French lady reader, and the Count’s chief steward, who
had come up from the country. Here, too, the conversation was about the
duel, and opinions were given as to how the Emperor regarded the case.
It was known that the Emperor was very much grieved for the mother’s
sake, and all were grieved for her, and as it was also known that the
Emperor did not mean to be very severe to the murderer, who defended
the honour of his uniform, all were also lenient to the officer who had
defended the honour of his uniform. Only the Countess Katerina Ivanovna,
with her free thoughtlessness, expressed her disapproval.
“They get drunk, and kill unobjectionable young men. I should not
forgive them on any account,” she said.
“Now, that’s a thing I cannot understand,” said the Count.
“I know that you never can understand what I say,” the Countess began,
and turning to Nekhludoff, she added:
“Everybody understands except my husband. I say I am sorry for the
mother, and I do not wish him to be contented, having killed a man.”
Then her son, who had been silent up to then, took the murderer’s part,
and rudely attacked his mother, arguing that an officer could not behave
in any other way, because his fellow-officers would condemn him and turn
him out of the regiment. Nekhludoff listened to the conversation without
joining in. Having been an officer himself, he understood, though he
did not agree with, young Tcharsky’s arguments, and at the same time
he could not help contrasting the fate of the officer with that of a
beautiful young convict whom he had seen in the prison, and who was
condemned to the mines for having killed another in a fight. Both had
turned murderers through drunkenness. The peasant had killed a man in
a moment of irritation, and he was parted from his wife and family, had
chains on his legs, and his head shaved, and was going to hard labour in
Siberia, while the officer was sitting in a fine room in the guardhouse,
eating a good dinner, drinking good wine, and reading books, and would
be set free in a day or two to live as he had done before, having only
become more interesting by the affair. Nekhludoff said what he had been
thinking, and at first his aunt, Katerina Ivanovna, seemed to agree with
him, but at last she became silent as the rest had done, and Nekhludoff
felt that he had committed something akin to an impropriety. In the
evening, soon after dinner, the large hall, with high-backed carved
chairs arranged in rows as for a meeting, and an armchair next to a
little table, with a bottle of water for the speaker, began to fill
with people come to hear the foreigner, Kiesewetter, preach. Elegant
equipages stopped at the front entrance. In the hall sat richly-dressed
ladies in silks and velvets and lace, with false hair and false busts
and drawn-in waists, and among them men in uniform and evening dress,
and about five persons of the common class, i.e., two men-servants, a
shop-keeper, a footman, and a coachman. Kiesewetter, a thick-set, grisly
man, spoke English, and a thin young girl, with a pince-nez, translated
it into Russian promptly and well. He was saying that our sins were so