Resurrection
Meanwhile the old General was sitting in his darkened drawing-room at
an inlaid table, turning a saucer on a piece of paper with the aid of
a young artist, the brother of one of his subordinates. The thin,
weak, moist fingers of the artist were pressed against the wrinkled and
stiff-jointed fingers of the old General, and the hands joined in this
manner were moving together with the saucer over a paper that had all
the letters of the alphabet written on it. The saucer was answering the
questions put by the General as to how souls will recognise each other
after death.
When Nekhludoff sent in his card by an orderly acting as footman, the
soul of Joan of Arc was speaking by the aid of the saucer. The soul of
Joan of Arc had already spelt letter by letter the words: “They well
knew each other,” and these words had been written down. When the
orderly came in the saucer had stopped first on b, then on y, and began
jerking hither and thither. This jerking was caused by the General’s
opinion that the next letter should be b, i.e., Joan of Arc ought to
say that the souls will know each other by being cleansed of all that
is earthly, or something of the kind, clashing with the opinion of the
artist, who thought the next letter should be l, i.e., that the souls
should know each other by light emanating from their astral bodies. The
General, with his bushy grey eyebrows gravely contracted, sat gazing at
the hands on the saucer, and, imagining that it was moving of its own
accord, kept pulling the saucer towards b. The pale-faced young artist,
with his thin hair combed back behind his cars, was looking with his
lifeless blue eyes into a dark corner of the drawing-room, nervously
moving his lips and pulling the saucer towards l.
The General made a wry face at the interruption, but after a moment’s
pause he took the card, put on his pince-nez, and, uttering a groan,
rose, in spite of the pain in his back, to his full height, rubbing his
numb fingers.
“Ask him into the study.”
“With your excellency’s permission I will finish it alone,” said the
artist, rising. “I feel the presence.”
“All right, finish alone,” the General said, severely and decidedly, and
stepped quickly, with big, firm and measured strides, into his study.
“Very pleased to see you,” said the General to Nekhludoff, uttering the
friendly words in a gruff tone, and pointing to an armchair by the side
of the writing-table. “Have you been in Petersburg long?”
Nekhludoff replied that he had only lately arrived.
“Is the Princess, your mother, well?”
“My mother is dead.”
“Forgive me; I am very sorry. My son told me he had met you.”
The General’s son was making the same kind of career for himself that
the father had done, and, having passed the Military Academy, was now
serving in the Inquiry Office, and was very proud of his duties there.
His occupation was the management of Government spies.
“Why, I served with your father. We were friends--comrades. And you; are
you also in the Service?”
“No, I am not.”
The General bent his head disapprovingly.
“I have a request to make, General.”
“Very pleased. In what way can I be of service to you?”
“If my request is out of place pray pardon me. But I am obliged to make
it.”
“What is it?”
“There is a certain Gourkevitch imprisoned in the fortress; his mother
asks for an interview with him, or at least to be allowed to send him
some books.”
The General expressed neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction at
Nekhludoff’s request, but bending his head on one side he closed his
eyes as if considering. In reality he was not considering anything, and
was not even interested in Nekhludoff’s questions, well knowing that he
would answer them according to the law. He was simply resting mentally
and not thinking at all.
“You see,” he said at last, “this does not depend on me. There is a
regulation, confirmed by His Majesty, concerning interviews; and as to
books, we have a library, and they may have what is permitted.”
“Yes, but he wants scientific books; he wishes to study.”
“Don’t you believe it,” growled the General. “It’s not study he wants;
it is just only restlessness.”
“But what is to be done? They must occupy their time somehow in their
hard condition,” said Nekhludoff.
“They are always complaining,” said the General. “We know them.”
He spoke of them in a general way, as if they were all a specially bad
race of men. “They have conveniences here which can be found in few
places of confinement,” said the General, and he began to enumerate the
comforts the prisoners enjoyed, as if the aim of the institution was to
give the people imprisoned there a comfortable home.
“It is true it used to be rather rough, but now they are very well kept
here,” he continued. “They have three courses for dinner--and one of
them meat--cutlets, or rissoles; and on Sundays they get a fourth--a
sweet dish. God grant every Russian may eat as well as they do.”
Like all old people, the General, having once got on to a familiar
topic, enumerated the various proofs he had often given before of the
prisoners being exacting and ungrateful.
“They get books on spiritual subjects and old journals. We have a
library. Only they rarely read. At first they seem interested, later on
the new books remain uncut, and the old ones with their leaves unturned.
We tried them,” said the old General, with the dim likeness of a smile.
“We put bits of paper in on purpose, which remained just as they had
been placed. Writing is also not forbidden,” he continued. “A slate is
provided, and a slate pencil, so that they can write as a pastime. They
can wipe the slate and write again. But they don’t write, either. Oh,
they very soon get quite tranquil. At first they seem restless, but
later on they even grow fat and become very quiet.” Thus spoke the
General, never suspecting the terrible meaning of his words.
Nekhludoff listened to the hoarse old voice, looked at the stiff limbs,
the swollen eyelids under the grey brows, at the old, clean-shaved,
flabby jaw, supported by the collar of the military uniform, at the
white cross that this man was so proud of, chiefly because he had gained
it by exceptionally cruel and extensive slaughter, and knew that it was
useless to reply to the old man or to explain the meaning of his own
words to him.
He made another effort, and asked about the prisoner Shoustova, for
whose release, as he had been informed that morning, orders were given.
“Shoustova--Shoustova? I cannot remember all their names, there are so
many of them,” he said, as if reproaching them because there were so
many. He rang, and ordered the secretary to be called. While waiting for
the latter, he began persuading Nekhludoff to serve, saying that “honest
noblemen,” counting himself among the number, “were particularly needed
by the Tsar and--the country,” he added, evidently only to round off
his sentence. “I am old, yet I am serving still, as well as my strength
allows.”
The secretary, a dry, emaciated man, with restless, intelligent eyes,
came in and reported that Shoustova was imprisoned in some queer,
fortified place, and that he had received no orders concerning her.
“When we get the order we shall let her out the same day. We do not keep
them; we do not value their visits much,” said the General, with another
attempt at a playful smile, which only distorted his old face.
Nekhludoff rose, trying to keep from expressing the mixed feelings of
repugnance and pity which he felt towards this terrible old man. The
old man on his part considered that he should not be too severe on the
thoughtless and evidently misguided son of his old comrade, and should
not leave him without advice.
“Good-bye, my dear fellow; do not take it amiss. It is my affection that
makes me say it. Do not keep company with such people as we have at our
place here. There are no innocent ones among them. All these people
are most immoral. We know them,” he said, in a tone that admitted no
possibility of doubt. And he did not doubt, not because the thing was
so, but because if it was not so, he would have to admit himself to
be not a noble hero living out the last days of a good life, but a
scoundrel, who sold, and still continued in his old age to sell, his
conscience.
“Best of all, go and serve,” he continued; “the Tsar needs honest
men--and the country,” he added. “Well, supposing I and the others
refused to serve, as you are doing? Who would be left? Here we are,
finding fault with the order of things, and yet not wishing to help the
Government.”
With a deep sigh Nekhludoff made a low bow, shook the large, bony hand
condescendingly stretched out to him and left the room.
The General shook his head reprovingly, and rubbing his back, he again
went into the drawing-room where the artist was waiting for him. He had
already written down the answer given by the soul of Joan of Arc. The
General put on his pince-nez and read, “Will know one another by light
emanating from their astral bodies.”
“Ah,” said the General, with approval, and closed his eyes. “But how is
one to know if the light of all is alike?” he asked, and again crossed
fingers with the artist on the saucer.
The isvostchik drove Nekhludoff out of the gate.
It is dull here, sir, he said, turning to Nekhludoff. “I almost wished
to drive off without waiting for you.”
Nekhludoff agreed. “Yes, it is dull,” and he took a deep breath, and
looked up with a sense of relief at the grey clouds that were floating
in the sky, and at the glistening ripples made by the boats and steamers
on the Neva.
CHAPTER XX.
MASLOVA’S APPEAL.
The next day Maslova’s case was to be examined at the Senate, and
Nekhludoff and the advocate met at the majestic portal of the building,
where several carriages were waiting. Ascending the magnificent and
imposing staircase to the first floor, the advocate, who knew all the
ins and outs of the place, turned to the left and entered through a door
which had the date of the introduction of the Code of Laws above it.
After taking off his overcoat in the first narrow room, he found out
from the attendant that the Senators had all arrived, and that the last
had just come in. Fanarin, in his swallow-tail coat, a white tie above
the white shirt-front, and a self-confident smile on his lips, passed
into the next room. In this room there were to the right a large
cupboard and a table, and to the left a winding staircase, which an
elegant official in uniform was descending with a portfolio under his
arm. In this room an old man with long, white hair and a patriarchal
appearance attracted every one’s attention. He wore a short coat and
grey trousers. Two attendants stood respectfully beside him. The old man
with white hair entered the cupboard and shut himself in.
Fanarin noticed a fellow-advocate dressed in the same way as himself,
with a white tie and dress coat, and at once entered into an animated
conversation with him.
Nekhludoff was meanwhile examining the people in the room. The public
consisted of about 15 persons, of whom two were ladies--a young one with
a pince-nez, and an old, grey-haired one.
A case of libel was to be heard that day, and therefore the public were
more numerous than usual--chiefly persons belonging to the journalistic
world.
The usher, a red-cheeked, handsome man in a fine uniform, came up to
Fanarin and asked him what his business was. When he heard that it was
the case of Maslova, he noted something down and walked away. Then the
cupboard door opened and the old man with the patriarchal appearance
stepped out, no longer in a short coat but in a gold-trimmed attire,
which made him look like a bird, and with metal plates on his
breast. This funny costume seemed to make the old man himself feel