Resurrection
depraved, he by military service and a vicious life, she by marriage
with a man whom she loved with a sensual love, who did not care for the
things that had once been so dear and holy to her and to her brother,
nor even understand the meaning of those aspirations towards moral
perfection and the service of mankind, which once constituted her life,
and put them down to ambition and the wish to show off; that being the
only explanation comprehensible to him.
Nathalie’s husband had been a man without a name and without means, but
cleverly steering towards Liberalism or Conservatism, according to which
best suited his purpose, he managed to make a comparatively brilliant
judicial career. Some peculiarity which made him attractive to women
assisted him when he was no longer in his first youth. While travelling
abroad he made Nekhludoff’s acquaintance, and managed to make Nathalie,
who was also no longer a girl, fall in love with him, rather against her
mother’s wishes who considered a marriage with him to be a misalliance
for her daughter. Nekhludoff, though he tried to hide it from himself,
though he fought against it, hated his brother-in-law.
Nekhludoff had a strong antipathy towards him because of the vulgarity
of his feelings, his assurance and narrowness, but chiefly because of
Nathalie, who managed to love him in spite of the narrowness of his
nature, and loved him so selfishly, so sensually, and stifled for his
sake all the good that had been in her.
It always hurt Nekhludoff to think of Nathalie as the wife of that
hairy, self-assured man with the shiny, bald patch on his head. He could
not even master a feeling of revulsion towards their children, and when
he heard that she was again going to have a baby, he felt something like
sorrow that she had once more been infected with something bad by this
man who was so foreign to him. The Rogozhinskys had come to Moscow
alone, having left their two children--a boy and a girl--at home, and
stopped in the best rooms of the best hotel. Nathalie at once went to
her mother’s old house, but hearing from Agraphena Petrovna that her
brother had left, and was living in a lodging-house, she drove there.
The dirty servant met her in the stuffy passage, dark but for a lamp
which burnt there all day. He told her that the Prince was not in.
Nathalie asked to be shown into his rooms, as she wished to leave a note
for him, and the man took her up.
Nathalie carefully examined her brother’s two little rooms. She noticed
in everything the love of cleanliness and order she knew so well in
him, and was struck by the novel simplicity of the surroundings. On his
writing-table she saw the paper-weight with the bronze dog on the top
which she remembered; the tidy way in which his different portfolios and
writing utensils were placed on the table was also familiar, and so was
the large, crooked ivory paper knife which marked the place in a French
book by Tard, which lay with other volumes on punishment and a book
in English by Henry George. She sat down at the table and wrote a note
asking him to be sure to come that same day, and shaking her head in
surprise at what she saw, she returned to her hotel.
Two questions regarding her brother now interested Nathalie: his
marriage with Katusha, which she had heard spoken about in their
town--for everybody was speaking about it--and his giving away the land
to the peasants, which was also known, and struck many as something of
a political nature, and dangerous. The marriage with Katusha pleased
her in a way. She admired that resoluteness which was so like him and
herself as they used to be in those happy times before her marriage. And
yet she was horrified when she thought her brother was going to marry
such a dreadful woman. The latter was the stronger feeling of the two,
and she decided to use all her influence to prevent him from doing it,
though she knew how difficult this would be.
The other matter, the giving up of the land to the peasants, did not
touch her so nearly, but her husband was very indignant about it, and
expected her to influence her brother against it.
Rogozhinsky said that such an action was the height of inconsistency,
flightiness, and pride, the only possible explanation of which was the
desire to appear original, to brag, to make one’s self talked about.
“What sense could there be in letting the land to the peasants, on
condition that they pay the rent to themselves?” he said. “If he was
resolved to do such a thing, why not sell the land to them through the
Peasants’ Bank? There might have been some sense in that. In fact, this
act verges on insanity.”
And Rogozhinsky began seriously thinking about putting Nekhludoff under
guardianship, and demanded of his wife that she should speak seriously
to her brother about his curious intention.
CHAPTER XXXII.
NEKHLUDOFF’S ANARCHISM.
As soon as Nekhludoff returned that evening and saw his sister’s note
on the table he started to go and see her. He found Nathalie alone,
her husband having gone to take a rest in the next room. She wore a
tightly-fitting black silk dress, with a red bow in front. Her black
hair was crimped and arranged according to the latest fashion.
The pains she took to appear young, for the sake of her husband, whose
equal she was in years, were very obvious.
When she saw her brother she jumped up and hurried towards him, with her
silk dress rustling. They kissed, and looked smilingly at each other.
There passed between them that mysterious exchange of looks, full of
meaning, in which all was true, and which cannot be expressed in words.
Then came words which were not true. They had not met since their
mother’s death.
“You have grown stouter and younger,” he said, and her lips puckered up
with pleasure.
“And you have grown thinner.”
“Well, and how is your husband?” Nekhludoff asked.
“He is taking a rest; he did not sleep all night.” There was much to
say, but it was not said in words; only their looks expressed what their
words failed to say.
“I went to see you.”
“Yes, I know. I moved because the house is too big for me. I was lonely
there, and dull. I want nothing of all that is there, so that you had
better take it all--the furniture, I mean, and things.”
“Yes, Agraphena Petrovna told me. I went there. Thanks, very much.
But--”
At this moment the hotel waiter brought in a silver tea-set. While he
set the table they were silent. Then Nathalie sat down at the table and
made the tea, still in silence. Nekhludoff also said nothing.
At last Nathalie began resolutely. “Well, Dmitri, I know all about it.”
And she looked at him.
“What of that? l am glad you know.”
“How can you hope to reform her after the life she has led?” she asked.
He sat quite straight on a small chair, and listened attentively, trying
to understand her and to answer rightly. The state of mind called forth
in him by his last interview with Maslova still filled his soul with
quiet joy and good will to all men.
“It is not her but myself I wish to reform,” he replied.
Nathalie sighed.
“There are other means besides marriage to do that.”
“But I think it is the best. Besides, it leads me into that world in
which I can be of use.”
“I cannot believe you will be happy,” said Nathalie.
“It’s not my happiness that is the point.”
“Of course, but if she has a heart she cannot be happy--cannot even wish
it.”
“She does not wish it.”
“I understand; but life--”
“Yes--life?”
“Demands something different.”
“It demands nothing but that we should do what is right,” said
Nekhludoff, looking into her face, still handsome, though slightly
wrinkled round eyes and mouth.
“I do not understand,” she said, and sighed.
“Poor darling; how could she change so?” he thought, calling back to his
mind Nathalie as she had been before her marriage, and feeling towards
her a tenderness woven out of innumerable memories of childhood. At that
moment Rogozhinsky entered the room, with head thrown back and expanded
chest, and stepping lightly and softly in his usual manner, his
spectacles, his bald patch, and his black beard all glistening.
“How do you do? How do you do?” he said, laying an unnatural and
intentional stress on his words. (Though, soon after the marriage,
they had tried to be more familiar with each other, they had never
succeeded.)
They shook hands, and Rogozhinsky sank softly into an easy-chair.
“Am I not interrupting your conversation?”
“No, I do not wish to hide what I am saying or doing from any one.”
As soon as Nekhludoff saw the hairy hands, and heard the patronising,
self-assured tones, his meekness left him in a moment.
“Yes, we were talking about his intentions,” said Nathalie. “Shall I
give you a cup of tea?” she added, taking the teapot.
“Yes, please. What particular intentions do you mean?”
“That of going to Siberia with the gang of prisoners, among whom is the
woman I consider myself to have wronged,” uttered Nekhludoff.
“I hear not only to accompany her, but more than that.”
“Yes, and to marry her if she wishes it.”
“Dear me! But if you do not object I should like to ask you to explain
your motives. I do not understand them.”
“My motives are that this woman--that this woman’s first step on her way
to degradation--” Nekhludoff got angry with himself, and was unable to
find the right expression. “My motives are that I am the guilty one, and
she gets the punishment.”
“If she is being punished she cannot be innocent, either.”
“She is quite innocent.” And Nekhludoff related the whole incident with
unnecessary warmth.
“Yes, that was a case of carelessness on the part of the president, the
result of which was a thoughtless answer on the part of the jury; but
there is the Senate for cases like that.”
“The Senate has rejected the appeal.”
“Well, if the Senate has rejected it, there cannot have been sufficient
reasons for an appeal,” said Rogozhinsky, evidently sharing the
prevailing opinion that truth is the product of judicial decrees. “The
Senate cannot enter into the question on its merits. If there is a real
mistake, the Emperor should be petitioned.”
“That has been done, but there is no probability of success. They will
apply to the Department of the Ministry, the Department will consult the
Senate, the Senate will repeat its decision, and, as usual, the innocent
will get punished.”
“In the first place, the Department of the Ministry won’t consult the
Senate,” said Rogozhinsky, with a condescending smile; “it will give
orders for the original deeds to be sent from the Law Court, and if
it discovers a mistake it will decide accordingly. And, secondly, the
innocent are never punished, or at least in very rare, exceptional
cases. It is the guilty who are punished,” Rogozhinsky said
deliberately, and smiled self-complacently.
“And I have become fully convinced that most of those condemned by law
are innocent.”
“How’s that?”
“Innocent in the literal sense. Just as this woman is innocent of
poisoning any one; as innocent as a peasant I have just come to know, of
the murder he never committed; as a mother and son who were on the point
of being condemned for incendiarism, which was committed by the owner of
the house that was set on fire.”
“Well, of course there always have been and always will be judicial
errors. Human institutions cannot be perfect.”
“And, besides, there are a great many people convicted who are innocent
of doing anything considered wrong by the society they have grown up
in.”
“Excuse me, this is not so; every thief knows that stealing is wrong,
and that we should not steal; that it is immoral,” said Rogozhinsky,
with his quiet, self-assured, slightly contemptuous smile, which
specially irritated Nekhludoff.