Resurrection
place within her became noticeable in her appearance. She grew sunburned
and thinner, and seemed older; wrinkles appeared on her temples and
round her mouth. She had no ringlets on her forehead now, and her hair
was covered with the kerchief; in the way it was arranged, as well as in
her dress and her manners, there was no trace of coquetry left. And this
change, which had taken place and was still progressing in her, made
Nekhludoff very happy.
He felt for her something he had never experienced before. This feeling
had nothing in common with his first poetic love for her, and even less
with the sensual love that had followed, nor even with the satisfaction
of a duty fulfilled, not unmixed with self-admiration, with which he
decided to marry her after the trial. The present feeling was simply one
of pity and tenderness. He had felt it when he met her in prison for
the first time, and then again when, after conquering his repugnance,
he forgave her the imagined intrigue with the medical assistant in the
hospital (the injustice done her had since been discovered); it was the
same feeling he now had, only with this difference, that formerly it was
momentary, and that now it had become permanent. Whatever he was doing,
whatever he was thinking now, a feeling of pity and tenderness dwelt
with him, and not only pity and tenderness for her, but for everybody.
This feeling seemed to have opened the floodgates of love, which had
found no outlet in Nekhludoff’s soul, and the love now flowed out to
every one he met.
During this journey Nekhludoff’s feelings were so stimulated that he
could not help being attentive and considerate to everybody, from the
coachman and the convoy soldiers to the prison inspectors and governors
whom he had to deal with. Now that Maslova was among the political
prisoners, Nekhludoff could not help becoming acquainted with many of
them, first in Ekaterinburg, where they had a good deal of freedom and
were kept altogether in a large cell, and then on the road when Maslova
was marching with three of the men and four of the women. Coming in
contact with political exiles in this way made Nekhludoff completely
change his mind concerning them.
From the very beginning of the revolutionary movement in Russia, but
especially since that first of March, when Alexander II was murdered,
Nekhludoff regarded the revolutionists with dislike and contempt. He
was repulsed by the cruelty and secrecy of the methods they employed
in their struggles against the government, especially the cruel murders
they committed, and their arrogance also disgusted him. But having
learned more intimately to know them and all they had suffered at the
hands of the government, he saw that they could not be other than they
were.
Terrible and endless as were the torments which were inflicted on the
criminals, there was at least some semblance of justice shown them
before and after they were sentenced, but in the case of the political
prisoners there was not even that semblance, as Nekhludoff saw in the
case of Sholostova and that of many and many of his new acquaintances.
These people were dealt with like fish caught with a net; everything
that gets into the nets is pulled ashore, and then the big fish which
are required are sorted out and the little ones are left to perish
unheeded on the shore. Having captured hundreds that were evidently
guiltless, and that could not be dangerous to the government, they left
them imprisoned for years, where they became consumptive, went out of
their minds or committed suicide, and kept them only because they had
no inducement to set them free, while they might be of use to elucidate
some question at a judicial inquiry, safe in prison. The fate of these
persons, often innocent even from the government point of view, depended
on the whim, the humour of, or the amount of leisure at the disposal
of some police officer or spy, or public prosecutor, or magistrate,
or governor, or minister. Some one of these officials feels dull, or
inclined to distinguish himself, and makes a number of arrests, and
imprisons or sets free, according to his own fancy or that of the
higher authorities. And the higher official, actuated by like motives,
according to whether he is inclined to distinguish himself, or to what
his relations to the minister are, exiles men to the other side of the
world or keeps them in solitary confinement, condemns them to Siberia,
to hard labour, to death, or sets them free at the request of some lady.
They were dealt with as in war, and they naturally employed the
means that were used against them. And as the military men live in an
atmosphere of public opinion that not only conceals from them the guilt
of their actions, but sets these actions up as feats of heroism,
so these political offenders were also constantly surrounded by
an atmosphere of public opinion which made the cruel actions they
committed, in the face of danger and at the risk of liberty and life,
and all that is dear to men, seem not wicked but glorious actions.
Nekhludoff found in this the explanation of the surprising phenomenon
that men, with the mildest characters, who seemed incapable of
witnessing the sufferings of any living creature, much less of
inflicting pain, quietly prepared to murder men, nearly all of them
considering murder lawful and just on certain occasions as a means
for self-defence, for the attainment of higher aims or for the general
welfare.
The importance they attribute to their cause, and consequently to
themselves, flowed naturally from the importance the government attached
to their actions, and the cruelty of the punishments it inflicted on
them. When Nekhludoff came to know them better he became convinced that
they were not the right-down villains that some imagined them to be, nor
the complete heroes that others thought them, but ordinary people, just
the same as others, among whom there were some good and some bad, and
some mediocre, as there are everywhere.
There were some among them who had turned revolutionists because they
honestly considered it their duty to fight the existing evils, but there
were also those who chose this work for selfish, ambitious motives; the
majority, however, was attracted to the revolutionary idea by the desire
for danger, for risks, the enjoyment of playing with one’s life, which,
as Nekhludoff knew from his military experiences, is quite common to
the most ordinary people while they are young and full of energy. But
wherein they differed from ordinary people was that their moral standard
was a higher one than that of ordinary men. They considered not only
self-control, hard living, truthfulness, but also the readiness to
sacrifice everything, even life, for the common welfare as their duty.
Therefore the best among them stood on a moral level that is not often
reached, while the worst were far below the ordinary level, many of them
being untruthful, hypocritical and at the same time self-satisfied and
proud. So that Nekhludoff learned not only to respect but to love some
of his new acquaintances, while he remained more than indifferent to
others.
CHAPTER VI.
KRYLTZOFF’S STORY.
Nekhludoff grew especially fond of Kryltzoff, a consumptive young man
condemned to hard labour, who was going with the same gang as Katusha.
Nekhludoff had made his acquaintance already in Ekaterinburg, and
talked with him several times on the road after that. Once, in summer,
Nekhludoff spent nearly the whole of a day with him at a halting
station, and Kryltzoff, having once started talking, told him his
story and how he had become a revolutionist. Up to the time of his
imprisonment his story was soon told. He lost his father, a rich landed
proprietor in the south of Russia, when still a child. He was the only
son, and his mother brought him up. He learned easily in the university,
as well as the gymnasium, and was first in the mathematical faculty
in his year. He was offered a choice of remaining in the university
or going abroad. He hesitated. He loved a girl and was thinking of
marriage, and taking part in the rural administration. He did not like
giving up either offer, and could not make up his mind. At this time
his fellow-students at the university asked him for money for a common
cause. He did not know that this common cause was revolutionary, which
he was not interested in at that time, but gave the money from a sense
of comradeship and vanity, so that it should not be said that he was
afraid. Those who received the money were caught, a note was found which
proved that the money had been given by Kryltzoff, he was arrested, and
first kept at the police station, then imprisoned.
“The prison where I was put,” Kryltzoff went on to relate (he was
sitting on the high shelf bedstead, his elbows on his knees, with
sunken chest, the beautiful, intelligent eyes with which he looked at
Nekhludoff glistening feverishly)--“they were not specially strict in
that prison. We managed to converse, not only by tapping the wall, but
could walk about the corridors, share our provisions and our tobacco,
and in the evenings we even sang in chorus. I had a fine voice--yes, if
it had not been for mother it would have been all right, even pleasant
and interesting. Here I made the acquaintance of the famous Petroff--he
afterwards killed himself with a piece of glass at the fortress--and
also of others. But I was not yet a revolutionary. I also became
acquainted with my neighbours in the cells next to mine. They were both
caught with Polish proclamations and arrested in the same cause, and
were tried for an attempt to escape from the convoy when they were being
taken to the railway station. One was a Pole, Lozinsky; the other a
Jew, Rozovsky. Yes. Well, this Rozovsky was quite a boy. He said he
was seventeen, but he looked fifteen--thin, small, active, with black,
sparkling eyes, and, like most Jews, very musical. His voice was still
breaking, and yet he sang beautifully. Yes. I saw them both taken to be
tried. They were taken in the morning. They returned in the evening, and
said they were condemned to death. No one had expected it. Their case
was so unimportant; they only tried to get away from the convoy, and had
not even wounded any one. And then it was so unnatural to execute such
a child as Rozovsky. And we in prison all came to the conclusion that it
was only done to frighten them, and would not be confirmed. At first
we were excited, and then we comforted ourselves, and life went on
as before. Yes. Well, one evening, a watchman comes to my door and
mysteriously announces to me that carpenters had arrived, and were
putting up the gallows. At first I did not understand. What’s that? What
gallows? But the watchman was so excited that I saw at once it was
for our two. I wished to tap and communicate with my comrades, but was
afraid those two would hear. The comrades were also silent. Evidently
everybody knew. In the corridors and in the cells everything was as
still as death all that evening. They did not tap the wall nor sing.
At ten the watchman came again and announced that a hangman had arrived
from Moscow. He said it and went away. I began calling him back.
Suddenly I hear Rozovsky shouting to me across the corridor: ‘What’s the
matter? Why do you call him?’ I answered something about asking him to
get me some tobacco, but he seemed to guess, and asked me: ‘Why did we
not sing to-night, why did we not tap the walls?’ I do not remember
what I said, but I went away so as not to speak to him. Yes. It was a
terrible night. I listened to every sound all night. Suddenly, towards
morning, I hear doors opening and somebody walking--many persons. I went
up to my window. There was a lamp burning in the corridor. The first