Resurrection
a traveller had come to his father’s house and hired his sledge to drive
him to a village thirty miles off for two roubles. Makar’s father told
him to drive the stranger. Makar harnessed the horse, dressed, and
sat down to drink tea with the stranger. The stranger related at the
tea-table that he was going to be married and had five hundred roubles,
which he had earned in Moscow, with him. When he had heard this, Makar
went out into the yard and put an axe into the sledge under the straw.
“And I did not myself know why I was taking the axe,” he said. “‘Take
the axe,’ says _he_, and I took it. We got in and started. We drove
along all right; I even forgot about the axe. Well, we were getting
near the village; only about four miles more to go. The way from the
cross-road to the high road was up hill, and I got out. I walked behind
the sledge and _he_ whispers to me, ‘What are you thinking about? When
you get to the top of the hill you will meet people along the highway,
and then there will be the village. He will carry the money away. If
you mean to do it, now’s the time.’ I stooped over the sledge as if to
arrange the straw, and the axe seemed to jump into my hand of itself.
The man turned round. ‘What are you doing?’ I lifted the axe and tried
to knock him down, but he was quick, jumped out, and took hold of my
hands. ‘What are you doing, you villain?’ He threw me down into the
snow, and I did not even struggle, but gave in at once. He bound my arms
with his girdle, and threw me into the sledge, and took me straight to
the police station. I was imprisoned and tried. The commune gave me a
good character, said that I was a good man, and that nothing wrong had
been noticed about me. The masters for whom I worked also spoke well of
me, but we had no money to engage a lawyer, and so I was condemned to
four years’ hard labour.”
It was this man who, wishing to save a fellow-villager, knowing that he
was risking his life thereby, told Nekhludoff the prisoner’s secret, for
doing which (if found out) he should certainly be throttled.
CHAPTER XI.
MASLOVA AND HER COMPANIONS.
The political prisoners were kept in two small rooms, the doors of which
opened into a part of the passage partitioned off from the rest. The
first person Nekhludoff saw on entering into this part of the passage
was Simonson in his rubber jacket and with a log of pine wood in his
hands, crouching in front of a stove, the door of which trembled, drawn
in by the heat inside.
When he saw Nekhludoff he looked up at him from under his protruding
brow, and gave him his hand without rising.
“I am glad you have come; I want to speak to you,” he said, looking
Nekhludoff straight in the eyes with an expression of importance.
“Yes; what is it?” Nekhludoff asked.
“It will do later on; I am busy just now,” and Simonson turned again
towards the stove, which he was heating according to a theory of his
own, so as to lose as little heat energy as possible.
Nekhludoff was going to enter in at the first door, when Maslova,
stooping and pushing a large heap of rubbish and dust towards the stove
with a handleless birch broom, came out of the other. She had a white
jacket on, her skirt was tucked up, and a kerchief, drawn down to her
eyebrows, protected her hair from the dust. When she saw Nekhludoff, she
drew herself up, flushing and animated, put down the broom, wiped her
hands on her skirt, and stopped right in front of him. “You are tidying
up the apartments, I see,” said Nekhludoff, shaking hands.
“Yes; my old occupation,” and she smiled. “But the dirt! You can’t
imagine what it is. We have been cleaning and cleaning. Well, is the
plaid dry?” she asked, turning to Simonson.
“Almost,” Simonson answered, giving her a strange look, which struck
Nekhludoff.
“All right, I’ll come for it, and will bring the cloaks to dry. Our
people are all in here,” she said to Nekhludoff, pointing to the first
door as she went out of the second.
Nekhludoff opened the door and entered a small room dimly lit by a
little metal lamp, which was standing low down on the shelf bedstead. It
was cold in the room, and there was a smell of the dust, which had not
had time to settle, damp and tobacco smoke.
Only those who were close to the lamp were clearly visible, the
bedsteads were in the shade and wavering shadows glided over the walls.
Two men, appointed as caterers, who had gone to fetch boiling water and
provisions, were away; most of the political prisoners were gathered
together in the small room. There was Nekhludoff’s old acquaintance,
Vera Doukhova, with her large, frightened eyes, and the swollen vein on
her forehead, in a grey jacket with short hair, and thinner and yellower
than ever.. She had a newspaper spread out in front of her, and sat
rolling cigarettes with a jerky movement of her hands.
Emily Rintzeva, whom Nekhludoff considered to be the pleasantest of the
political prisoners, was also here. She looked after the housekeeping,
and managed to spread a feeling of home comfort even in the midst of
the most trying surroundings. She sat beside the lamp, with her sleeves
rolled up, wiping cups and mugs, and placing them, with her deft, red
and sunburnt hands, on a cloth that was spread on the bedstead. Rintzeva
was a plain-looking young woman, with a clever and mild expression of
face, which, when she smiled, had a way of suddenly becoming merry,
animated and captivating. It was with such a smile that she now welcomed
Nekhludoff.
“Why, we thought you had gone back to Russia,” she said.
Here in a dark corner was also Mary Pavlovna, busy with a little,
fair-haired girl, who kept prattling in her sweet, childish accents.
“How nice that you have come,” she said to Nekhludoff.
“Have you seen Katusha? And we have a visitor here,” and she pointed to
the little girl.
Here was also Anatole Kryltzoff with felt boots on, sitting in a far
corner with his feet under him, doubled up and shivering, his arms
folded in the sleeves of his cloak, and looking at Nekhludoff with
feverish eyes. Nekhludoff was going up to him, but to the right of
the door a man with spectacles and reddish curls, dressed in a rubber
jacket, sat talking to the pretty, smiling Grabetz. This was the
celebrated revolutionist Novodvoroff. Nekhludoff hastened to greet him.
He was in a particular hurry about it, because this man was the only one
among all the political prisoners whom he disliked. Novodvoroff’s eyes
glistened through his spectacles as he looked at Nekhludoff and held his
narrow hand out to him.
“Well, are you having a pleasant journey?” he asked, with apparent
irony.
“Yes, there is much that is interesting,” Nekhludoff answered, as if
he did not notice the irony, but took the question for politeness, and
passed on to Kryltzoff.
Though Nekhludoff appeared indifferent, he was really far from
indifferent, and these words of Novodvoroff, showing his evident desire
to say or do something unpleasant, interfered with the state of kindness
in which Nekhludoff found himself, and he felt depressed and sad.
“Well, how are you?” he asked, pressing Kryltzoff’s cold and trembling
hand.
“Pretty well, only I cannot get warm; I got wet through,” Kryltzoff
answered, quickly replacing his hands into the sleeves of his cloak.
“And here it is also beastly cold. There, look, the window-panes are
broken,” and he pointed to the broken panes behind the iron bars. “And
how are you? Why did you not come?”
“I was not allowed to, the authorities were so strict, but to-day the
officer is lenient.”
“Lenient indeed!” Kryltzoff remarked. “Ask Mary what she did this
morning.”
Mary Pavlovna from her place in the corner related what had happened
about the little girl that morning when they left the halting station.
“I think it is absolutely necessary to make a collective protest,” said
Vera Doukhova, in a determined tone, and yet looking now at one, now
at another, with a frightened, undecided look. “Valdemar Simonson did
protest, but that is not sufficient.”
“What protest!” muttered Kryltzoff, cross and frowning. Her want
of simplicity, artificial tone and nervousness had evidently been
irritating him for a long time.
“Are you looking for Katusha?” he asked, addressing Nekhludoff. “She is
working all the time. She has cleaned this, the men’s room, and now she
has gone to clean the women’s! Only it is not possible to clean away
the fleas. And what is Mary doing there?” he asked, nodding towards the
corner where Mary Pavlovna sat.
“She is combing out her adopted daughter’s hair,” replied Rintzeva.
“But won’t she let the insects loose on us?” asked Kryltzoff.
“No, no; I am very careful. She is a clean little girl now. You take
her,” said Mary, turning to Rintzeva, “while I go and help Katusha, and
I will also bring him his plaid.”
Rintzeva took the little girl on her lap, pressing her plump, bare,
little arms to her bosom with a mother’s tenderness, and gave her a bit
of sugar. As Mary Pavlovna left the room, two men came in with boiling
water and provisions.
CHAPTER XII.
NABATOFF AND MARKEL.
One of the men who came in was a short, thin, young man, who had a
cloth-covered sheepskin coat on, and high top-boots. He stepped lightly
and quickly, carrying two steaming teapots, and holding a loaf wrapped
in a cloth under his arm.
“Well, so our prince has put in an appearance again,” he said, as he
placed the teapot beside the cups, and handed the bread to Rintzeva.
“We have bought wonderful things,” he continued, as he took off his
sheepskin, and flung it over the heads of the others into the corner
of the bedstead. “Markel has bought milk and eggs. Why, we’ll have
a regular ball to-day. And Rintzeva is spreading out her aesthetic
cleanliness,” he said, and looked with a smile at Rintzeva, “and now she
will make the tea.”
The whole presence of this man--his motion, his voice, his look--seemed
to breathe vigour and merriment. The other newcomer was just the reverse
of the first. He looked despondent and sad. He was short, bony, had very
prominent cheek bones, a sallow complexion, thin lips and beautiful,
greenish eyes, rather far apart. He wore an old wadded coat, top-boots
and goloshes, and was carrying two pots of milk and two round boxes
made of birch bark, which he placed in front of Rintzeva. He bowed to
Nekhludoff, bending only his neck, and with his eyes fixed on him. Then,
having reluctantly given him his damp hand to shake, he began to take
out the provisions.
Both these political prisoners were of the people; the first was
Nabatoff, a peasant; the second, Markel Kondratieff, a factory hand.
Markel did not come among the revolutionists till he was quite a man,
Nabatoff only eighteen. After leaving the village school, owing to
his exceptional talents Nabatoff entered the gymnasium, and maintained
himself by giving lessons all the time he studied there, and obtained
the gold medal. He did not go to the university because, while still in
the seventh class of the gymnasium, he made up his mind to go among the
people and enlighten his neglected brethren. This he did, first getting
the place of a Government clerk in a large village. He was soon arrested
because he read to the peasants and arranged a co-operative industrial
association among them. They kept him imprisoned for eight months and
then set him free, but he remained under police supervision. As soon
as he was liberated he went to another village, got a place as
schoolmaster, and did the same as he had done in the first village.
He was again taken up and kept fourteen months in prison, where his
convictions became yet stronger. After that he was exiled to the Perm
Government, from where he escaped. Then he was put to prison for seven