Resurrection
slapped him on the shoulder, and said: “I say, old fellow, is it true
that Karmanoff wishes to exchange?”
Bousovkin’s kindly, gentle face turned suddenly sad and a veil seemed to
dim his eyes.
“We have heard nothing--hardly,” he said, and with the same dimness
still over his eyes he turned to the child.
“Well, Aksutka, it seems you’re to make yourself comfortable with the
ladies,” and he hurried away.
“It’s true about the exchange, and he knows it very well,” said
Nabatoff.
“What are you going to do?”
“I shall tell the authorities in the next town. I know both prisoners by
sight,” said Nekhludoff.
All were silent, fearing a recommencement of the dispute.
Simonson, who had been lying with his arms thrown back behind his head,
and not speaking, rose, and determinately walked up to Nekhludoff,
carefully passing round those who were sitting.
“Could you listen to me now?”
“Of course,” and Nekhludoff rose and followed him.
Katusha looked up with an expression of suspense, and meeting
Nekhludoff’s eyes, she blushed and shook her head.
“What I want to speak to you about is this,” Simonson began, when they
had come out into the passage. In the passage the din of the criminal’s
voices and shouts sounded louder. Nekhludoff made a face, but Simonson
did not seem to take any notice.
“Knowing of your relations to Katerina Maslova,” he began seriously and
frankly, with his kind eyes looking straight into Nekhludoff’s face,
“I consider it my duty”--He was obliged to stop because two voices were
heard disputing and shouting, both at once, close to the door.
“I tell you, blockhead, they are not mine,” one voice shouted.
“May you choke, you devil,” snorted the other.
At this moment Mary Pavlovna came out into the passage.
“How can one talk here?” she said; “go in, Vera is alone there,” and she
went in at the second door, and entered a tiny room, evidently meant for
a solitary cell, which was now placed at the disposal of the political
women prisoners, Vera Doukhova lay covered up, head and all, on the bed.
“She has got a headache, and is asleep, so she cannot hear you, and I
will go away,” said Mary Pavlovna.
“On the contrary, stay here,” said Simonson; “I have no secrets from any
one, certainly none from you.”
“All right,” said Mary Pavlovna, and moving her whole body from side to
side, like a child, so as to get farther back on to the bed, she settled
down to listen, her beautiful hazel eyes seeming to look somewhere far
away.
“Well, then, this is my business,” Simonson repeated. “Knowing of your
relations to Katerina Maslova, I consider myself bound to explain to you
my relations to her.”
Nekhludoff could not help admiring the simplicity and truthfulness with
which Simonson spoke to him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I should like to marry Katerina Maslova--”
“How strange!” said Mary Pavlovna, fixing her eyes on Simonson.
“--And so I made up my mind to ask her to be my wife,” Simonson
continued.
“What can I do? It depends on her,” said Nekhludoff.
“Yes; but she will not come to any decision without you.”
“Why?”
“Because as long as your relations with her are unsettled she cannot
make up her mind.”
“As far as I am concerned, it is finally settled. I should like to do
what I consider to be my duty and also to lighten her fate, but on no
account would I wish to put any restraint on her.”
“Yes, but she does not wish to accept your sacrifice.”
“It is no sacrifice.”
“And I know that this decision of hers is final.”
“Well, then, there is no need to speak to me,” said Nekhludoff.
“She wants you to acknowledge that you think as she does.”
“How can I acknowledge that I must not do what I consider to be my duty?
All I can say is that I am not free, but she is.”
Simonson was silent; then, after thinking a little, he said: “Very
well, then, I’ll tell her. You must not think I am in love with her,”
he continued; “I love her as a splendid, unique, human being who has
suffered much. I want nothing from her. I have only an awful longing to
help her, to lighten her posi--”
Nekhludoff was surprised to hear the trembling in Simonson’s voice.
“--To lighten her position,” Simonson continued. “If she does not wish
to accept your help, let her accept mine. If she consents, I shall ask
to be sent to the place where she will be imprisoned. Four years are
not an eternity. I would live near her, and perhaps might lighten her
fate--” and he again stopped, too agitated to continue.
“What am I to say?” said Nekhludoff. “I am very glad she has found such
a protector as you--”
“That’s what I wanted to know,” Simonson interrupted.
“I wanted to know if, loving her and wishing her happiness, you would
consider it good for her to marry me?”
“Oh, yes,” said Nekhludoff decidedly.
“It all depends on her; I only wish that this suffering soul should find
rest,” said Simonson, with such childlike tenderness as no one could
have expected from so morose-looking a man.
Simonson rose, and stretching his lips out to Nekhludoff, smiled shyly
and kissed him.
“So I shall tell her,” and he went away.
CHAPTER XVII.
“I HAVE NOTHING MORE TO SAY.”
“What do you think of that?” said Mary Pavlovna. “In love--quite in
love. Now, that’s a thing I never should have expected, that Valdemar
Simonson should be in love, and in the silliest, most boyish manner. It
is strange, and, to say the truth, it is sad,” and she sighed.
“But she? Katusha? How does she look at it, do you think?” Nekhludoff
asked.
“She?” Mary Pavlovna waited, evidently wishing to give as exact an
answer as possible. “She? Well, you see, in spite of her past she
has one of the most moral natures--and such fine feelings. She loves
you--loves you well, and is happy to be able to do you even the negative
good of not letting you get entangled with her. Marriage with you would
be a terrible fall for her, worse than all that’s past, and therefore
she will never consent to it. And yet your presence troubles her.”
“Well, what am I to do? Ought I to vanish?”
Mary Pavlovna smiled her sweet, childlike smile, and said, “Yes,
partly.”
“How is one to vanish partly?”
“I am talking nonsense. But as for her, I should like to tell you that
she probably sees the silliness of this rapturous kind of love (he has
not spoken to her), and is both flattered and afraid of it. I am not
competent to judge in such affairs, you know, still I believe that on
his part it is the most ordinary man’s feeling, though it is masked. He
says that this love arouses his energy and is Platonic, but I know that
even if it is exceptional, still at the bottom it is degrading.”
Mary Pavlovna had wandered from the subject, having started on her
favourite theme.
“Well, but what am I to do?” Nekhludoff asked.
“I think you should tell her everything; it is always best that
everything should be clear. Have a talk with her; I shall call her.
Shall I?” said Mary Pavlovna.
“If you please,” said Nekhludoff, and Mary Pavlovna went.
A strange feeling overcame Nekhludoff when he was alone in the little
room with the sleeping Vera Doukhova, listening to her soft breathing,
broken now and then by moans, and to the incessant dirt that came
through the two doors that separated him from the criminals. What
Simonson had told him freed him from the self-imposed duty, which had
seemed hard and strange to him in his weak moments, and yet now he felt
something that was not merely unpleasant but painful.
He had a feeling that this offer of Simonson’s destroyed the exceptional
character of his sacrifice, and thereby lessened its value in his own
and others’ eyes; if so good a man who was not bound to her by any kind
of tie wanted to join his fate to hers, then this sacrifice was not so
great. There may have also been an admixture of ordinary jealousy. He
had got so used to her love that he did not like to admit that she loved
another.
Then it also upset the plans he had formed of living near her while
she was doing her term. If she married Simonson his presence would be
unnecessary, and he would have to form new plans.
Before he had time to analyse his feelings the loud din of the
prisoners’ voices came in with a rush (something special was going on
among them to-day) as the door opened to let Katusha in.
She stepped briskly close up to him and said, “Mary Pavlovna has sent
me.”
“Yes, I must have a talk with you. Sit down. Valdemar Simonson has been
speaking to me.”
She sat down and folded her hands in her lap and seemed quite calm, but
hardly had Nekhludoff uttered Simonson’s name when she flushed crimson.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He told me he wanted to marry you.”
Her face suddenly puckered up with pain, but she said nothing and only
cast down her eyes.
“He is asking for my consent or my advice. I told him that it all
depends entirely on you--that you must decide.”
“Ah, what does it all mean? Why?” she muttered, and looked in his eyes
with that peculiar squint that always strangely affected Nekhludoff.
They sat silent for a few minutes looking into each other’s eyes, and
this look told much to both of them.
“You must decide,” Nekhludoff repeated.
“What am I to decide? Everything has long been decided.”
“No; you must decide whether you will accept Mr. Simonson’s offer,” said
Nekhludoff.
“What sort of a wife can I be--I, a convict? Why should I ruin Mr.
Simonson, too?” she said, with a frown.
“Well, but if the sentence should be mitigated.”
“Oh, leave me alone. I have nothing more to say,” she said, and rose to
leave the room.
CHAPTER XVIII.
NEVEROFF’S FATE.
When, following Katusha, Nekhludoff returned to the men’s room, he found
every one there in agitation. Nabatoff, who went about all over the
place, and who got to know everybody, and noticed everything, had
just brought news which staggered them all. The news was that he had
discovered a note on a wall, written by the revolutionist Petlin, who
had been sentenced to hard labour, and who, every one thought, had long
since reached the Kara; and now it turned out that he had passed this
way quite recently, the only political prisoner among criminal convicts.
“On the 17th of August,” so ran the note, “I was sent off alone with
the criminals. Neveroff was with me, but hanged himself in the lunatic
asylum in Kasan. I am well and in good spirits and hope for the best.”
All were discussing Petlin’s position and the possible reasons of
Neveroff’s suicide. Only Kryltzoff sat silent and preoccupied, his
glistening eyes gazing fixedly in front of him.
“My husband told me that Neveroff had a vision while still in the
Petropavlovski prison,” said Rintzeva.
“Yes, he was a poet, a dreamer; this sort of people cannot stand
solitary confinement,” said Novodvoroff. “Now, I never gave my
imagination vent when in solitary confinement, but arranged my days most
systematically, and in this way always bore it very well.”
“What is there unbearable about it? Why, I used to be glad when they
locked me up,” said Nabatoff cheerfully, wishing to dispel the general
depression.
“A fellow’s afraid of everything; of being arrested himself and
entangling others, and of spoiling the whole business, and then he gets
locked up, and all responsibility is at an end, and he can rest; he can
just sit and smoke.”
“You knew him well?” asked Mary Pavlovna, glancing anxiously at the
altered, haggard expression of Kryltzoff’s face.
“Neveroff a dreamer?” Kryltzoff suddenly began, panting for breath as
if he had been shouting or singing for a long time. “Neveroff was a man
‘such as the earth bears few of,’ as our doorkeeper used to express it.
Yes, he had a nature like crystal, you could see him right through; he