The Awakening / The Resurrection

by Лев Толстой

Natalie Ivanovna sighed.

  "There are other means besides marriage."

  "And I think that that is the best. Besides, that will bring me into that world in which I can be useful."

  "I do not think," said Natalie Ivanovna, "that you could be happy."

  "It is not a question of my happiness."

  "Of course; but if she possesses a heart, she cannot be happy—she cannot even desire it."

  "She does not."

  "I understand, but life—demands something different."

  "Life only demands that we do what is right," said Nekhludoff, looking at her face, still beautiful, although covered with fine wrinkles around the eyes and mouth.

  "Poor dear! How she has changed!" thought Nekhludoff, recalling Natalie as she had been before her marriage, and a tender feeling, woven of countless recollections of their childhood, rose in his breast toward her.

  At that moment Ignatius Nikiforovitch, as usual holding his head high and projecting his broad chest, entered the room, with shining eye-glasses, bald head and black beard.

  "How do you do? How do you do?" he greeted Nekhludoff, unnaturally accentuating his words.

  They pressed each other's hand, and Ignatius Nikiforovitch lowered himself into an arm-chair.

  "Am I disturbing you?"

  "No, I do not conceal anything I say or do from anybody."

  As soon as Nekhludoff saw that face, those hairy hands and heard that patronizing tone, his gentle disposition immediately disappeared.

  "Yes, we have been speaking about his intention," said Natalie Ivanovna. "Shall I pour out some tea for you?" she added, taking the tea-pot.

  "Yes, if you please. What intention do you refer to?"

  "My intention of going to Siberia with that party of convicts, among whom there is a woman I have wronged," said Nekhludoff.

  "I heard that you intended more than that."

  "Yes, and marry her, if she only desires it."

  "I see! And may I ask you to explain your motives, if it is not unpleasant to you? I do not understand them."

  "My motives are that that woman—that the first step on her downward career——" Nekhludoff became angry because he could not find the proper expression. "My motives are that I am guilty, while she is punished."

  "If she is punished, then she is also, probably, guilty."

  "She is perfectly innocent."

  And, with unnecessary agitation, Nekhludoff related the whole case.

  "Yes, that was an omission by the presiding justice. But in such cases there is the Senate."

  "The Senate sustained the verdict."

  "Ah, then there were no grounds of appeal," said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, evidently sharing the well-known opinion that truth is the product of court proceedings. "The Senate cannot go into the merits of a case. But if there is really a judicial error, a petition should be made to the Emperor."

  "That was done, but there is no chance of success. Inquiries will be made at the Ministry, which will refer them to the Senate, and the Senate will repeat its decision, and, as usual, the innocent will be punished."

  "In the first place, the Ministry will not refer to the Senate," and Ignatius Nikiforovitch smiled condescendingly, "but will call for all the documents in the case, and, if it finds an error, will so decide. In the second place, an innocent person is never, or, at least, very seldom punished. Only the guilty is punished."

  "And I am convinced that the contrary is true," said Nekhludoff, with an unkind feeling toward his brother-in-law. "I am convinced that the majority of the people convicted by courts are innocent."

  "How so?"

  "They are innocent in the ordinary sense of the word, as that woman was innocent of poisoning; as that peasant is innocent of the murder which he has not committed; as that mother and son are innocent of the arson which was committed by the owner himself, and for which they came near being convicted."

  "Of course, there always have been and always will be judicial errors. Human institutions cannot be perfect."

  "And, then, a large part of the innocent, because they have been brought up amid certain conditions, do not consider the acts committed by them criminal."

  "Pardon me; that is unfair. Every thief knows that stealing is wrong; that theft is immoral," Ignatius Nikiforovitch said, with the calm, self-confident, and, at the same time, somewhat contemptuous, smile which particularly provoked Nekhludoff.

  "No, he does not know. He is told not to steal, but he sees and knows that the employers steal his labor, keep back his pay, and that the officials are constantly robbing him."

  "That is anarchism," Ignatius calmly defined the meaning of his brother-in-law's words.

  "I do not know what it is, but I am speaking of facts," Nekhludoff continued. "He knows that the officials are robbing him. He knows that we, the landlords, own the land which ought to be common property, and when he gathers some twigs for his oven we send him to jail and try to convince him that he is a thief."

  "I do not understand, and if I do, I cannot agree with you. The land cannot be nobody's property. If you divide it," Ignatius Nikiforovitch began, being fully convinced that Nekhludoff was a socialist, and that the theory of socialism demands that all the land should be divided equally; that such division is foolish, and that he can easily refute it. "If you should divide the land to-day, giving each inhabitant an equal share, to-morrow it will again find its way into the hands of the more industrious and able among them——"

  "Nobody even thinks of dividing the land into equal shares. There ought to be no property in land, and it ought not to be the subject of purchase and sale or renting."

  "The right of property is a natural right. Without property right there would be no interest in cultivating the land. Destroy property right and we will return to the condition of the savage," authoritatively said Ignatius Nikiforovitch.

  "On the contrary, only then will land not lie idle, as it is now."

  "But, Dimitri Ivanovich, it is perfect madness! Is it possible in our time to destroy property in land? I know it is your old hobby. But permit me to tell you plainly——" Ignatius Nikiforovitch turned pale and his voice trembled. The question was evidently of particular concern to him. "I would advise you to consider that question well before attempting its practical solution."

  "You are speaking of my personal affairs?"

  "Yes. I assume that we are all placed in a certain position, and must assume the duties that result from that position, must support those conditions of existence into which we were born, which we have inherited from our forefathers, and which we must hand over to our posterity."

  "I consider it my duty——"

  "Excuse me," continued Ignatius Nikiforovitch, who would not be interrupted. "I am not speaking of myself and my children. The fortune of my children is secure, and I earn enough to live in easy circumstances, and, therefore, my protest against your, permit me to say, ill-considered actions is not based on personal interest, but on principle. And I would advise you to give it a little more thought, to read——"

  "You had better let me decide my own affairs. I think I know what to read and what not to read," said Nekhludoff, turning pale, and, feeling that he could not control himself, became silent and began to drink his tea.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  "Well, how are the children?" Nekhludoff asked his sister, having calmed down.

  Thus the unpleasant conversation was changed. Natalie became calm and talked about her children. She would not speak, however, about those things which only her brother understood in the presence of her husband, and in order to continue the conversation she began to talk of the latest news, the killing of Kanesky in the duel.

  Ignatius Nikiforovitch expressed his disapproval of the condition of things which excluded the killing in a duel from the category of crimes.

  His remark called forth Nekhludoff's reply, and a hot discussion followed on the same subject, neither expressing fully his opinion, and in the end they were again at loggerhea
ds.

  Ignatius Nikiforovitch felt that Nekhludoff condemned him, hating all his activity, and he wished to prove the injustice of his reasoning. Nekhludoff, on the other hand, to say nothing of the vexation caused him by his brother-in-law's interference in his affairs (in the depth of his soul he felt that his brother-in-law, his sister and their children, as heirs, had the right to do so), was indignant at the calm and confident manner of that narrow-minded man who continued to consider legal and just that which to Nekhludoff was undoubtedly foolish. This self-confidence irritated him.

  "What should the court do?" asked Nekhludoff.

  "Sentence one of the duelists, as it would a common murderer, to hard labor."

  Nekhludoff's hands again turned cold, and he continued with warmth:

  "Well, what would be then?"

  "Justice would be done."

  "As if the aim of courts was to do justice!" said Nekhludoff.

  "What else?"

  "Their aim is to support class interests. Courts, according to my idea, are only instruments for the perpetuation of conditions profitable to our class."

  "That is an entirely new view," said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, smiling calmly. "Usually somewhat different aims are ascribed to courts."

  "In theory, but not in practice, as I have learned. The only aim of the courts is to preserve the existing state of things, and for this reason they persecute and kill all those who are above the common level and who wish to raise it as well as those who are below it."

  "I cannot agree with the view that criminals are executed because they are above the level of the average. For the most part they are the excrescence of society, just as perverted, though in a different manner, as are those criminal types whom you consider below the level of the average."

  "And I know people who are far above their judges."

  But Ignatius Nikiforovitch, not accustomed to being interrupted when speaking, did not listen to Nekhludoff, which was particularly irritating to the latter, and continued to talk while Nekhludoff was talking.

  "I cannot agree with you that the aim of courts is to support the existing order of things. The courts have their aims: either the correction——"

  "Prisons are great places for correction," Nekhludoff put in.

  "Or the removal," persistently continued Ignatius Nikiforovitch, "of those depraved and savage people who threaten the existence of society."

  "That is just where the trouble is. Courts can do neither the one nor the other. Society has no means of doing it."

  "How is that? I don't understand——" asked Ignatius Nikiforovitch, with a forced smile.

  "I mean to say that there are only two sensible modes of punishment—those that have been used in olden times: corporal punishment and capital punishment. But with the advance of civilization they have gone out of existence."

  "That is both new and surprising to hear from you."

  "Yes, there is sense in inflicting pain on a man that he might not repeat that for which the pain was inflicted; and it is perfectly sensible to cut the head off a harmful and dangerous member of society. But what sense is there in imprisoning a man, who is depraved by idleness and bad example, and keeping him in secure and compulsory idleness in the society of the most depraved people? Or to transport him, for some reason, at an expense to the government of five hundred roubles, from the District of Tula to the District of Irkutsk, or from Kursk——"

  "But people seem to fear these journeys at government expense. And were it not for these journeys, we would not be sitting here as we are sitting now."

  "Prisons cannot secure our safety, because people are not imprisoned for life, but are released. On the contrary, these institutions are the greatest breeders of vice and corruption—i. e., they increase the danger."

  "You mean to say that the penitentiary system ought to be perfected?"

  "It cannot be perfected. Perfected prisons would cost more than is spent on popular education and would be a new burden on the populace."

  "But the deficiencies of the penitentiary system do not invalidate the judicial system," Ignatius Nikiforovitch again continued, without listening to his brother-in-law.

  "These deficiencies cannot be corrected," said Nekhludoff, raising his voice.

  "What then? Would you kill? Or, as a certain statesman suggested, pluck out their eyes?" said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, smiling triumphantly.

  "Yes; that would be cruel, but expedient. What we are doing now is both cruel and inexpedient."

  "And I am taking part in it," said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, paling.

  "That is your business. But I do not understand it."

  "I think there are many things you do not understand," said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, with a quiver in his voice.

  "I saw a public prosecutor in court trying his utmost to convict an unfortunate boy, who could only arouse compassion in any unperverted man——"

  "If I thought so, I should give up my position," said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, rising.

  Nekhludoff noticed a peculiar glitter under his brother-in-law's eye-glasses. "Can it be tears?" thought Nekhludoff. They really were tears. Ignatius Nikiforovitch was offended. Going toward the window, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, coughed, and began to wipe his eye-glasses, and, removing them, he also wiped his eyes. Returning to the couch, Ignatius Nikiforovitch lit a cigar and spoke no more. Nekhludoff was pained and ashamed at the grief that he had caused his brother-in-law and sister, especially as he was leaving the next day and would not see them again. In great agitation he took leave of them and departed.

  "It is quite possible that what I said was true. At any rate, he did not refute me. But it was wrong to speak that way. Little have I changed if I could insult him and grieve poor Natalie," he thought.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  The party of convicts, which included Maslova, was to leave on the three o'clock train, and in order to see them coming out of the prison and follow them to the railroad station Nekhludoff decided to get to the prison before twelve.

  While packing his clothes and papers, Nekhludoff came across his diary and began to read the entry he had made before leaving for St. Petersburg. "Katiusha does not desire my sacrifice, but is willing to sacrifice herself," it ran. "She has conquered, and I have conquered. I am rejoicing at that inner change which she seems to me to be undergoing. I fear to believe it, but it appears to me that she is awakening." Immediately after this was the following entry: "I have lived through a very painful and very joyous experience. I was told that she had misbehaved in the hospital. It was very painful to hear it. Did not think it would so affect me. Have spoken to her with contempt and hatred, but suddenly remembered how often I myself have been guilty—am even now, although only in thought, of that for which I hated her, and suddenly I was seized with disgust for myself and pity for her, and I became very joyful. If we would only see in time the beam in our own eye, how much kinder we would be." Then he made the following entry for the day: "Have seen Katiusha, and, because of my self-content, was unkind and angry, and departed with a feeling of oppression. But what can I do? A new life begins to-morrow. Farewell to the old life! My mind is filled with numberless impressions, but I cannot yet reduce them to order."

  On awakening the following morning, Nekhludoff's first feeling was one of sorrow for the unpleasant incident with his brother-in-law.

  "I must go to see them," he thought, "and smooth it over."

  But, looking at the clock, he saw that there was no time left, and that he must hasten to the prison to see the departure of the convicts. Hastily packing up his things and sending them to the depot, Nekhludoff hired a trap and drove to the prison.

  The hot July days had set in. The stones of the street, the houses, and the tins of the roofs, failing to cool off during the suffocating night, exhaled their warmth into the hot, still air. There was no breeze, and such as rose every now and then was laden with dust and the stench of oil paint. The few people that were on the streets sought shelter in th
e shade of the houses. Only sun-burnt street-pavers in bast shoes were sitting in the middle of the street, setting boulders into the hot sand; gloomy policemen in unstarched blouses and carrying revolvers attached to yellow cords, were lazily shuffling about, and tram-cars with drawn blinds on the sides exposed to the sun, and drawn by white-hooded horses, were running up and down the street.

  When Nekhludoff arrived at the prison, the formal delivery and acceptance of the departing convicts, which began at four in the morning, were still going on. The party consisted of six hundred and twenty-three men and sixty-four women; all had to be counted, the weak and sick had to be separated, and they were to be delivered to the convoy. The new inspector, two assistants, a physician, his assistant, the officer of the convoy and a clerk were sitting in the shade around a table with papers and documents, calling and examining each convict and making entries in their books.

  One-half of the table was already exposed to the sun. It was getting warm and close from want of air, and from the breathing of the convicts standing near by.

  "Will there ever be an end?" said a tall, stout, red-faced captain of the convoy, incessantly smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke through the moustache which covered his mouth. "I am exhausted. Where have you taken so many? How many more are there?"

  The clerk consulted the books.

  "Twenty-four men and the women."

  "Why are you standing there? Come forward!" shouted the captain to the crowding convicts.

  The convicts had already been standing three hours in a broiling sun, waiting their turn.

  All this was taking place in the court-yard of the prison, while without the prison stood the usual armed soldier, about two dozen trucks for the baggage, and the infirm convicts, and on the corner a crowd of relatives and friends of the convicts, waiting for a chance to see the exiles as they emerged from the prison, and, if possible, to have a last few words with them, or deliver some things they had brought for them. Nekhludoff joined this crowd.

  He stood there about an hour. At the end of the hour, from behind the gates came the clatter of chains, the tramping of feet, voices of command, coughing and the low conversation of a large crowd. This lasted about five minutes, during which time prison officers flitted in and out through the wicket. Finally there was heard a sharp command.