 Book 1. CHAPTER I. THOUGH HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS The mountains had done their very best to disfigure the small piece of land on which they were crowded together, paving the ground with stones, scraping away every vestige of vegetation, cutting down the trees, turning away birds and beasts, filling the air with the smoke of naphtha and coal. Still, spring was spring, even in the town. The sun shone warm, the air was barmy, the grass, where it did not get scraped away, revived and sprang up everywhere, between the paving stones, as well as on the narrow strips of lawn on the boulevards. The birches, the poplars, and the wild cherry trees were unfolding, their gummy and fragrant leaves. The bursting buds were swelling on the lime trees. Crows, sparrows, and pigeons, filled with the joy of spring, were getting their nests ready. The flies were buzzing along the walls, warmed by the sunshine. All were glad, the plants, the birds, the insects, and the children. But men, grown up men and women, did not leave off cheating and tormenting themselves and each other. It was not this spring men thought sacred and worthy of consideration, not the beauty of God's world, given for a joy to all creatures, this beauty which inclines the heart to peace, to harmony, and to love, but only their own devices for enslaving one another. Thus, in the prison-office of the government town, it was not the fact that men and animals had received the grace and gladness of spring that was considered sacred and important, but that a notice, numbered and with a superscription, had come the day before, ordering that on this, the twenty-eighth day of April, at nine a.m., three prisoners now detained in the prison, a man and two women, one of these women as the chief criminal to be conducted separately, had to appear at the court. So now, on the twenty-eighth of April, at eight o'clock in the morning, the chief jailer entered the dark, stinking corridor of the women's part of the prison. Immediately after, a woman with curly gray hair and a look of suffering on her face came into the corridor. She was dressed in a jacket with sleeves trimmed with gold lace and had a blue-aged belt round her waist. The jailer, rattling the iron padlock, opened the door of the cell, from which there came a whiff of air fowler evened in the corridor, called out, Maslova to the court, and closed the door again. Even into the prison-yard, the breeze had brought the fresh, vivifying air from the fields. But in the corridor, the air was laden with the germs of typhoid, and the smell of sewage, putrefaction, and tar. Every newcomer felt sad and dejected in it. The woman Warder felt this, though she was used to bad air. She had just come in from outside, and entering the corridor she at once felt weary and sleepy. From inside the cell came the sound of bustle and women's voices, and the patter of bare feet on the floor. Now then hurry up, called out the jailer, and in a minute or two a small young woman, with a very full bust, came briskly out of the door, and went up to the jailer. She had on a grey cloak over a white jacket and petticoat. On her feet she wore linen stockings and prison shoes, and round her head was tied a white kerchief, from under which a few locks of black hair were brushed over her forehead with evident intent. The woman's face was of that whiteness peculiar to people who have lived long in confinement, and which puts one in mind of shoots that spring up from potatoes kept in a cellar. Her small, broad hands, and the full neck which showed from under the broad collar of her cloak were of that same hue. Her black, sparkling eyes, one with a slight squint, appeared in striking contrast to the dull pallor of her face. She carried herself very straight, expanding her full bosom. With her head slightly thrown back she stood in the corridor, looking straight into the eyes of the jailer, ready to comply with any order. The jailer was about to lock the door when a wrinkled, stern-looking old woman put out her grey head and began speaking to Maslova. But the jailer closed the door, pushing the old woman's head with it. A woman's laugh was heard from the cell, and Maslova smiled, turning towards that little opening in the cell door. The old woman pressed her face to the hole from the other side, and said in a hoarse voice, Now mind, and when they begin questioning you, just go on repeating the same thing and stick to it, say nothing that is not wanted. Well, it could not be worse than it is now, anyhow. I only wish it was settled one way or another. Of course it will be settled one way or another, said the chief jailer, with the self-assured wit of a superior. Now then, get along. The old woman's eyes vanished from the opening, and Maslova stepped out into the middle of the corridor. The chief jailer in front, they descended the stone steps, past the still fouler, noisy cells of the men's ward, followed by eyes looking out of every one of the holes in the doors, and entered the office where two soldiers were waiting to escort her. A clerk sitting there gave one of the soldiers a paper, reeking of tobacco, and, pointing to the prisoner, remarked, Take her. The soldier, a peasant from Nizhny Novgorod, with a red, pock-marked face, put the paper into the sleeve of his coat, winked, with a glance towards the prisoner, to his companion, a broad-shouldered chuvash, and then the prisoner and the soldiers went to the front entrance, out of the prison-yard, and through the town, up the middle of the roughly paved street. Cabmen, tradespeople, cooks, workmen, and government clerks, stopped and looked curiously at the prisoner. Some shook their heads and thought, This is what evil conduct, conduct unlike ours, leads to. The children stopped and gazed at the robber with frightened looks, but the thought that the soldiers were preventing her from doing more harm quieted their fears. A peasant who had sold his charcoal, and had had some tea in the town, came up and, after crossing himself, gave her a co-peck. The prisoner blushed, and muttered something. Feeling the looks directed towards her, she gave, without turning her head, a side-long glance to everybody who was gazing at her. The attention she attracted pleased her. The comparatively fresh air also gladdened her, but her feet had become unused to walking, and it was painful to step on the rough stones in the ill-made prison-shoes. Passing by a corn-dealer's shop, in front of which a few pigeons were strutting about, unmolested by any one, the prisoner almost touched a grey-blue bird with her foot. It fluttered up, and flew close to her ear, fanning her with its wings. She smiled, and then sighed deeply as she remembered her position. End of Book 1, Chapter 1. The story of prisoner Maslover's life was a very common one. Maslover's mother was the unmarried daughter of a village woman, employed on a dairy-farm belonging to two maiden-ladies who were land-owners. This unmarried woman had a baby every year, and as often happens among the village people, each one of these undesired babies, after being carefully baptized, was neglected by its mother, whom it hindered at her work, and was left to starve. Five children had died in this way. They had all been baptized, and then not sufficiently fed, and just allowed to die. The sixth baby, whose father was a gypsy tramp, would have shared the same fate, had it not so happened that one of the maiden-ladies came into the farmyard to scold the dairy-maids for sending up cream that smelt of the cow. The young woman was lying in the cow-shed with a fine, healthy, newborn baby. The old maiden-lady scolded the maids again for allowing the woman, who'd just been confined, to lie in the cow-shed and was about to go away. But seeing the baby, her heart was touched, and she offered to understand Godmother to the little girl. Pity for her little Goddaughter induced her to give milk and a little money to the mother, so that she could feed the baby, and the child lived. The old lady spoke of her as the saved one. When the child was three years old, her mother fell ill and died, and the maiden-ladies took the child from the old grandmother, to whom she was only a burden. The little black-eyed maiden grew to be extremely pretty, and so full of spirits that the ladies found her very entertaining. The honour of the ladies, Sophia Ivanovna, who had stood Godmother to the girl, had the kinder heart of the two sisters. Mary Ivanovna, the elder, was rather hard. Sophia Ivanovna dressed the little girl in nice clothes and taught her to read and write, meaning to educate her like a lady. Mary Ivanovna thought the child should be brought up to work, and trained to be a good servant. She was exacting. She punished, and when in a bad temper even struck the little girl. Growing up under these two different influences, the girl turned out half-servant, half-young lady. They called her Katusha, which sounds less refined than Katinka, but is not quite so common as Katka. She used to sew, tidy up the rooms, polish the metal cases of the icons with chalk, and do other light work, and sometimes she sat and read to the ladies. Though she had more than one offer, she would not marry. She felt that life as the wife of any of the working men who were courting her would be too hard for her, spoiled as she was by an easy life. She lived in this way till she was sixteen, when the nephew of the old ladies, a rich young prince and a university student, came to stay with his aunts, and Katusha, not daring to acknowledge it even to herself, fell in love with him. Two years later this same nephew stayed four days with his aunts before proceeding to join his regiment, and the night before he left he seduced Katusha, and after giving her a one-hundred ruble note went away. Five months later she knew for certain that she was pregnant. After that everything seemed repugnant to her, her only thought being how to escape from the shame awaiting her, and she not only began to serve the ladies in a half-hearted and negligent way, but once without knowing how it happened she was very rude to them, though she repented afterwards, and asked them to let her leave. They let her go, very dissatisfied with her. Then she got a housemaid's place in a police officer's house, but stayed there only three months. For the police officer a man of fifty began to molest her, and once when he was in a specially enterprising mood she fired up, called him fool and old devil, and pushed him away so vigorously that he fell. She was turned out for her rudeness. It was useless to look for another situation, for the time of her confinement was drawing near, so she went to the house of a village midwife and illicit retailer of spirits. The confinement was easy, but the midwife, who had a case of fever in the village, infected Katusha, and her baby boy had to be sent to the Foundlings Hospital, where, according to the old woman who took him there, he died at once. When Katusha went to the midwife she had a hundred and twenty-seven rubles in all, twenty-seven she had earned, and the hundred given to her by her seducer. When she left she had but six rubles. She didn't know how to keep money, but spent it on herself and gave it to all who asked. The midwife took forty rubles for two months' keep and attendance, twenty-five went to get the baby into the Foundlings Hospital, and forty the midwife borrowed to buy a cow with. Some twenty rubles went just for clothes, sweets and extras. Having nothing left to live on, Katusha had to look out for a place again, and found one in the house of a forester. The forester was a married man, but he too began to beset her from the first day. She disliked him and tried to avoid him, but he, besides being her master, who could send her wherever he liked, was more experienced and conning, and managed to violate her. His wife found out, and catching Katusha and her husband in a room all by themselves began beating her. Katusha defended herself and they had a fight, and Katusha was turned out of the house without being paid her wages. Then she went to live with her aunt in town. Her uncle, a book-binder, had once been comfortably off, but he had lost all his customers and taken to drink, and spent all he could lay hands on at the public house. The aunt kept a small laundry, and managed to support herself, her children, and her wretched husband. She offered Katusha a place as assistant laundress, but seeing what a life of misery and hardship her aunt's assistants led, Katusha hesitated, and applied to a registry office. Her place was found for her with a lady, who lived with her two sons, pupils at a public day-school. A week after Katusha entered the house, the elder, a big fellow with moustaches, threw up his studies and gave her no peace, continually following her about. His mother laid all the blame on Katusha and gave her notice. It so happened that after many fruitless attempts to find a situation Katusha again went to the registry office, and there met a woman with bracelets on her bare plump arms and rings on most of her fingers. Hearing that Katusha was badly in want of a place, the woman gave her her address, and invited her to come to her house. Katusha went. The woman received her very kindly, set cake and sweet wine before her, then wrote a note and gave it to a servant to take to somebody. In the evening, a tall man, with long grey hair and a white beard, entered the room and sat down at once near Katusha, smiling and gazing at her with glistening eyes. He began joking with her. The hostess called him away into the next room and Katusha heard her say, a fresh one from the country. Then the hostess called Katusha away and told her that the man was an author, and that he had a great deal of money, and that if he liked her he would not grudge her anything. He did like her, and gave her twenty-five roubles, promising to see her often. The twenty-five roubles soon went, some she paid to her aunt for board and lodging, the rest was spent on a hat, ribbons, and such like. A few days later the author sent for her, and she went. He gave her another twenty-five roubles, and offered her a separate lodging. Next door to the lodging rented for her by the author, there lived a jolly young shopman, with whom Katusha soon fell in love. She told the author, and moved to a small lodging of her own. The shopman, who had promised to marry her, went off to Nizhny on business without mentioning it to her, having evidently thrown her up, and Katusha remained alone. She meant to continue living in the lodging by herself, but was informed by the police that in that case she would have to get a yellow prostitute's passport, and be subjected to medical examinations. She returned to her aunt. Seeing her fine dress, her hat, and head mantle, her aunt no longer offered her laundry work. According to her ideas her niece had risen above that. The question as to whether she was to become a lawn-dress or not did not occur to Katusha, either. She looked with pity at the thin, hard-worked lawn-dresses, some already in consumption, who stood washing or ironing with their thin arms in the fearfully hot front-room, which is always full of soapy steam and very draughty, and she thought with horror that she might have shared the same fate. It was just at this time, when Katusha was in very narrow straits, no protector appearing upon the scene, that a procurese found her out. Katusha had begun to smoke some time before, and since the young shopman had thrown her up, she was getting more and more into the habit of drinking. It was not so much the flavour of wine that attracted her, as the fact that it gave her a chance of forgetting the misery she suffered, making her feel unrestrained and more confident of her own worth, which she was not when quite sober. Without wine she felt sad and ashamed. The procurese brought all sorts of dainties, to which she treated the aunt, and also wine, and while Katusha drank, she offered to place her in one of the largest establishments in the city, explaining all the advantages and benefits of the situation. Katusha had the choice before her of either going into service to be humiliated, probably annoyed by the attentions of the men and having occasional secret sexual connections, or accepting an easy, secure position sanctioned by law, and open, well-paid, regular sexual connection, and she chose the latter. Besides, it seemed to her as though she could in this way revenge herself on her seducer, and the shopman, and all those who had injured her. One of the things that tempted her, and influenced her decision, was the procurese telling her she might order her own dresses, velvet, silk, satin, low-necked ball-dresses, anything she liked. A mental picture of herself in bright yellow silk, trimmed with black velvet, with low neck and short sleeves, conquered her, and she handed over her passport. That same evening the procurese took in his voschik, and drove her to the notorious house kept by Caroline Albertovna Kiteyeva. From that day a life of chronic sin against human and divine laws commenced for Katusha Matalova, a life which is led by hundreds of thousands of women, and which is not merely tolerated but sanctioned by the government, anxious for the welfare of its subjects, a life which for nine women out of ten ends in painful disease, premature decrepitude, and death. Heavy sleep until late in the afternoon followed the orges of the night. Between three and four o'clock came the weary getting up from a dirty bed, soda-water, coffee, listless pacing up and down the room in bed-gowns and dressing-jackets, lazy gazing out of the windows from behind the drawn curtains, indolent disputes with one another, then washing, perfuming, and anointing the body and hair, trying on dresses, disputes about them with the mistress of the house, surveying oneself in looking-glasses, painting the face, the eyebrows, rich, sweet food, then dressing in gaudy silks, exposing much of the body, and coming down into the ornamented and brilliantly illuminated drawing-room, then the arrival of visitors, music, dancing, sexual connection with old and young, and middle-aged, with lads and decrepit old men, bachelors, married men, merchants, clerks, Armenians, Jews, Tatars, rich and poor, sick and healthy, tipsy and sober, rough and tender, military men and civilians, students and mere schoolboys, of all classes, ages and characters, and shouts and jokes and brawls and music and tobacco and wine, and wine and tobacco, from evening until daylight, no relief till morning, and then heavy sleep, the same every day and all the week. Then at the end of the week came the visit to the police station, as instituted by the government, where doctors, men in the service of the government, sometimes seriously and strictly, sometimes with playful levity, examined these women, completely destroying the modesty given as a protection not only to human beings, but also to animals, and gave them written permission to continue in the sins they and their accomplices had been committing all the week. Then followed another week of the same kind, always the same every night, summer and winter, work days and holidays. And in this manner, Katusha Maslova lived seven years. During this time she had changed houses backwards and forwards once or twice, and had once been to the hospital. In the seventh year of her life in the brothel, when she was twenty-eight years old, there happened that for which she was put in prison, and for which she was now being taken to be tried, after more than three months confinement with thieves and murderers, in the stifling air of the prison. End of Book 1, Chapter 2 Book 1, Chapter 3 of Resurrection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise Maud. Read by David Barnes. CHAPTER III. Nekludov When Maslova, wearied out by the long walk, reached the building, accompanied by two soldiers, Prince Dmitry Ivanovich Nekludov, who had seduced her, was still lying on his high bed-stead, with a feather-bed on the top of the spring mattress, in a fine, clean, well-ironed linen night-shirt, smoking a cigarette, and considering what he had to do to-day, and what had happened yesterday. Recalling the evening he had spent with the Kurchagins, a wealthy and aristocratic family whose daughter everyone expected he would marry, he sighed, and, throwing away the end of his cigarette, was going to take another out of the silver case. But, changing his mind, he resolutely raised his solid frame, and putting down his smooth white legs, stepped into his slippers, threw his silk-dressing gown over his broad shoulders, and passed into his dressing-room, walking heavily and quickly. There he carefully cleaned his teeth, many of which were filled, with tooth-powder, and rinsed his mouth with scented elixir. After that he washed his hands with perfumed soap, cleaned his long nails with particular care, then, from a tap fixed to his marble wash-stand, he let a spray of cold water run over his face and stout neck. Having finished this part of the business, he went into a third-room, where a shower-bath stood ready for him. Having refreshed his full white muscular body, and dried it with a rough bath-sheet, he put on his fine undergarments and his boots, and sat down before the glass to brush his black beard and his curly hair, that had begun to get thin above the forehead. Everything he used, everything belonging to his toilet, his linen, his clothes, boots, neck-tie, pin, studs, was of the best quality, very quiet, simple, durable, and costly. Nekludov dressed leisurely and went into the dining-room, a table which looked very imposing with its four legs carved in the shape of lion's paws, and a huge side-board to match stood in the oblong-room, the floor of which had been polished by three men the day before. On the table, which was covered with a fine starched cloth, stood a silver coffee-pot full of aromatic coffee, a sugar-basin, a jog of fresh cream, and a bread-basket filled with fresh rolls, rusks, and biscuits, and beside the plate lay the last number of the revue des demand, a newspaper, and several letters. Nekludov was just going to open his letters when a stout, middle-aged woman in mourning, a lace cap covering the widening parting of her hair, glided into the room. This was Agrofina Petrovna, formerly laid his maid to Nekludov's mother. Her mistress had died quite recently in this very house, and she remained with the son as his housekeeper. Agrofina Petrovna had spent nearly ten years at different times abroad with Nekludov's mother, and had the appearance and manners of a lady. She had lived with the Nekludovs from the time she was a child, and had known Dmitry Ivanovich at the time when he was still little Mitingka. Good-morning, Dmitry Ivanovich! Good-morning, Agrofina Petrovna! What is it you want? Nekludov asked. A letter from the princess, either from the mother or the daughter. The maid brought it on time ago and is waiting in my room, answered Agrofina Petrovna, handing him the letter with a significant smile. All right, directly, said Nekludov, taking the letter, and frowning, as he noticed Agrofina Petrovna's smile. That smile meant that the letter was from the younger princess Khorchagin, whom Agrofina Petrovna expected him to marry. This supposition of hers annoyed Nekludov. Then I'll tell her to wait, and Agrofina Petrovna took a crumb-brush, which was not in its place, put it away and sailed out of the room. Nekludov opened the perfumed note, and began reading it. The note was written on a sheet of thick grey paper with rough edges. The writing looked English. It said, Having assumed the task of acting as your memory, I take the liberty of reminding you that on this, the twenty-eighth day of April, you have to appear at the law-caught as juryman, and, in consequence, can on no account accompany us and colosov to the picture-gallery, as with your habitual flightiness, you promised yesterday. A moins que vous ne soyez disposés à payer la cour d'assise les trois cents roubles d'amende que vous vous refusez pour votre cheval, for not appearing in time. I remembered it last night after you were gone, so do not forget. Princess M. Khorchagin. On the other side was a post-script. Maman vous fait dire que votre converse vous attendre jusqu'à la nuit. Venez absolument à quelle heure que cela soit. M. K. Nekludov made a grimace. This note was a continuation of that skillful manoeuvring which the Princess Khorchagin had already practised for two months, in order to bind him closer and closer with the invisible threads. And yet, beside the usual hesitation of men past their youth to marry, unless they are very much in love, Nekludov had very good reasons why, even if he did make up his mind to do it, he could not propose at once. It was not that ten years previously he had betrayed and forsaken Maslova. He had quite forgotten that, and he would not have considered it a reason for not marrying. No, the reason was, that he had a liaison with a married woman, and though he considered it broken off, she did not. Nekludov was rather shy with women, and his very shyness awakened in this married woman, the unprincipled wife of the Marysheild and a bless of a district where Nekludov was present at an election, the desire of vanquishing him. This woman drew him into an intimacy which entangled him more and more, while it daily became more distasteful to him. Having succumbed to the temptation, Nekludov felt guilty, and had not the courage to break the tie without her consent, and this was the reason he did not feel at liberty to propose to Khorchagin, even if he had wished to do so. Among the letters on the table was one from this woman's husband. Seeing his writing and the postmark, Nekludov flushed, and felt his energies awakening as they always did when he was facing any kind of danger. But his excitement passed at once. The Marysheild and a bless of the district in which his largest estate lay, wrote only to let Nekludov know that there was to be a special meeting towards the end of May, and that Nekludov was to be sure and come to Donéancourt de Paul at the important debates concerning the schools and the roads, as a strong opposition by the reactionary party was expected. The Marysheild was a liberal and was quite engrossed in this fight, not even noticing the misfortune that had befallen him. Nekludov remembered the dreadful moments he had lived through, once when he thought that the husband had found him out and was going to challenge him, and he was making up his mind to fire into the air. Also the terrible scene he had with her when she ran out into the park and in her excitement tried to drown herself in the pond. Well, I cannot go now and can do nothing until I get a reply from her, thought Nekludov. A week ago he had written her a decisive letter in which he acknowledged his guilt and his readiness to atone for it, but at the same time he pronounced their relationship to be at an end for her own good, as he expressed it. To this letter he had as yet received no answer. This might prove a good sign, for if she did not agree to break off their relation she would have written at once, or even come herself, as she had done before. Nekludov had heard that there was some officer who was paying her marked attention, and this tormented him by awakening jealousy, and at the same time encouraged him with the hope of escape from the deception that was oppressing him. The other letter was from his steward. The steward wrote to tell him that a visit to his estates was necessary in order to enter into possession, and also to decide about the further management of his lands. Whether it was to continue in the same way as when his mother was alive, or whether, as he had represented to the late lamented princess and now advised the young prince, they had not better increase their stock, and farm all the land now rented by the peasants themselves. The steward wrote that this would be a far more profitable way of managing the property. At the same time he apologized for not having forwarded the three thousand rubles income due on the first. This money would be sent on by the next mail. The reason for the delay was that he could not get the money out of the peasants who had grown so untrustworthy that he had to appeal to the authorities. This letter was partly disagreeable and partly pleasant. It was pleasant to feel that he had power over so large a property, and yet disagreeable, because Nekledov had been an enthusiastic admirer of Henry George and Herbert Spencer. Being himself heir to a large property, he was especially struck by the position taken up by Spencer in social statics that justice forbids private land-holding, and with the straightforward resoluteness of his age had not merely spoken to prove that land could not be looked upon as private property and written essays on that subject at the university, but had acted upon his convictions, and considering it wrong to hold landed property had given the small piece of land he had inherited from his father to the peasants. Inheriting his mother's large estates and thus becoming a landed proprietor, he had to choose one of two things, either to give up his property as he had given up his father's land ten years before, or silently to confess that all his former ideas were mistaken and false. He could not choose the former because he had no means but the landed estates. He did not care to serve. Moreover, he had formed luxurious habits which he could not easily give up. Besides, he had no longer the same inducements. His strong convictions, the resoluteness of youth, and the ambitious desire to do something unusual were gone. As to the second course, that of denying those clear and unanswerable proofs of the injustice of land-holding which he had drawn from Spencer's social statics, and the brilliant corroboration of which he had at a later period found in the works of Henry George, such a course was impossible to him. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise Maud. Read by David Barnes. Book 1, Chapter 4. Missy. When Necladoff had finished his coffee, he went to his study to look at the summons and find out what time he was to appear at the court, before writing his answer to the princess. Passing through his studio, where a few studies hung on the walls, and facing the easels stood an unfinished picture, a feeling of inability to advance in art, a sense of his incapacity came over him. He had often had this feeling of late, and explained it by his two finely developed aesthetic taste. Still, the feeling was a very unpleasant one. Seven years before this, he had given up military service, feeling sure that he had a talent for art, and had looked down with some disdain at all other activity, from the height of his artistic standpoint. And now it turned out that he had no right to do so, and therefore everything that reminded him of all this was unpleasant. He looked at the luxurious fittings of the studio with a heavy heart, and it was in no cheerful mood that he entered his study. A large lofty room fitted up with a view to comfort, convenience, and elegant appearance. He found the summons at once in a pigeon-hole, labeled immediate, of his large writing-table. He had to appear at the court at eleven o'clock. Nekludov sat down to write a note in reply to the princess, thanking her for the invitation, and promising to try and come to dinner. Having written one note, he tore it up, as it seemed too intimate. He wrote another, but it was too cold, he feared it might give a fence, so he tore it up, too. He pressed the bottom of an electric bell, and his servant, an elderly morose-looking man, with whiskers and shaved chin and lip, wearing a grey cotton apron, entered at the door. Send to fetch in his Voschik, please. Yes, sir. And tell the person who's waiting that I send thanks for the invitation, and shall try to come. Yes, sir. It's not very polite, but I can't write. No matter, I shall see her to-day," thought Nekludov, and went to get his overcoat. When he came out of the house, and his Voschik he knew, with India rubber-tires to his trap, was at the door waiting for him. He had hardly gone away from Prince Khorchagin's yesterday, he said, turning half-round, when I drove up, and the Swiss at the door said, just gone. The his Voschik knew that Nekludov visited at the Khorchagins, and called there on the chance of being engaged by him. Even the his Voschik's know of my relations with the Khorchagins, thought Nekludov. And again the question whether he should not marry Princess Khorchagin, presented itself to him, and he could not decide it either way, any more than most of the questions that arose in his mind at this time. It was in favour of marriage in general, that, besides the comforts of hearth and home, it made a moral life possible, and chiefly that a family would, so Nekludov thought, give him an aim to his now empty life. Against marriage in general was the fear common to bachelors pass their first youth of losing freedom, and an unconscious awe before this mysterious creature a woman. In this particular case, in favour of marrying Missy, her name was Mary, but as is usual among a certain set a nickname had been given her, was that she came of good family, and differed in everything, manner of speaking, walking, laughing, from the common people, not by anything exceptional, but by her good breeding. He could find no other term for this quality, though he prized it very highly, and besides she thought more of him than anybody else, therefore evidently understood him. This understanding of him, that is the recognition of his superior merits, was to Nekludov a proof of her good sense and correct judgment. Against marrying Missy in particular was that, in all likelihood, a girl with even higher qualities could be found, that she was already twenty-seven, and that he was hardly her first love. This last idea was painful to him. His pride would not reconcile itself with the thought that she had loved someone else even in the past. Of course she could not have known that she should meet him, but the thought that she was capable of loving another offended him, so that he had as many reasons for marrying as against it. At any rate they weighed equally with Nekludov, who laughed at himself, and called himself the ass of the fable, remaining like that animal undecided which haycock to turn to. At any rate, before I get an answer from Mary Vasilievna, the Marachal's wife, and finish completely with her I can do nothing, he said to himself, and the conviction that he might, and was even obliged to delay his decision, was comforting. Well, I shall consider all that later on, he said to himself, as the trap drove silently along the asphalt pavement up to the doors of the court. Now I must fulfil my public duties conscientiously, as I am in the habit of always doing, and as I consider it right to do, besides they are often interesting. And he entered the hall of the law-courts, past the doorkeeper. End of Book 1, Chapter 4. Book 1, Chapter 5 of Resurrection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Corridors of the Court were already full of activity. The attendants hurried out of breath, dragging their feet along the ground without lifting them backwards and forwards with all sorts of messages and papers. Oshers, advocates, and law-offices passed hither and thither. Plaintiffs, and those of the accused who were not guarded, wandered sadly along the walls or sat waiting. Where is the law-court, Nekledoff asked of an attendant? Which? There's the civil court and the criminal court. I'm on the jury. The criminal court, you should have said. Here to the right, then to the left, the second door. Nekledoff followed the direction. Meanwhile, some of the criminal court jurymen who were late, had hurriedly passed into a separate room. At the door mentioned, two men stood waiting. One, a tall, fat merchant, a kind-hearted fellow, had evidently partaken of some refreshments and a glass of something, and was in most pleasant spirits. The other was a shopman of Jewish extraction. They were talking about the price of wool when Nekledoff came up and asked them if this was the jurymen's room. Yes, my dear sir, this is it. One of us, on the jury, are you?" asked the merchant, with a merry wink. Ah, well, we shall have a go at the work together, he continued, after Nekledoff had answered in the affirmative. My name is Baklishev, merchant of the Second Guild, he said, putting out his broad, soft, flexible hand. With whom have I the honour? Nekledoff gave his name and passed into the jurymen's room. Inside the room were about ten persons of all sorts. They had come but a short while ago, and some were sitting, others walking up and down, looking at each other and making each other's acquaintance. There was a retired colonel in uniform. Some were in frock coats, others in morning coats, and only one wore a peasant's dress. Their faces all had a certain look of satisfaction at the prospect of fulfilling a public duty, although many of them had had to leave their businesses and most were complaining of it. The jurymen talked among themselves about the weather, the early spring, and the business before them, some having been introduced, others just guessing who was who. Those who were not acquainted with Nekledoff made haste to get introduced, evidently looking upon this as an honour, and he taking it as his due, as he always did when among strangers. Had he been asked why he considered himself above the majority of people, he could not have given an answer. The life he'd been living of late was not particularly meritorious. The fact of his speaking English, French, and German with a good accent, and of his wearing the best linen, clothes, ties, and studs, bought from the most expensive dealers in these goods he quite knew would not serve as a reason for claiming superiority. At the same time he did claim superiority, and accepted the respect paid him as his due, and was hurt if he did not get it. In the jury men's room his feelings were hurt by disrespectful treatment. Among the jury there happened to be a man whom he knew, a former teacher of his sister's children, Peter Gerasimovich. Nekledoff never knew his surname, and even bragged a bit about this. This man was now a master at a public school. Nekledoff could not stand his familiarity, his self-satisfied laughter, his vulgarity, in short. Aha! You're all so trapped! These were the words accompanied with boisterous laughter, with which Peter Gerasimovich greeted Nekledoff. Have you not managed to get out of it? I never meant to get out of it, replied Nekledoff gloomily, and in a tone of severity. Well, I call this being public-spirited. But just wait until you get hungry or sleepy. You'll sing to another tune then. This son of a priest will be saying, Thou! In Russian, as in many other local languages, Thou is used generally among people very familiar with each other, or by superiors to inferiors. He will be saying Thou to me next, thought Nekledoff, and walked away, with such a look of sadness on his face as might have been natural if he had just heard of the death of all his relations. He came up to a group that had formed itself around a clean-shaven, tall, dignified man who was recounting something with great animation. This man was talking about the trial going on in the Civil Court, as of a case well known to himself, mentioning the judges and a celebrated advocate by name. He was saying that it seemed wonderful how the celebrated advocate had managed to give such a clever turn to the affair that an old lady, though she had the right on her side, would have to pay a large sum to her opponent. The advocate is a genius, he said. The listeners heard it all with respectful attention, and several of them tried to put in a word, but the man interrupted them as if he alone knew all about it. Though Nekledoff had arrived late, he had to wait a long time. One of the members of the court had not yet come, and everybody was kept waiting. CHAPTER VI THE JUDGES The president, who had to take the chair, had arrived early. The president was a tall, stout man with long grey whiskers, though married he led a very loose life, and his wife did the same, so they did not stand in each other's way. This morning he had received a note from a Swiss girl who had formerly been a governess in his house, and who was now on her way from South Russia to St. Petersburg. She wrote that she would wait for him between five and six p.m. in the Hotel Italia. This made him wish to begin and get through the sitting as soon as possible, so as to have time to call before six p.m. on the little red-haired Clara Vasilevna, with whom he had begun a romance in the country last summer. He went into a private room, latched the door, took a pair of dumbbells out of a cupboard, moved his arms twenty times upwards, downwards, forwards, and sideways, then holding the dumbbells above his head, likely bent his knees three times. Nothing keeps on going like a cold bath and exercise, he said, feeling the biceps of his right arm with his left hand, on the third finger of which he wore a gold ring. He had still to do the moulinet movement, for he always went through those two exercises before a long sitting, when there was a pull at the door. The President quickly put away the dumbbells and opened the door, saying, I beg your pardon. One of the members, a high-shouldered, discontented-looking man with gold spectacles, came into the room. Matthew Nikitich has again not come, he said, in a dissatisfied tone. Not yet, said the President, putting on his uniform. He is always late. It is extraordinary. He ought to be ashamed of himself, said the member angrily, and taking out a cigarette. This member, a very precise man, had had an unpleasant encounter with his wife in the morning, because she had spent her allowance before the end of the month, and had asked him to give her some money in advance, but he would not give way to her, and they had a quarrel. The wife told him that if he were going to behave so, he need not expect any dinner. There would be no dinner for him at home. At this point he left, fearing that she might carry out her threat, for anything might be expected from her. This comes of living a good moral life, he thought, looking at the beaming, healthy, cheerful, and kindly President, who, with elbows far apart, was smoothing his thick grey whiskers with his fine white hands over the embroidered collar of his uniform. He is always contented and merry while I am suffering. The secretary came in and brought some document. Thanks very much, said the President, lighting a cigarette. Which case shall we take first, then? The poisoning case, I should say, answered the Secretary with indifference. All right, the poisoning case, let it be, said the President, thinking that he could get this case over by four o'clock, and then go away. And Matthew Nikitich, has he come? Not yet. And Breve? He's here, replied the Secretary. And if you see him, please tell him that we begin with the poisoning case. Breve was the public prosecutor, who was to read the indictment in this case. In the corridor, the Secretary met Breve, who, with uplifted shoulders, a portfolio under one arm, the other, swinging with the palm turned to the front, was hurrying along the corridor, clattering with his heels. And Michael Petrovich wants to know if you're ready, the Secretary asked. Of course, I'm always ready, said the public prosecutor. What are we taking first? The poisoning case. Ah, that's quite right, said the public prosecutor. But did not think it, at all right. He'd spent the night in a hotel playing cards with a friend who was giving a farewell party. Up to five in the morning they played and drank, so he had no time to look at this poisoning case and meant to run it through now. The Secretary, happening to know this, advised the President to begin with the poisoning case. The Secretary was a liberal, even a radical, in opinion. Breve was a conservative. The Secretary disliked him and envied him his position. Well, and how about the scoptsy, a religious sect, asked the Secretary. I have already said that I cannot do it without witnesses, and so I shall say to the court, dear me, what does it matter? I cannot do it, said Breve, and waving his arm ran into his private room. He was putting off the case of the scoptsy on account of the absence of a very unimportant witness, his real reason being that if they were tried by an educated jury they might possibly be acquitted. By an agreement with the President this case was to be tried in the coming session at a provincial town where there would be more peasants, and therefore more chances of a conviction. The movement in the corridor increased. The people crowded most at the doors of the civil court, in which the case that the dignified man talked about was being heard. An interval in the proceeding occurred, and the old woman came out of the court, whose property, that genius of an advocate, had found means of getting for his client, a person versed in law, who had no right to it, whatever. The judges knew all about the case, and the advocate and his client knew it better still, but the move they had invented was such that it was impossible not to take the old woman's property and not to hand it over to the person versed in law. The old woman was stout, well-dressed, and had enormous flowers on her bonnet. She stopped as she came out of the door, and spreading out her short, fat arms, and turning to her advocate, she kept repeating, What does it all mean? Just fancy! The advocate was looking at the flowers in her bonnet, and evidently not listening to her, but considering some question or other. Next to the old woman, out of the door of the civil court, his broad, starch shirt front glistening from under his low-cut waistcoat, with a self-satisfied look on his face, came the celebrated advocate, who had managed to arrange matters so that the old woman lost all she had, and the person versed in the law, received more than one hundred thousand rubles. The advocate passed close to the old woman, and, feeling all eyes directed towards him, his whole bearing seemed to say, No expressions of deference are required. End of book 1, chapter 6. Book 1, chapter 7, of Resurrection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise Maud. Read by David Barnes. Book 1, chapter 7. The Officials of the Court. At last Matthew Nikitich also arrived, and the Osha, a thin man with a long neck and a kind of sideways walk, his nether lip, protruding to one side, which made him resemble a turkey, came into the jury-men's room. This Osha was an honest man, and had a university education, but could not keep a place for any length of time, as he was subject to fits of drunkenness. Three months before, a certain Countess, who patronized his wife, had found him this place, and he was very pleased to have kept it so long. Well, sirs, is everybody here? he asked, putting his pins-nay on his nose and looking round. Everybody, I think, said the jolly merchant. All right, we'll soon see. And taking a list from his pocket, he began calling out the names, looking at the men sometimes through and sometimes over his pins-nay. Counselor of State, grades such as this are common in Russia and mean very little, J. M. Nikiforov. I am he, said the dignified-looking man, well versed in the habits of the law-court. Ivan Semyonovich Ivanov, retired colonel. Here replied a thin man in the uniform of a retired officer. Merchant of the Second Guild, Peter Baklasev. Here we are, ready, said the good-humoured merchant, with a broad smile. Lieutenant of the Guards, Prince Dmitry Neklodov. I am he, answered Neklodov. The Osho bowed to him, looking over his pins-nay politely and pleasantly, as if wishing to distinguish him from the others. Captain Yuri Dmitrievich Danchenko, merchant. Grigory Yufimich Kuleshov, et cetera. All but two were present. Now please come to the court, gentlemen, said the Osho, pointing to the door, with an amiable wave of his hand. All moved towards the door, pausing to let each other pass. Then they went through the corridor, into the court. The court was a large, long room. At one end there was a raised platform, with three steps leading up to it, on which stood a table, covered with a green cloth, trimmed with a fringe of a darker shade. At the table were placed three arm-chairs, with high carved oak backs. On the wall behind them hung a full-length, brightly coloured portrait of the emperor, in uniform and ribbon, with one foot in advance and holding a sword. In the right corner hung a case, with an image of Christ crowned with thorns, and beneath it stood a lectern, and on the same side the prosecuting attorney's desk. On the left opposite the desk was the secretary's table, and in front of it, nearer the public, an oak grating with the prisoner's bench, as yet unoccupied behind it. Besides all this there were on the right side of the platform high-backed ashwood chairs for the jury, and on the floor below tables for the advocates. All this was in the front part of the court, divided from the back by a grating. The back was all taken up by seats in tears. Everything on the front seats were four women, either servant or factory girls, and two working men, evidently overawed by the grandeur of the room, and not venturing to speak above a whisper. Soon after the jury had come in the usher entered, with his side-wood gate, and stepping to the front called out in a loud voice as if he meant to frighten those present. The court is coming! Everyone got up, as the members stepped on to the platform, among them the president, with his muscles and fine whiskers. Next came the gloomy member of the court, who was now more gloomy than ever, having met his brother-in-law, who informed him that he just called in to see his sister, the member's wife, and that she had told him that there would be no dinner there. So that, evidently, we shall have to call in as a cook-shop, the brother-in-law added, laughing. It's not a tall funny, said the gloomy member, and became gloomier still. Then at last came the third member of the court, the same Matthew Nikitich, who was always late. He was a bearded man, with large, round, kindly eyes. He was suffering from a guitar of the stomach, and according to his doctor's advice he'd begun trying a new treatment, and this had kept him at home longer than usual. Now, as he was ascending the platform, he had a pensive air. He was in the habit of making guesses in answer to all sorts of self-put questions by different curious means. Just now he'd asked whether the new treatment would be beneficial, and had decided that it would cure his guitar, if the number of steps from the door to his chair would divide by three. He made twenty-six steps, but managed to get in a twenty-seventh just by his chair. The figures of the President, and the members in their uniforms, with gold-embroidered collars, looked very imposing. They seemed to feel this themselves, and as if overpowered by their own grandeur, hurriedly sat down on the high-backed chairs behind the table with the green cloth, on which were a triangular article, with an eagle at the top, two glass vases, something like those in which sweet-meats are kept in refreshment-rooms, an ink-stand, pens, clean paper, and good newly-cut pencils of different kinds. The public prosecutor came in with the judges. With his portfolio under one arm and swinging the other, he hurriedly walked to his seat near the window, and was instantly absorbed in reading and looking through the papers, not wasting a single moment, in hope of being ready when the business commenced. He'd been public prosecutor but a short time, and had only prosecuted four times before this. He was very ambitious, and had firmly made up his mind to get on, and therefore thought it necessary to get a conviction whenever he prosecuted. He knew the chief facts of the poisoning case, and had already formed a plan of action. He only wanted to copy out a few points which he required. The secretary sat on the opposite side of the platform, and having got ready all the papers he might want, was looking through an article prohibited by the censor, which he'd procured and read the day before. He was anxious to have a talk about this article with the bearded member, who shared his views, but wanted to look through it one more time before doing so. CHAPTER VIII SWARING IN THE JURY The president, having looked through some papers and put a few questions to the usher and the secretary, gave the order for the prisoners to be brought in. The door behind the grating was instantly opened, and two gendarmes with caps on their heads, and holding naked swords in their hands, came in, followed by the prisoners, a red-haired freckled man and two women. The man wore a prison cloak which was too long and too wide for him. He stuck out his thumbs and held his arms close to his sides, thus keeping the sleeves, which were also too long, from slipping over his hands. Without looking at the judges, he gazed steadfastly at the form, and passing to the other side of it, he sat down carefully at the very edge, leaving plenty of room for the others. He fixed his eyes on the president, and began moving the muscles of his cheeks as if whispering something. The woman who came next was also dressed in a prison cloak, and had a prison kerchief around her head. She had a sallow complexion, no eyebrows or lashes, and very red eyes. The woman appeared perfectly calm. Having caught her cloak against something, she detached it carefully, without any haste, and sat down. The third prisoner was Maslover. As soon as she appeared, the eyes of all the men in the court turned her away, and remained fixed on her white face, her sparklingly brilliant black eyes, and the swelling bosom under the prison cloak. Even the gendarme whom she passed on her way to her seat looked at her fixedly, till she sat down, and then, as if feeling guilty, hurriedly turned away, shook himself, and began staring at the window in front of him. The president paused until the prisoners had taken their seats, and when Maslover was seated, turned to the secretary. Then the usual procedure commenced. The counting of the jury remarks about those who had not come, the fixing of the fines to be exacted from them, the decisions concerning those who claimed exemption, the appointing of reserved jury men. Having folded up some bits of paper, and put them in one of the glass vases, the president turned up the gold-embroided cuffs of his uniform a little way, and began drawing the lots, one by one, and opening them. Neklodov was among the jury men thus drawn. Then having let down his sleeves, the president requested the priest to swear in the jury. The old priest, with his puffy red face, his brown gown, and his gold cross, and little order, laboriously moving his stiff legs, came up to the lectern beneath the icon. The jury men got up, and crowded towards the lectern. "'Come up, please,' said the priest, pulling at the cross on his breast, with his plump hand, and waiting till all the jury had drawn near. When they had all come up the steps of the platform, the priest passed his bald gray head sideways through the greasy opening of the stole, and having rearranged his thin hair, he again turned to the jury. "'Now, raise your right arms in this way, and put your fingers together thus,' he said, with his tremulous old voice, lifting his fat dimpled hand, and putting the thumb and first two fingers together, as if taking a pinch of something. "'Now, repeat after me. I promise and swear by the Almighty God, by his holy gospels, and by the life-giving cross of our Lord, that in this work which,' he said, pausing between each sentence, "'don't let your arm down. Hold it like this,' he remarked to a young man who had lowered his arm, "'that in this work which?' The dignified man with the whiskers, the colonel, the merchant, and several more, held their arms and fingers as the priest required of them, very high, very exactly, as if they liked doing it. Others did it unwillingly and carelessly. Some repeated the words too loudly and with a defiant tone, as if they meant to say, in spite of all I will and shall speak. Others whispered very low and not fast enough, and then, as if frightened, hurried to catch up the priest. Some kept their fingers tightly together, as if fearing to drop the pinch of invisible something they held. Others kept separating and folding theirs. Everyone save the old priest felt awkward, but he was sure he was fulfilling a very useful and important duty. After the swearing-in, the president requested the jury to choose a foreman, and the jury, thronging to the door, passed out into the debating-room, where almost all of them at once began to smoke cigarettes. One proposed the dignified man as foreman, and he was unanimously accepted. Then the jurymen put out their cigarettes and threw them away, and returned to the court. The dignified man informed the president that he was chosen foreman, and all sat down again, on the high-back chairs. Everything went smoothly, quickly, and not without a certain solemnity, and this exactitude, order, and solemnity evidently pleased those who took part in it. It strengthened the impression that they were fulfilling a serious and valuable public duty. Nekledov, too, felt this. As soon as the jurymen were seated, the president made a speech on their rights, obligations, and responsibilities. While speaking, he kept changing his position, now leaning on his right, now on his left hand, now against the back, then on the arms of his chair, now putting the papers straight, now handling his pencil and paper-knife. According to his words they had the right of interrogating the prisoners through the president, to use paper and pencils, and to examine the articles put in as evidence. Their duty was to judge, not falsely, but justly. Their responsibility meant that if the secrecy of their discussion were violated or communications were established with outsiders, they would be liable to punishment. Everyone listened with an expression of respectful attention. The merchant, diffusing a smell of brandy around him, and restraining loud hiccups, approvingly nodded his head at every sentence. CHAPTER IX THE TRIAL, THE PRISONER'S QUESTIONED When he had finished his speech, the president turned to the male prisoner. Simeon Kartinkin, rise! Simeon jumped up, his lips continuing to move nervously and inaudibly. Your name? Simeon Petrov Kartinkin, he said, rapidly, with a cracked voice, having evidently prepared the answer. What class do you belong to? Peasant. What government, district, and parish? Krapivinskaya, district, Kupyanovsky, parish, the village Borky. Your age? Thirty-three, born in the year one thousand eight. What religion? Of the Russian religion, orthodox. Married? Oh, no, sir, your occupation. I had a place in the hotel Mauritania. Have you ever been tried before? I never got tried before, because as we used to live formally, so you never were tried before. God forbid, never! Have you received a copy of the indictment? I have. Sit down. Euphemia Ivanovna Bochkova said the president, turning to the next prisoner, but Simeon continued standing in front of Bochkova. Kartinkin, sit down, Kartinkin continued standing. Kartinkin, sit down! But Kartinkin sat down only when the Osha, with his head on one side and with preternaturally wide open eyes, ran up and said in a tragic whisper, Sit down, sit down! Kartinkin sat down as horribly as he had risen, wrapping his cloak around him and again began moving his lips silently. Your name? Asked the president with a weary sigh at being obliged to repeat the same questions without looking at the prisoner, but glancing over a paper that lay before him. The president was so used to his task that, in order to get quicker through it all, he did two things at a time. Bochkova was forty-three years old and came from the town of Kolomna. She, too, had been in service at the Hotel Moritania. I have never been tried before and have received a copy of the indictment. She gave her answers boldly, in a tone of voice as if she meant to add to each answer, and I don't care who knows it and I won't stand any nonsense. She did not wait to be told, but sat down as soon as she had replied to the last question. Your name? Turning abruptly to the third prisoner. You'll have to rise, he added, softly and gently, seeing that Maslova kept her seat. Maslova got up and stood, with her chest expanded, looking at the president with that peculiar expression of readiness in her smiling black eyes. What is your name? Lubov, she said. Nekludov had put on his pins and a looking at the prisoners while they were being questioned. No, it's impossible, he thought. Not taking his eyes off the prisoner. Lubov, how can it be? He thought to himself after hearing her answer. The president was going to continue his questions, but the member with the spectacles interrupted him, angrily whispering something. The president nodded and turned again to the prisoner. How is this, he said? You are not put down here as Lubov? The prisoner remained silent. I want your real name. What is your baptismal name? asked the angry member. Formerly I used to be called Katarina. No, it cannot be, said Nekludov to himself, and yet he was now certain that this was she, that same girl, half ward, half servant to his aunts, that Katusha, with whom he had once been in love, really in love, but whom he had betrayed and then abandoned, and never again brought to mind. For the memory would have been too painful, would have convicted him too clearly, proving that he who was so proud of his integrity had treated this woman in a revolting, scandalous way. Yes, this was she. He now clearly saw in her face that strange, indescribable individuality which distinguishes every face from all others. Something peculiar, all its own, not to be found anywhere else. In spite of the unhealthy pallor and the fullness of the face, it was there, this sweet peculiar individuality, on those lips, in the slight squint of her eyes, in the voice, particularly in the naive smile, and in the expression of readiness on the face and figure. You should have said so, remarked the President, again in a gentle tone. Your patronimic? I'm illegitimate. Well, were you not called by your Godfather's name? Yes, Mikhailovna. And what is it that she can be guilty of, continued Nekludov in his mind, unable to breathe freely? Your family name, your surname, I mean, the President went on. They used to call me by my mother's surname, Maslova. What class? Mechanka, the lowest-town class or grade. Religion? Orthodox? Orthodox. Occupation? What is your occupation? Maslova remained silent. What was your employment? You know yourself, she said, and smiled. Then, casting a horrid look around the room, again turned her eyes on the President. There was something so unusual in the expression of her face, so terrible and piteous in the meaning of the words she had uttered. In this smile and in the furtive glance she had cast around the room that the President was abashed, and for a few minutes silence reigned in the court. The silence was broken by someone among the public laughing, then somebody said, Shhh, and the President looked up and continued. Have you ever been tried before? Never answered Maslova softly and sighed. Have you received a copy of the indictment? I have, she answered. Sit down. The prisoner lent back to pick up her skirt, in the way a fine lady picks up her train, and sat down, folding her small white hands in the sleeves of her cloak, her eyes fixed on the President. Her face was calm again. The witnesses were called, and some sent away. The doctor, who was to act as expert, was chosen and called into the court. Then the Secretary got up and began reading the indictment. He read distinctly, though he pronounced the I and R, alike, with a loud voice, but so quickly that the words ran into one another and formed one uninterrupted dreary tone. The judges bent now on one, now on the other arm of their chairs, then on the table, then back again, shot and opened their eyes, and whispered to each other. One of the gendarmes several times repressed a yawn. The prisoner Kartinkin never stopped moving his cheeks. Bochkova sat quite still and straight, only now and then scratching her head onto the kerchief. Maslova was immovable, gazing at the reader. Only now and then she gave a slight start, as if wishing to reply, blushed side-heavily, and changed the position of her hands, looked round and again fixed her eyes on the reader. Nekludov sat in the front row on his high back chair, without removing his pinsnay, and looked at Maslova, while a complicated and fierce struggle was going on in his soul. CHAPTER 10 THE TRIAL, THE ENDITEMENT The indictment ran as follows. On the 17th of January, 18, in the lodging-house Mauritania, occurred the sudden death of the second-guild merchant Therapont Emiljanovich Smelkov of Korgan. The local police doctor of the Fourth District certified that death was due to rupture of the heart, owing to the excessive use of alcoholic liquids. The body of the said Smelkov was interred. After several days had elapsed, the merchant Timokin, a fellow townsman and companion of the said Smelkov, returned from St. Petersburg, and hearing the circumstances that accompanied the death of the latter, notified his suspicions that the death was caused by poison, given with intent to rob the said Smelkov of his money. This suspicion was corroborated on inquiry, which proved, one, that shortly before his death, the said Smelkov had received the sum of three thousand eight hundred rubles from the bank, when an inventory of the property of the deceased was made, only three hundred and twelve rubles and sixteen co-pecs were found. II. The whole day and night preceding his death, the said Smelkov spent with Lubka, alias Katarina Maslova, at her home and in the lodging-house Mauritania, where she also visited at the said Smelkov's request during his absence to get some money, which she took out of his portmanteau in the presence of the servants of the lodging-house Mauritania, Euphemia Bochkova, and Simeon Kartinkin, with a key given her by the said Smelkov. In the portmanteau opened by the said Maslova, the said Bochkova and Kartinkin saw packets of one hundred ruble banknotes. III. On the said Smelkov's return to the lodging-house Mauritania, together with Lubka, the latter, in accordance with the attendant Kartinkin's advice, gave the said Smelkov some white powder, given to her by the said Kartinkin, dissolved in brandy. IV. The next morning the said Lubka, alias Katarina Maslova, sold to her mistress, the witness Kitaeva, a brothelkeeper, a diamond ring, given to her, as she alleged, by the said Smelkov. V. The housemaid of the lodging-house Mauritania, Euphemia Bochkova, placed to her account in the local commercial bank one thousand eight hundred rubles. The post-mortem examination of the body of the said Smelkov and the chemical analysis of his intestines proved beyond doubt the presence of poison in the organism, so that there is reason to believe that the said Smelkov's death was caused by poisoning. When cross-examined, the accused, Maslova Bochkova and Kartinkin, pleaded not guilty, deposing Maslova that she had really been sent by Smelkov from the brothel, where she works, as she expresses it, to the lodging-house Mauritania to get the merchant some money, and that, having unlocked the portmanteau with a key given her by the merchant, she took out forty rubles, as she was told to do, and that she had taken nothing more, that Bochkova and Kartinkin, in whose presence she unlocked and locked the portmanteau, could testify to the truth of the statement. She gave this further evidence, that when she came to the lodging-house for the second time, she did, at the instigation of Simeon Kartinkin, give Smelkov some kind of powder, which she thought was a narcotic, in a glass of brandy, hoping he would fall asleep, and that she would be able to get away from him. And that Smelkov, having beaten her, himself gave her the ring when she cried and threatened to go away. The accused, Euphemia Bochkova, stated that she knew nothing about the missing money, that she had not even gone into Smelkov's room, but that Lubka had been busy there all by herself, that if anything had been stolen, it must have been done by Lubka, when she came with the merchant's key to get his money. At this point Mazlava gave a start, opened her mouth, and looked at Bochkova. When, continued the secretary, the receipt for one thousand eight hundred rubles from the bank was shown to Bochkova, and she was asked where she had obtained the money, she said that it was her own earnings for twelve years, and those of Simeon whom she was going to marry. The accused, Simeon Kartinkin, when first examined, confessed that he and Bochkova, at the instigation of Mazlava, who had come with the key from the brothel, had stolen the money, and divided it equally among themselves and Mazlava. Here Mazlava again started, half rose from her seat, and blushing scarlet began to say something, but was stopped by the Osher. At last, the secretary continued reading, Kartinkin confessed also that he had supplied the powders in order to get Smelkov to sleep. When examined the second time, he denied having had anything to do with the stealing of the money, or giving Mazlava the powders, accusing her of having done it alone. Concerning the money placed in the bank by Bochkova, he said the same as she, that is that the money was given to them both by the lodgers in tips during twelve years' service. The indictment concluded as follows. In consequence of the foregoing, the peasants of the village Borke, Simeon Kartinkin, thirty-three years of age, the Meshanka, Eufemia Bochkova, forty-three years of age, and the Meshanka, Katarina Mazlava, twenty-seven years of age, are accused of having, on the seventeenth day of January, 1880, jointly stolen from the said merchant Smelkov a ring and money to the value of two thousand five hundred rubles, and having given the said merchant Smelkov poison to drink, with intent of depriving him of life, and thereby causing his death. This crime is provided for in clause one thousand four hundred and fifty-five of the Penal Code, paragraphs four and five. CHAPTER X Mazlava cross-examined. When the reading of the indictment was over, the president, after having consulted the members, turned to Kartinkin, with an expression that plainly said, Now we shall find out the whole truth down to the minutest detail. Peasant Simeon Kartinkin, he said, stooping to the left, Simeon Kartinkin got up, stretched his arms down his sides, and leaning forward with his whole body, continued moving his cheeks inaudibly. You are accused of having, on the seventeenth of January, 1880, together with Eufemia Bochkova and Katarina Mazlava, stolen money from a port manto belonging to the merchant Smelkov, and then, having procured some arsenic, persuaded Katarina Mazlava to give it to the merchant Smelkov in a glass of brandy, which was the cause of Smelkov's death. Do you plead guilty, said the president, stooping to the right? Not know-how, because our business is to attend to the lodgers, and you'll tell us that afterwards. Do you plead guilty? Oh, no, sir, I only—you'll tell us that afterwards. Do you plead guilty?" Quietly and firmly asked the president, Can't do such a thing because that, the usher, again, rushed up to Simeon Kartinkin, and stopped him in a tragic whisper. The president moved the hand with which he held the paper, and placed the elbow in a different position, with an air that said, This is finished, and turned to Eufemia Bochkova. Eufemia Bochkova, you are accused of having, on the seventeenth of January, 1880, in the lodging-house Mauritania, together with Simeon Kartinkin and Katarina Mazlava, stolen some money and a ring out of the merchant Smelkov's portmanteau, and having shared the money among yourselves, given poison to the merchant Smelkov thereby causing his death, do you plead guilty? I'm not guilty of anything, boldly and firmly replied the prisoner. I never went near the room, but when this baggage went in she did the whole business. You will say all this afterwards, the president again said, Quietly and firmly, So do you not plead guilty? I did not take the money, nor give the drink, nor go into the room. Had I gone in I should have kicked her out. So you do not plead guilty? Never. Very well. Katarina Mazlava, the president began turning to the third prisoner, You are accused of having come from the brothel with the key of the merchant Smelkov's portmanteau, money and a ring. He said all this like a lesson learnt by heart, leaning towards the member on his left, who was whispering into his ear, that a bottle mentioned in the list of the material evidence was missing. Of having stolen out of the portmanteau money and a ring, he repeated, and shared it. Then returning to the lodging-house, Mauritania, with Smelkov, of giving him poison in his drink, and thereby causing his death, do you plead guilty? I'm not guilty of anything, she began rapidly. As I said before, I say again, I did not take it. I did not take it. I did not take anything, and the ring he gave me himself. You do not plead guilty of having stolen two thousand five hundred roubles, asked the president. I have said I took nothing but the forty roubles. Well, and do you plead guilty of having given the merchant Smelkov a powder in his drink? Yes, that I did. Only I believed what they told me, that they were sleeping powders, and that no harm could come of them. I never thought, and never wished. God is my witness, I say, I never meant this," she said. So you do not plead guilty of having stolen the money and the ring from the merchant Smelkov, but confess that you gave him the powder? said the president. Well, yes, I do confess this, but I thought they were sleeping powders. I only gave them to make him sleep. I never meant, and never thought, of worse. Very well, said the president, evidently satisfied with the results gain. Now, tell us how it all happened, and he leaned back in his chair, and put his folded hands on the table. Tell us all about it. A free and full confession will be to your advantage. Maslova continued to look at the president in silence and blushing. Tell us how it happened. How it happened? Maslova suddenly began speaking quickly. I came to the lodging-house, and was shown into the room. He was there, already very drunk. She pronounced the word he, with a look of horror in her wide open eyes. I wished to go away, but he would not let me. She stopped, as if having lost the thread, or remembered something else. Well, and then? Well, what then? I remained a bit, and went home again. At this moment the public prosecutor raised himself a little, leaning on one elbow in an awkward manner. You would like to put a question, said the president, and having received an answer in the affirmative, he made a gesture inviting the public prosecutor to speak. I want to ask, was the prisoner, previously acquainted with Simeon Kartinkin, said the public prosecutor, without looking at Maslova, and having put the question, he compressed his lips and frowned. The president repeated the question. Maslova stared at the public prosecutor with a frightened look. With Simeon? Yes, she said. I should like to know what the prisoner's acquaintance with Kartinkin consisted in. Did they meet often? Consisted in. He invited me for the lodgers. It was not an acquaintance at all, answered Maslova, anxiously moving her eyes from the president to the public prosecutor and back to the president. I should like to know why Kartinkin invited only Maslova and none of the other girls for the lodgers, said the public prosecutor, with half-closed eyes and a cunning, Mephistophelian smile. I don't know, how should I know? said Maslova, casting a frightened look around and fixing her eyes for a moment on Nekludov. He asked whom he liked. Is it possible that she has recognized me, thought Nekludov? And the blood rushed to his face. But Maslova turned away without distinguishing him from the others and again fixed her eyes anxiously on the public prosecutor. So the prisoner denies having had any intimate relations with Kartinkin very well. I have no more questions to ask. And the public prosecutor took his elbow off the desk and began writing something. He was not really noting anything down but only going over the letters of his notes with a pen, having seen the procurer and leading advocates after putting a clever question make a note with which later on to annihilate their adversaries. The president did not continue at once because he was consulting the member with the spectacles. Whether he was agreed that the questions which had all been prepared beforehand and written out should be put, well, what happened next? He then went on, I came home, looking a little more boldly only at the president and went to bed. Hardly had I fallen asleep when one of the girls, Bertha, woke me, go your merchant has come again. He, she again uttered the word he with evident horror, he kept treating our girls and then wanting to send for more wine but his money was all gone and he sent me to his lodgings and told me where the money was and how much to take. So I went. The president was whispering to the member on his left but in order to appear as if he had heard he repeated her last words, so you went, well, what next? I went and did all he told me, went into his room. I did not go alone but called Simeon Kartinkin and her, she said, pointing to Botchkova. That's a lie, I never went in. Botchkova began but was stopped. In their presence I took out four notes, continued Maslava frowning without looking at Botchkova. Yes, but did the prisoner notice again, asked the prosecutor how much money there was when she was getting out the 40 roubles? Maslava shuddered when the prosecutor addressed her. She did not know why it was but she felt that he wished her evil. I did not count it but only saw some 100 ruble notes. Ah, the prisoner saw 100 ruble notes, that's all. Well, so you brought back the money, continued the president, looking at the clock. I did. Well, and then? Then he took me back with him, said Maslava. Well, and how did you give him the powder in his drink? How did I give it? I put them in and gave it to him. Why did you give it him? She did not answer but sighed deeply and heavily. He would not let me go, she said, after a moment's silence and I was quite tired out. And so I went out into the passage and said to Simeon, if he would only let me go, I'm so tired. And he said, we're all so sick of him, we were thinking of giving him a sleeping draught. He'll fall asleep and then you can go. So I said, all right. I thought they were harmless and he gave me the packet. I went in, he was lying behind the partition and at once called for branding. I took a bottle of fine champagne from the table, poured out two glasses, one for him and one for myself, and put the powders into his glass and gave it him. Had I known, how could I have given them to him? Well, and how did the ring come into your possession? Asked the president, when did he give it to you? That was when we came back to his lodgings. I wanted to go away and he gave me a knock on the head and broke my comb. I got angry and said I'd go away and he took the ring off his finger and gave it to me so that I should not go, she said. Then the public prosecutor again slightly raised himself and putting on an air of simplicity, asked permission to put a few more questions and having received it, bending his head over his embroidered collar, he said, I should like to know how long the prisoner remained in the merchant Smelkov's room. Maslava again seemed frightened and she again looked anxiously from the public prosecutor to the president and said hurriedly, I do not remember how long. Yes, but does the prisoner remember if she went anywhere else in the lodging house after she left Smelkov? Maslava considered for a moment. Yes, I did go into an empty room next to his. Yes, and why did you go in? Asked the public prosecutor, forgetting himself and addressing her directly. I went in to rest a bit and to wait for his Voschik. And was Kartinkin in the room with the prisoner or not? He came in. Why did he come in? There were some of the merchants brandy left and we finished it together. Ah, finished it together. Very well. And did the prisoner talk to Kartinkin and if so what about? Maslava suddenly frowned, blushed very red and said hurriedly, what about? I didn't talk about anything and that's all I know. Do what you like with me, I'm not guilty and that's all. I have nothing more to ask, said the prosecutor and drawing up his shoulders in an unnatural manner began writing down as the prisoner's own evidence in the notes for his speech that she had been in the empty room with Kartinkin. There was a short silence. You have nothing more to say? I have told you everything she said with a sigh and sat down. Then the president noted something down and having listened to something that the member on his left whispered to him he announced a 10 minutes interval, rose hurriedly and left the court. The communication he'd received from the tall bearded member with the kindly eyes was that the member, having felt a slight stomach derangement, wished to do a little massage and to take some drops and this was why an interval was made. When the judges had risen, the advocates, the jury and the witnesses also rose with the pleasant feeling that part of the business was finished and began moving in different directions. Nekludov went into the jury's room and sat down by the window. End of Book 1, Chapter 11. Book 1, Chapter 12 of Resurrection. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy, translated by Louise Maud, read by David Barnes. Book 1, Chapter 12. Twelve Years Before. Yes, this was Katusha. The relations between Nekludov and Katusha had been the following. Nekludov first saw Katusha when he was a student in his third year at the university and was preparing an essay on land tenure during the summer vacation, which he passed with his aunts. Until then he had always lived in summer with his mother and sister on his mother's large estate near Moscow. But that year his sister had married and his mother had gone abroad to a watering place and he, having his essay to write, resolved to spend the summer with his aunts. It was very quiet in their secluded estate and there was nothing to distract his mind. His aunts loved their nephew and they are very tenderly and he too was fond of them and of their simple old-fashioned life. During that summer on his aunts' estate, Nekludov passed through that blissful state of existence when a young man for the first time without guidance from anyone outside realizes all the beauty and significance of life and the importance of the task allotted in it to man when he grasps the possibility of unlimited advance towards perfection for oneself and for all the world and gives himself to this task not only hopefully but with full conviction of attaining to the perfection he imagines. In that year, while still at the university, he had read Spencer's social statics and Spencer's views on land-holding especially impressed him as he himself was heir to large estates. His father had not been rich but his mother had received 10,000 acres of land for her dowry. At that time he fully realized all the cruelty and injustice of private property and land and being one of those to whom a sacrifice to the demands of conscience gives the highest spiritual enjoyment, he decided not to retain property rights but to give up to the peasant laborers the land he had inherited from his father. It was on this land question he wrote his essay. He arranged his life on his aunt's estate in the following manner. He got up very early, sometimes at three o'clock and before sunrise went through the morning mists to bathe in the river under the hill. He returned while the dew still lay on the grass and the flowers. Sometimes having finished his coffee he sat down with his books of reference and his papers to write his essay. But very often, instead of reading or writing he left home again and wandered through the fields and the woods. Before dinner he lay down and slept somewhere in the garden. At dinner he amused and entertained his aunts with his bright spirit. Then he rode on horseback or went for a row on the river and in the evening he again worked at his essay or sat reading or playing patience with his aunts. His joy in life was so great that it agitated him and kept him awake many a night especially when it was moonlight so that instead of sleeping he wandered about in the garden till dawn alone with his dreams and fancies. And so, peacefully and happily he lived through the first month of his stay with his aunts taking no particular notice of their half-walled half-servant the black-eyed quick-footed ketusha. Then, at the age of nineteen, Nekludov, brought up under his mother's wing was still quite pure. If a woman figured in his dreams at all it was only as a wife. All the other women who, according to his ideas he could not marry were not women for him but human beings. But on ascension day that summer a neighbour of his aunts and her family consisting of two young daughters, a schoolboy and a young artist of peasant origin who was staying with them came to spend the day. After tea they all went to play in the meadow in front of the house where the grass had already been mown. They played at the game of gorelki and ketusha joined them. Running about and changing partners several times Nekludov caught ketusha and she became his partner. Up to this time he had liked ketusha's looks but the possibility of any nearer relations with her had never entered his mind. Impossible to catch those two, said the merry young artist whose turn it was to catch and who could run very fast with his short muscular legs. You and not catch us, said ketusha, one, two, three and the artist clapped his hands. Ketusha, hardly restraining her laughter changed places with Nekludov behind the artist's back and pressed his large hand with her little rough one and rustling with her starch petticoat ran to the left. Nekludov ran fast to the right trying to escape from the artist but when he looked round he saw the artist running after ketusha who kept well ahead her firm young legs moving rapidly. There was a lilac bush in front of them and ketusha made a sign with her head to Nekludov to join her behind it for if they once clasped hands again they were safe from their pursuer that being the rule of the game. He understood the sign and ran behind the bush but he did not know that there was a small ditch overgrown with nettles there. He stumbled and fell into the nettles already wet with dew stinging his hands but rose immediately, laughing at his mishap. Ketusha, with her eyes black as slows her face radiant with joy was flying towards him and they caught hold of each other's hands. Got stung, I dare say, she said arranging her hair with her free hand breathing fast and looking straight up at him with a glad, pleasant smile. I didn't know there was a ditch here, he answered smiling also and keeping her hand in his. She drew nearer to him and he himself, not knowing how it happened stooped towards her. She didn't move away and he pressed her hand tight and kissed her on the lips. There, you've done it, she said and freeing her hand with a swift movement ran away from him. Then breaking two branches of white lilac from which the blossoms were already falling she began fanning her hot face with them. Then with her head turned back to him she walked away swaying her arms briskly in front of her and joined the other players. After this there grew up between Nekludov and Ketusha those peculiar relations which often exist between a pure young man and girl who are attracted to each other. When Ketusha came into the room or even when he saw her white apron from afar everything brightened up in Nekludov's eyes. As when the sun appears everything becomes more interesting more joyful, more important. The whole of life seemed full of gladness and she felt the same. But it was not only Ketusha's presence that had this effect on Nekludov the mere thought that Ketusha existed and for her that Nekludov existed had this effect. When he received an unpleasant letter from his mother or could not get on with his essay or felt the unreasoning sadness that young people are often subject to he had only to remember Ketusha and that he should see her and it all vanished. Ketusha had much work to do in the house but she managed to get a little leisure for reading and Nekludov gave her Dostoevsky and Turgonyev whom he had just read himself to read she liked Turgonyev's lull best. They had talks at moments snatched when meeting in the passage on the veranda or the yard or sometimes in the room of his aunt's old servant Matrona Pavlovna with whom he sometimes used to drink tea and where Ketusha used to work. These talks in Matrona Pavlovna's presence were the pleasantest when they were alone it was worse their eyes at once began to say something very different and far more important than what their mouths uttered their lips puckered and they felt a kind of dread of something that made them part quickly these relations continued between Nekludov and Ketusha during the whole time of his first visit to his aunt's they noticed it and became frightened and even wrote to Princess Elena Ivanovna Nekludov's mother his aunt Mary Ivanovna was afraid Demetri would form an intimacy with Ketusha but her fears were groundless for Nekludov himself hardly conscious of it loved Ketusha loved her as the pure love and therein lay his safety his and hers he not only did not feel any desire to possess her but the very thought of it filled him with horror the fears of the more poetical Sophia Ivanovna that Demetri with his thoroughgoing, resolute character having fallen in love with a girl might make up his mind to marry her without considering either her birth or her station had more ground had Nekludov at that time been conscious of his love for Ketusha and especially if he'd been told that he could on no account join his life with that of a girl in her position it might have easily happened that with his usual straightforwardness he would have come to the conclusion that there could be no possible reason for him not to marry any girl whatever as long as he loved her but his aunts did not mention their fears to him and when he left he was still unconscious of his love for Ketusha he was sure that what he felt for Ketusha was only one of the manifestations of the joy of life that filled his whole being and that this sweet, merry little girl shared this joy with him yet when he was going away and Ketusha stood with his aunts in the porch and looked after him, her dark, slightly squinting eyes filled with tears he felt after all that he was leaving something beautiful, precious something which would never reoccur and he grew very sad good-bye, Ketusha, he said, looking across Sophia Ivanovna's cap as he was getting into the trap thank you for everything good-bye, Dmitri Ivanovich, she said with her pleasant tender voice keeping back the tears that filled her eyes and ran away into the hall where she could cry in peace End of Book 1, Chapter 12