 Book 1, Chapter 26, of Resurrection. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. Recording by David Cole, Medway, Massachusetts. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise Mord. Book 1, Chapter 26, the House of Cushargin. Pleased to walk in your Excellency, said the friendly, fat doorkeeper of the Cushargin's big house, opening the door, which moved noiselessly on its patent English hinges. You're expected. They are a dinner. My orders would admit only you. The doorkeeper went as far as the staircase and rang. Are there any strangers as Nick Ladoff taking off his overcoat? Mr. Kolosov and Michael Sergeyevich only, besides the family. A very handsome footman with whiskers, in a swallow-tailed coat and white gloves, looked down from the landing. Pleased to walk up your Excellency, he said, you're expected. Nick Ladoff went up and passed through the splendid large dancing-room, which she knew so well, into the dining-room. There the whole Cushargin family, except the mother Sophia Vasilyevna, who never left her cabinet, were sitting round the table. At the head of the table sat old Cushargin. On his left the doctor, and on his right, a visitor Ivan Ivanovich Kolosov, a former Mara-Sheldonum Les, now a bank director, Cushargin's friend and a liberal. Next on the left side sat Miss Rayner, the governess of Mrs. Little Sister, and the four-year-old girl herself. Opposite them, Mrs. Brother Petia, the only son of the Cushargin's, a public schoolboy of the sixth class. It was because of his examinations that the whole family was still in town. Next to him sat a university student who was coaching him, and Mrs. Cousin, Mikhail Sagovich Telagin, commonly called Misha. Opposite him, Katarina Alexevna, a forty-year-old maiden-lady, a slavophil, and at the foot of the table sat Missy herself, with an empty place by her side. Ah, that's right, sit down. We are still at the fish, said old Cushargin, with difficulty, chewing carefully with his false teeth and lifting his bloodshot eyes, which had no visible lids to them, to Nekledov. Stephen, he said, with his mouth full, addressing the stout, dignified butler, and pointing with his eyes to the empty place. Though Nekledov knew Cushargin very well, and had often seen him at dinner, to-day this red face with essential smacking lips, the fat neck above the napkin, stuck into his waistcoat, and the whole over-fed military figure struck him very disagreeably, then Nekledov remembered, without wishing to, what he knew of the cruelty of this man, who, when in command, used to have men flogged and even hanged, without rhyme or reason, simply because he was rich, and had no need to curry favour. Immediately your excellency, said Stephen, getting a large soup ladle out of the sideboard, which was decorated with a number of silver vases. He made a sign with his head to the handsome footman, who began at once to arrange the untouched knives and forks in the napkin, elaborately folded with the embroidered family crest uppermost, in front of the empty place next to Missy. Nekledov went round shaking hands with everyone, and all, except old Cushargin and the ladies, rose when he approached, and this walk round the table, this shaking the hands of people, with many of whom he never talked, seemed unpleasant and odd. He excused himself for being late, and was about to sit down between Missy and Katerina Alexevna, but old Cushargin insisted that, if he would not take a glass of vodka, he should at least take a bit of something to wet his appetite. At the side table, on which stood small dishes of lobster, caviar, cheese and salt herrings, Nekledov did not know how hungry he was until he began to eat, and then having taken some bread and cheese, he went on eating eagerly. Well, have you succeeded in undermining the basis of society, as Kolosov, ironically quoting an expression used by a retrograde newspaper in attacking trial by Jury, acquitted the culprits and condemned the innocent, have you? Undermining the basis, undermining the basis, repeated Prince Kushargin laughing? He had a firm faith in the wisdom and learning of his chosen friend and companion. At the risk of seeming rude, Nekledov left Kolosov's question unanswered, and sitting down to his steaming soup went on eating. Do let him eat, said Missy with a smile. The pronoun hymn she used as a reminder of her intimacy with Nekledov, Kolosov went on in a loud voice and lively manner, to give the contents of the article against trial by Jury, which it aroused his indignation. Missy's cousin, Mikhail Sergeyevich, endorsed all his statements and related the contents of another article in the same paper. Missy was, as usual, a very distinct way, and well, unobtrusively well-dressed. You must be terribly tired, she said, after waiting until Nekledov had swallowed what was in his mouth. Not particularly, and you? Have you been to look at the pictures, he asked? No, we put that off. We have been playing tennis at the Salamatovs. It is quite true, Mr. Crook's plays remarkably well. Nekledov had come here in order to distract his thoughts. For he used to like being in this house, both because of its refined luxury had a pleasant effect on him, and because of the atmosphere of tender flattery that unobtrusively surrounded him. But today everything in the house was repulsive to him, everything, the beginning with the doorkeeper, the broad staircase, the flowers, the footmen, the table decorations, up to Missy herself, who today seemed unattracted and affected. Kolosov's self-assured, trivial tone of liberalism was unpleasant, as was also the sensual, self-satisfied, bull-like appearance of Olko Shagin, and the French phrases of Katarina Alexevna, the Slava Hill. The constrained looks of the governess and the student were unpleasant too, but most unpleasant of all was the pronoun him that Missy had used. Slava had long been wavering between two ways regarding Missy. Sometimes he looked at her as if by moonlight, and could see in her nothing but what was beautiful, fresh, pretty, clever and natural. Then suddenly, as if the bright sun shone on her, he saw her defects and could not help seeing them. This was such a day for him. Today he saw all the wrinkles of her face, knew which of her teeth were false, saw the way her hair was crimped, the sharpness of her elbows, and, above all, how large her thumbnail was, and how like her father's. Tennis is a dull game, said Kolosov. We used to play laughter when we were children. That was much more amusing. Oh, no! You never tried it. It's awfully interesting, said Missy, laying it seemed necklid off, a very affected stress on the word awfully. Another dispute arose in which Mikhail Sergeyevich, Katarina Aleksevna, and all the others took part, except the governess, the students and the children, who sat silent and weird. Oh, these everlasting disputes are all koshog in laughing! And he pulled the napkin out of his waistcoat, noisily pushed back his chair, which the footman instantly caught hold of, and left the table. Suddenly rose after him, and went up to another table, and which stood glasses of scented water. They rinsed their mouths, then resumed the conversation, interesting to know one. Don't you think so, said Missy to Necladov, calling for a confirmation of the statement that nothing shows up a man's character like a game? She noted that preoccupied, and, as it seemed to her, dissatisfied look which she feared, and she wanted to find out what had caused it. Really, I can't tell. I have never thought about it, Necladov answered. Will you come to Marmar, asked Missy? Yes, yes, he said, in a tone which plainly proved that he did not want to go, and took out a cigarette. She looked at him in silence, with a questioning look, and he felt ashamed, to come into a house and give the people the dumps he thought about himself. Then trying to be amiable said that he would go with pleasure if the princess would admit him. Oh yes, Marmar will be pleased. You may smoke there, and Ivan Ivanovich is also there. The mistress of the house, Princess Sophia Valsilyevna, was a recumbent lady. It was the eighth year that, when visitors were present, she lay in lace and ribbons, surrounded with velvet, gilding, ivory, blondes, lacquer and flowers, never going out, and only, if she put it, receiving intimate friends, i.e., those who, according to her idea, stood out from the common herd. Necladov was admitted into the number of these friends, because he was considered clever, because his mother had been an intimate friend of the family, and because it was desirable that Missy should marry him. Sophia Valsilyevna's room lay beyond the large and the small drawing-room, in the large drawing-room. Missy, who was in front of Necladov, stuffed resolutely, and, taking hold of the back of a small green chair, faced him. Missy was very anxious to get married, and as he was a suitable match, and she also liked him. She had accustomed herself to the thought that she should be hers, not she his. To lose him would be very mortifying. She now began talking to him in order to get him to explain his intentions. I see something has happened, she said. Tell me, what is the matter with you? He remembered the meeting in the law-court, and frowned and blushed. Yes, something has happened, he said, wishing to be truthful. A very unusual and serious event. What is it then? Can you not tell me what it is? She was pursuing her aim with that unconscious yet obstinate cunning, often observable in the mentally diseased. Not now. Please do not ask me to tell you. I have not yet had time fully to consider it, and he blushed still more, and so you will not tell me. A muscle twitched in her face, and she pushed back the chair she was holding. Well then come! She shook her head as if to expel useless thoughts, and faster than usual went out in front of him. He fancied that her mouth was unnaturally compressed in order to keep back the tears. He was ashamed of having hurt her, and yet he knew that the least weakness on his part would mean disaster, i.e. would bind him to her. And today he feared this more than anything, and silently followed her to the princess's cabinet. End of book 1, chapter 26, book 1, chapter 27 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. Recording by David Cole, Medway, Massachusetts. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise Maud. Book 1, chapter 27, Mrs. Mother. Princess Sophia Vasilevna, Mrs. Mother, had finished her very elaborate and nourishing dinner. She had it always alone that no one should see her performing this unpoetical function. By her couch swore to a small table with her coffee, and she was smoking a Pashitas. Princess Sophia Vasilevna was a long, thin woman with dark hair, large black eyes and long teeth, and she still pretended to be young. Her intimacy with the doctor was being talked about. Neklodov had known that for some time. But when he saw the doctor sitting by her couch, his oily, glistening beard parted in the middle. He not only remembered the rumours about them, but felt greatly disgusted. By the table, on a low, soft, easy chair, next to Sophia Vasilevna, sat Kolosov, stirring his coffee. A glass of liqueur stood on the table. Missy came in with Neklodov, but did not remain in the room. When Mama gets tired and drives you away, then come to me, she said, turning to Kolosov and Neklodov, speaking as if nothing had occurred. Then she went away, smiling merrily and stepping noiselessly on the thick carpet. How do you do, dear friend, sit down and talk, said Princess Sophia Vasilevna, with her affected but very naturally acted smile, showing her fine, long teeth, a splendid imitation of what her own had once been. I hear that you have come from the law courts, very much depressed. I think it must be very trained to a person with a heart, she added in French. Yes, that is so, said Neklodov. One often feels one's own D, one feels one has no right to judge. Comme C'est vrai, she cried, as if struck by the truth of this remark. She was in the habit of artfully flattering all those with whom she conversed. Well, and what of your picture? It does interest me so. If I were not such a sad invalid, I should have been to see it long ago, she said. I have quite given it up, Neklodov replied, dryly. The falseness of her flattery seemed as evident to him today as her age, which she was trying to conceal, and he could not put himself into the right state to behave politely. Oh, that is a pity! Why he has a real talent for art! I have it from Repin's own lifts, she added, turn into Kolosov. Why is it she is not ashamed of lying so, Neklodov thought and frowned? When she had convinced herself that Neklodov was in a bad temper, and that one could not get him into an agreeable and clever conversation, Sophia Vasilyevna turned to Kolosov, asking his opinion of a new play. She asked it in a tone as if Kolosov's opinion would decide all doubts, and each word of this opinion be worthy of being immortalized. Kolosov found fault both with the play and its author, and that led him to express his views on art. Princess Sophia Vasilyevna, while trying at the same time to defend the play, seemed impressed by the truth of his arguments, either giving in at once or at least modifying her opinion. Neklodov looked and listened, but neither saw nor heard what was going on before him. Listening now to Sophia Vasilyevna, now to Kolosov, Neklodov noticed that neither he nor she cared anything about the play or each other, and that if they talked it was only to gratify the physical desire to move the muscles of the throat and tongue after having eaten. And that Kolosov, having drunk vodka, wine in the cure, was a little tipsy. Not tipsy like the peasants who drink seldom, but like people to whom drinking wine has become a habit. He did not real about or talk nonsense, but he was in a state that was not normal, excited and self-satisfied. Neklodov also noticed that during the conversation Princess Sophia Vasilyevna kept glancing on easily at the window, through which a slanting ray of sunshine, which might vigil the light of her aged face, was beginning to creep up. How true, she said in reference to some remark of Kolosov's, touching the button of an electric bell by the side of her couch. The doctor rose, unlike one who is at home, left the room, without saying Sophia Vasilyevna followed him with her eyes and continued the conversation. Please, Philip, draw those curtains, she said, pointing to the window, when the handsome footman came in answer to the bell. No, whatever you may say, there is some mysticism in him. Without mysticism there can be no poetry, she said, with one of her black eyes angrily following the footman's movements as he was drawing the curtains. Without poetry mysticism is superstition. Without mysticism poetry is prose, she continued, with a sorrowful smile, still not look at the incite of the footman and the curtains. Philip, not that curtain, the one on the large window she exclaimed, in a suffering tone. Sophia Vasilyevna was evidently pitting herself for having to make the effort of saying these words, and to soothe her feelings she raised to her lips a scented smoking cigarette with her jewel-bedecked fingers. The broad-chested muscular handsome Philip bowed slightly as if begging pardon, and stepping lightly across the carpet with his broad-carved strong legs, obediently and silently went to the other window, and, looking at the princess, carefully began to arrange the curtain, so that not a single ray dared fall on her. But again he did not satisfy her, and again she had to interrupt the conversation about mysticism, and correct in a martyred tone the unintelligent Philip, who was tormenting her so pitilessly, for a moment a light flashed in Philip's eyes. "'That devil take you! What do you want?' was probably what he said to himself, thought necledop, who had been observing all this scene. But the strong, handsome Philip, at once managed to conceal the signs of his impatience, and went on quietly carrying out the orders of the worn, weak, false Sophia Vasilyevna. Of course there is a great deal of truth in Lombroso's teachings at Kolasov, lolling back in the low chair, and looking at Sophia Vasilyevna, with sleepy eyes. But he overstepped the mark, oh yes, and you, do you believe in heredity as Sophia Vasilyevna, turn into necledop, whose silence annoyed her? In heredity asked? No I don't. At this moment his whole mind was taken up by strange images, that in some unaccountable way rose up in his imagination. By the side of this strong and handsome Philip he seemed at this moment to see the nude figure of Kolasov as an artist's model, with his stomach like a melon, his bald head and his arms without muscle like pestles. In the same dim way the limbs of Sophia Vasilyevna, now covered with silks and velvets, rose up in his mind as they must be in reality. But this mental picture was too horrid, and he tried to drive it away. Well, you know Missy is waiting for you, she said. Go and find her. She wants to play a new piece by Greg to you. It is most interesting. She did not mean to play anything. The woman is simply lying, for some reason or other, thought Niklodov, rising and pressing Sophia Vasilyevna's transparent and bony-rained hand. Katarina Aleksevna met him in the drawing-room, and once began, in French as usual. I see the duties of a jury man acting depressingly upon you. Yes, pardon me. I am in low spirits today, and have no right to weary others by my presence, said Niklodov. Why are you in low spirits? Allow me not to speak about that, he said, looking round for his hat. Don't you remember how you used to say that we must always tell the truth, and what cruel truths you used to tell us all? Why do you not wish to speak out now? Don't you remember Missy, she said, turning to Missy, who had just come in? We were playing a game, then, said Niklodov, seriously. One may tell the truth in a game, but in reality we are so bad. I mean I am so bad, that I at least cannot tell the truth. Oh! Do not correct yourself, but rather tell us why we are so bad, said Katarina Aleksevna, playing with her words, and pretending not to notice how serious Niklodov was. Nothing is worse than to confess to being in low spirits, said Missy. I never do it, and therefore I am always in good spirits. Niklodov felt as a horse must feel, when it is being caressed to make it submit, to having the bit put in its mouth and be harnessed. And today he felt less than ever inclined to draw. Well, are you coming up into my room? We will try to cheer you up. He excused himself, saying he had to be at home, and began taking leave. Missy kept his hand longer than usual. Remember that what is important to you is important to your friends, she said. Are you coming to-morrow? I hardly expect to, said Niklodov, and feeling ashamed, without knowing whether for her or for himself. He blushed and went away. What is that? Come, sell a mentrig, said Katerina. Alexevna, I must find it out. I suppose it is some affaire d'amour propre, illetresceptible, notre cher Mithia, plutôt un affaire d'amour sale. Missy was going to say, but stopped, and looked down with the face from which all light had gone, a very different face from the one with which she had looked at him. She would not mention to Katerina Alexevna, even so vulgar a pun, but only said, We all have our good and our bad days. Is it possible that he, too, will deceive, she thought? After all that has happened, it would be very bad of him. If Missy had had to explain what she meant by after all that had happened, she could have said nothing definite, and yet she knew that he had not only excited her hopes, but had almost given her a promise. No definite words had passed between them, only looks and smiles and hints, and yet she considered him as her own, and to lose him would be very hard. He felt that, looking at it externally as it were, he was in the right, for he had never said anything to her that could be considered binding, never made her an offer. But he knew that in reality he had bound himself to her, had promised to be hers, and yet today he felt with his whole being that he could not marry her. Shameful and horrid, horrid and shameful, he repeated to himself, with reference not only to his relations with Missy, but also to the rest. Everything is horrid and shameful, he muttered, as he stepped into the porch of his house. I am not going to have any supper, he said to his manservant Cornie, who followed him into the dining-room, where the cloth was laid for supper and tea. You may go. Yes, sir, said Cornie, yet he did not go, but began clearing the supper off the table. Neckladoff looked at Cornie with a feeling of ill will. He wished to be left alone, and it seemed to him that everybody was bothering him in order to spite him. When Cornie had gone away with the supper things, Neckladoff moved to the tea-earn, and was about to make himself some tea. But hearing Agrafina Petrovna's footsteps, he went hurriedly into the drawing-room, to avoid being seen by her, and shut the door after him. In this drawing-room his mother had died three months before. On entering the room, in which two lamps with reflectors were burning, one lighting up his father's and the other his mother's portrait, he remembered what his last relations with his mother had been. And they also seemed shameful and horrid. He remembered how, during the latter period of her illness, he had simply wished her to die. He had said to himself that he wished it for her sake, that she might be released from her suffering, but in reality he wished to be released from the sight of her sufferings for his own sake. Trying to recall a pleasant image of her, he went up to look at her portrait, painted by a celebrated artist for 800 rubles. She was depicted in a very low-necked black velvet dress. There was something very revolting and blasphemous in this representation of his mother as a half-knewed beauty. It was all a more disgusting, because three months ago, in this very room lay this same woman dried up to a mummy. And he remembered how, a few days before her death, she clasped his hand with her bony discoloured fingers, looked into his eyes and said, Do not judge me, Mitya. If I have not done what I should, and how the tears came into her eyes, grown pale with suffering, ah, how horrid he said to himself, looking up once more at the half-naked woman, with her splendid marble shoulders and arms, and the triumphant smile on her lips, oh, how horrid! The bared shoulders of the portrait reminded him of another, a young woman, whom he had seen exposed in the same way of a few days before. It was Missy, who had devised an excuse for calling him into her room, just as she was ready to go to a ball, so that he should see her in her ball-dress. It was with disgust that he remembered her fine shoulders and arms, and that father of hers, with his doubtful past in his cruelties, and the belless spree her mother with her doubtful reputation. All this disgusted him, and also made him feel ashamed. Shameful and horrid, horrid and shameful! No, no, he thought, freedom from all these false relations with the Koshagins and Mary Vasilyevna, and the inheritance, and from all the rest must be got. Oh, to breathe freely, to go abroad, to Rome, and work at my picture. He remembered the doubts he had about his talent for art. Well, never mind, only just to breathe freely. First count Stantonopoul, then Rome, only just to get through with his jury business, and arrange with the Advocate first. Then suddenly there arose in his mind an extremely vivid picture of a prisoner with black, slightly squinting eyes, and how she began to cry when the last words of the prisoners had been heard, and he hurriedly put out his cigarette, pressing it into the ash-pan, lit another, and began pacing up and down the room. One after another the scenes he had lived through with her rose in his mind. He recalled that last interview with her. He remembered the white dress and blue sash, the early mass, why I loved her, really loved her with a good, pure love that night. I loved her even before. Yes, I loved her when I lived with my arms the first time, and was writing my composition. And he remembered himself as he had been then. A breath of that freshness, youth, and fullness of life seemed to touch him, and he grew painfully sad. The difference between what he had been then and what he was now was enormous. Just as great, if not greater, than the difference between Cattuscia in church that night, and the prostitute who had been carousing with a merchant, and whom they judged this morning. Then he was free and fearless, and innumerable possibilities laid ready to open before him. Now he felt himself caught in the meshes of a stupid, empty, valueless, frivolous life, out of which he saw no means of extricating himself, even if he wished to, which he hardly did. He remembered how proud he was at one time of his straightforwardness, how he had made a rule of always speaking the truth, and really had been truthful, and how he was now sunk deep in lies, in the most dreadful of lies, lies considered as the truth by all who surrounded him. And as far as he could see there was no way out of these lies. He had sunk in the mire, got used to it, indulged himself in it. How was he to break off his relations with Mary Vasilyevna and her husband in such a way as to be able to look him and his children in the eyes? How dishing and tangle himself from Missy? How choose between the two opposites? The recognition that holding land was unjust and the heritage from his mother. How atoned for his sin against Ketusha? This last, at any rate, could not be left as it was. He could not abandon a woman he had loved, and satisfy himself by paying money to an advocate to save her from hard labour in Siberia. She had not even deserved hard labour. Atoned for a fault by paying money. Had he not then, when he gave her the money, thought he was atoning for his fault? And he clearly recalled to mind that moment when, having caught her up in the passage, he thrust the money into her bib and ran away. O that money he thought, with the same horror and disgust he had then felt! O dear! O dear! How disgusting! He cried aloud as he had done then. Only a scoundrel and knave could do such a thing. And I am that knave, that scoundrel, he went on aloud. But is it possible, he stopped and stood still, is it possible that I am really a scoundrel? Well, who but I, he answered himself. And then is this the only thing he went on, convicting himself, was not my conduct towards Mary Vasilyevna and her husband base and disgusting, and my position with regard to money, to use riches considered by me unlawful on the plea that they are inherited from my mother, and the whole of my idle, detestable life, and my conduct towards Katyusha to crown all, knave and scoundrel, let men judge me as they like. I can deceive them, but myself I cannot deceive. And suddenly he understood that the aversion he had lately, and particularly today, felt for everybody. The prince and Sophia Vasilyevna, and Corny and Missy, was an aversion for himself. And strange to say, in this acknowledgment of his baseness, there was something painful, yet joyful and quieting. More than once in Nekledov's life there had been what he called a cleansing of the soul. By cleansing of the soul he meant a state of mind in which, after a long period of sluggish inner life, a total cessation of its activity, he began to clear out all the rubbish that had accumulated in his soul, and was the cause of the cessation of the true life. His soul needed cleansing as a watch does. After such an awakening Nekledov always made some rules for himself, which he meant to follow for ever after. He put his diary, and began afresh a life which he hoped never to change again. Turning over a new leaf he called it to himself in English. But each time the temptations of the world entrapped him, and without noticing it, he fell again, often lower than before. Thus he had several times in his life raised in cleanse himself. The first time this happened was during the summer he spent with his aunts. That was his most vital and rapturous awakening, and its effects had lasted some time. Another awakening was when he gave up civil service, and joined the army at war time, ready to sacrifice his life. But here the choking up process was soon accomplished. Then an awakening came when he left the army and went abroad, devoting himself to art. From that time until this day a long period had elapsed without any cleansing, and therefore the discord between the demands of his conscience and the life he was leading was greater than it had ever been before. He was horror-struck when he saw how great the divergence was. It was so great, and the defilements so complete, that he disfared of the possibility of getting cleanse. Have you not tried before to perfect yourself and become better? And nothing has come of it, whispered the voice of the tempter within. What is the use of trying any more? Are you the only one? All are alike, such is life, whispered the voice. But the free spiritual being, which alone is true, alone powerful, alone eternal, had already awakened in Nekledoth, and he could not but believe it. Enormous the distance was between what he wished to be, and what he was. Nothing appeared insurmountable to the newly awakened spiritual being. At any cost I will break this lie which binds me and confess everything, and will tell everybody the truth, enact the truth, he said resolutely aloud. I shall tell Missy the truth, tell her I am a profligate and cannot marry her, and have only uselessly upset her. I shall tell Mary Vasilyevna. Oh, there is nothing to tell her. I shall tell her husband that I, scoundrel that I am, have been deceiving him. I shall dispose of the inheritance in such a way as to acknowledge the truth. I shall tell her, Cattusha, that I am a scoundrel and have sinned towards her, and will do all I can to ease her lot. Yes, I will see her, and will ask her to forgive me. Yes, I will beg her pardon as children do. He stopped, will marry her if necessary. He stopped again, folded his hands in front of his breast as he used to do when a little child lifted his eyes and said, addressing someone, Lord, help me, teach me, come enter within me, and purify me of all this abomination. He prayed asking God to help him, to enter him to him and cleanse him. And what he was praying for had happened already. The God within him had awakened his consciousness. He felt himself one with him, and therefore felt not only the freedom, fullness, and joy of life, but all the power of righteousness. All, all the best that a man could do, he felt capable of doing. His eyes filled with tears has resaying all this to himself, good and bad tears, good because they were tears of joy at the awakening of the spiritual being within him, the being which had been asleep all these years, and bad tears because they were tears of tenderness to himself and his own goodness. He felt hot and went to the window and opened it. The window opened into a garden. It was a moonlit, quiet, fresh night. A vehicle rattled past, and then all was still. The shadow of a tall poplar fell on the ground, just opposite the window, and all the intricate pattern of its bare branches was clearly defined on the clean, swept gravel. To the left the roof of a coach-house shone white in the moonlight. In front the black shadow of the garden wall was visible through the tangled branches of the trees. Neckladoff gazed at the roof, the moonlit garden, and the shadows of the poplar, and drank in the fresh, invigorating air. How delightful, how delightful, O God, how delightful, he said. Meaning that which was going on in his soul. End of Book 1, Chapter 28. Book 1, Chapter 29. 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 Mord. Book 1, Chapter 29. Maslova in prison. Maslova reached her cell only at six in the evening, tired and foot sore, having, unaccustomed as she was to walking, gone ten miles on the stony road that day. She was crushed by the unexpectedly severe sentence and tormented by hunger. During the first interval of her trial, when the soldiers were eating bread and hard-boiled eggs in her presence, her mouth watered and she realised she was hungry, but considered it beneath her dignity to beg of them. Three hours later the desire to eat had passed and she felt only weak. It was then she received the unexpected sentence. At first she thought she had made a mistake. She could not imagine herself as a convict in Siberia and could not believe what she heard. But seeing the quiet businesslike faces of judges and jury who heard this news as if it were perfectly natural and expected, she grew indignant and proclaimed loudly to the whole court that she was not guilty, finding that her cry was also taken as something natural and expected, and feeling incapable of altering matters. She was horror-struck and began to weep in despair, knowing that she must submit to the cruel and surprising injustice that had been done to her. What astonished her most was that young men, or at any rate not old men, the same men who had always looked so approvingly at her, one of them the public prosecutor she had seen in quite a different humour, had condemned her. While she was sitting in the prisoner's room before the trial and during the intervals, she saw these men looking in at the open door, pretending they had to pass there on some business, or enter the room and gaze on her with approval. And then, for some unknown reason, these same men had condemned her to hard labour, though she was innocent of the charge laid against her. But first she cried, but then quieted down and sat perfectly stunned in the prisoner's room, waiting to be led back. She wanted only two things now—tobacco and strong drink. In this state, Bochkova and Kartinkin found her when they were led into the same room after being sentenced. Bochkova began at once to scold her and call her a convict. Well, what have you gained? Justified yourself, have you? What you have deserved? That you've got. Out in Siberia you'll give up your finery, no fear. Maslova sat with her hands inside her sleeves, hanging her head and looking in front of her at the dirty floor without moving, only saying, I don't bother you, so don't you bother me. I don't bother you, do I? She repeated this several times, and was silent again. She did brighten up a little when Bochkova and Kartinkin were led away, and an attendant brought her three rubles. Are you, Maslova? He asked. Here you are. A lady sent it to you. He said giving her the money. A lady? What lady? You just take it. I'm not going to talk to you. This money was sent by Kiteva, the keeper of the house in which she used to live. As she was leaving the court she turned to the Usher with the question whether she might give Maslova a little money. The Usher said she might. Having got permission she removed the three-buttoned Swedish kid-glove from her plump white hand, and from an elegant purse brought from the black folds of her silk skirt took a pile of coupons. In Russia coupons cut-off interest-bearing papers are often used as money. Just cut-off from the interest-bearing papers which she had earned in her establishment. She used one worth two rubles and fifty copek, added two twenty and one ten copek coins, and gave all this to the Usher. The Usher called an attendant, and in his presence gave the money. Belize to give it accurately, said Carolina Albertovna Kiteva. The attendant was hurt by her want of confidence, and that was why he treated Maslova so brusquely. Maslova was glad of the money, because it could give her the only thing she now desired. If I could but get cigarettes and take a whiff, she said to herself, and all her thoughts centred on the one desire to smoke and drink. She longed for spirits so that she tasted them and felt the strength they would give her, and she greedily breathed in the air when the fumes of tobacco reached her from the door of a room that opened into the corridor. But she had to wait long, for the secretary, who should have given the order for her to go forgot about the prisoners, while talking and even disputing with one of the advocates about the article forbidden by the censor. At last, about five o'clock, she was allowed to go, and was led away through the back door by her escort, the Nijni man and the Chewvash. Then, still within the entrance to the law courts, she gave them fifty copek, asking them to get her two rolls and some cigarettes. The Chewvash laughed, took the money, and said, All right, I'll get them, and really got her the rolls and the cigarettes, and honestly returned the change. She was not allowed to smoke on the way, and, with her craving unsatisfied, she continued her way to the prison. When she was brought to the gate of the prison, a hundred convicts who had arrived by rail were being led in. The convicts, bearded, clean-shaven, old, young, Russians, foreigners, some with their heads shaved and rattling with the chains on their feet, filled the anti-room with dust, noise, and an acid smell of perspiration. Passing Maslova, all the convicts looked at her, and some came up to her and brushed her as they passed. Hi, here's a wench, a fine one, said one. My respects to you, miss, said another, winking at her. One dark man with a moustache, the rest of his face and the back of his head clean shaved, rattling with his chains and catching her feet in them, sprang near and embraced her. What? Don't you know your chum? Come, come, don't give yourself airs, showing his teeth and his eyes glittering when she pushed him away. You rascal! What are you up to? shouted the inspector's assistant, coming in from behind. The convicts shrank back and jumped away. The assistant assailed Maslova. What are you here for? Maslova was going to say she had been brought back from the law courts, but she was so tired that she did not care to speak. She has returned from the law courts, sir, said one of the soldiers, coming forward with his fingers lifted to his cap. Well, hand her over to the chief-warder, I won't have this sort of thing. Yes, sir. Sokolov, take her in, shouted the assistant inspector. The chief-warder came up, gave Maslova a slap on the shoulder, and making a sign with his head for her to follow led her into the corridor of the women's ward. There she was searched, and as nothing prohibited was found on her, she had hidden her box of cigarettes inside a row. She was led to the cell she had left in the morning. End of Book 1, Chapter 29. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise Maud. Book 1, Chapter 30. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Anna Knight. Chapter 30. The Cell. The cell in which Maslova was imprisoned was a large room, twenty-one feet long and ten feet broad. It had two windows and a large stove. Two-thirds of the space were taken up by shelves used as beds. The planks they were made of had warped and shrunk. Opposite the door hung a dark-coloured icon with a wax candle sticking to it and a bunch of everlastings hanging down from it. By the door to the right there was a dark spot on the floor, on which stood a stinking tub. The inspection had taken place and the women were locked up for the night. The occupants of this room were fifteen persons, including three children. It was still quite light. Only two of the women were lying down. A consumptive woman imprisoned for theft and an idiot who spent most of her time in sleep and who was arrested because she had no passport. The consumptive woman was not asleep, but lay with wide-open eyes. Her cloak folded under her head, trying to keep back the phlegm that irritated her throat and not to cough. Some of the other women, most of whom had nothing on but coarse-brown holland chemises, stood looking out of the window at the convicts down in the yard, and some sat sewing. Among the latter was the old woman, Corablava, who had seen Maslova off in the morning. She was a tall, strong, gloomy-looking woman. Her fair hair, which had begun to turn grey on the temples, hung down in a short plait. She was sentenced to hard labour in Siberia because she had killed her husband with an axe for making up to their daughter. She was at the head of the women in the cell and found means of carrying on a trade in spirits with them. Besides her sat another woman sewing a coarse canvas sack. This was the wife of a railway watchman. There are small watchman's cottages at distances of about one mile from each other along the Russian railways, and the watchmen, or their wives, have to meet every train. Imprisoned for three months because she did not come out with the flags to meet a train that was passing, and an accident had occurred. She was a short, snub-nosed woman with small black eyes, kind and talkative. The third of the women who were sewing was Theodosia, a quite young girl, white and rosy, very pretty, with bright child's eyes, and long, fair plaits which she wore twisted round her head. She was in prison for attempting to poison her husband. She had done this immediately after her wedding. She had been given in marriage without her consent at the age of sixteen, because her husband would give her no peace. But in the eight months during which she had been let out on bail, she had not only made it up with her husband, but come to love him, so that when her trial came they were at heart and soul to one another. Although her husband, her father-in-law, but especially her mother-in-law, who had grown very fond of her, did all they could to get her acquitted, she was sentenced to hard labour in Siberia. The kind, merry, ever-smiling Theodosia had a place next to Maslovers on the shelf-bed, and had grown so fond of her that she took it upon herself as a duty to attend and wait on her. Two other women were sitting without any work at the other end of the shelf-bed One was a woman of about forty, with a pale, thin face, who once probably had been very handsome. She sat with her baby at a thin white breast. The crime she had committed was that when a recruit was, according to the peasant's view, unlawfully taken from their village, and the people stopped the police officer and took the recruit away from him, she, an aunt of the lad unlawfully taken, was the first to catch hold of the bridle of the horse on which he was being carried off. The other who sat doing nothing was a kindly grey-haired old woman, hunched back and with a flat bosom. She sat behind the stove on the bed-shelf, and pretended to catch a fat four-year-old boy who ran backwards and forwards in front of her, laughing gaily. This boy had only a little shirt on, and his hair was cut short. As he ran past the old woman he kept repeating, There! Haven't caught me! This old woman and her son were accused of incendiarism. She bore her imprisonment with perfect cheerfulness, but was concerned about her son, and chiefly about her old man, who she feared would get into a terrible state with no one to wash for him. Beside these seven women there were four standing at one of the open windows, holding on to the iron bars. They were making signs and shouting to the convicts whom my sliver had met when returning to prison, and who were now passing through the yard. One of these women was big and heavy, with a flabby body, red hair and freckled on her pale yellow face, her hands and her fat neck. She shouted something in a loud, raucous voice, and laughed hoarsely. This woman was serving her term for theft. Beside her stood an awkward, dark little woman, no bigger than a child of ten, with a long waist and very short legs, a red blotchy face, thick lips which did not hide her long teeth, and eyes too far apart. She broke by fits and starts into screeching laughter at what was going on in the yard. She was to be tried for stealing and incendiarism. They called her Koroshavka. Behind her, in a very dirty gray chemise, stood a thin, miserable looking pregnant woman, who was to be tried for concealment of theft. This woman stood silent, but kept smiling with pleasure and approval at what was going on below. With these stood a peasant woman of medium height, the mother of the boy who was playing with the old woman and of a seven-year-old girl. They were in prison with her because she had no one to leave them with. She was serving her term of imprisonment for illicit sale of spirits. She stood a little further from the window, knitting a stocking, and though she listened to the other prisoner's words, she shook her head disapprovingly, frowned, and closed her eyes. But her seven-year-old daughter stood in her little chemise, her flaxen hair done up in a little pig tail, her blue eyes fixed, and, holding the red-haired woman by the skirt, attentively listened to the words of abuse that the women in the convicts flung at each other, and repeated them softly, as if learning them by heart. The twelfth prisoner, who paid no attention to what was going on, was a very tall, stately girl, the daughter of a deacon, who had drowned her baby in a well. She went about with bare feet, wearing only a dirty chemise. The thick short plait of her fair hair had come undone, and hung down, dishevelled, and she paced up and down the free space of the cell, not looking at any one, turning abruptly every time she came up to the wall. End of Book 1, Chapter 30 of Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy Translated by Louise Maud Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy Translated by Louise Maud Book 1, Chapter 31 When the padlock rattled and the door opened to let Maslova into the cell, all turned towards her. Even the deacon's daughter stopped for a moment and looked at her with lifted brows, before resuming her steady striding up and down. Koroblaeva stuck her needle into the brown sacking, and looked questioningly at Maslova through her spectacles. Hey, dearie me, so you have come back, and I felt sure they'd acquit you. So you've got it? She took off her spectacles and put her work down beside her on the shelf bed. And here have I and the old lady been saying, why it may well be they'll let her go free at once. Why? It happens, ducky. They'll even give you a heap of money sometimes, that's sure. The watchman's wife began, in her singing voice, yes, we were wondering why she'd been so long. And now just see what it is. Well, our guessing was no use. The Lord willed otherwise. She went on in musical tones. Is it possible? Have they sentenced you? Asked Theodosia with concern, looking at Maslova with her bright blue childlike eyes, and her merry young face changed as if she were going to cry. Maslova did not answer, but went to her place, the second from the end, and sat down beside Koroblaeva. Have you eaten anything? Theodosia rising and coming up to Maslova. Maslova gave no reply. But putting the rolls on the bedstead took off her dusty cloak, the kerchief off her curly black head, and began pulling off her shoes. The old woman who had been playing with the boy came up and stood in front of Maslova. She clicked with her tongue, shaking her head pityingly. The boy also came up with her. And putting out his upper lip, stared with wide open eyes at the roll Maslova had brought. When Maslova saw the sympathetic faces of her fellow prisoners, her lips trembled, and she felt inclined to cry. But she succeeded in restraining herself until the old woman and the boy came up. When she heard the kind, pitying, clicking of the old woman's tongue, and met the boy's serious eyes to turn from the roll to her face, she could bear it no longer. Her face quivered, and she burst into sobs. Didn't I tell you to insist on having a proper advocate? said Nora Blaver. Well, what is it, exile? Maslova could not answer. But took from inside the roll a box of cigarettes, on which was a picture of a lady with hair done up very high and dress cut low in front. And passed the box to Korra Blaver. Korra Blaver looked at it and shook her head, chiefly because she did not approve of Maslova's putting her money to such bad use. But still she took out a cigarette, lit it at the lamp, took her puff, and almost forced it into Maslova's hand. Maslova, still crying, began greedily to inhale the tobacco smoke. In the final servitude she muttered, blowing out the smoke and sobbing. Don't they fear the Lord, the cursed soul-slayers, muttered Korra Blaver, sentencing the lass for nothing. At this moment the sound of loud, coarse laughter came from the women who were still at the window. The little girl also laughed, and her childish treble mixed with the horse and screeching laughter of the others. One of the convicts outside had done something to reduce this effect on the onlookers. "'Lawks, see the shaved hound? What's he doing?' said the red-haired woman, her whole fat body shaking with laughter, and leaning against the grating she shouted meaningless obscene words. "'Ah, the fat fright's cackling,' said Korra Blaver, who disliked the red-haired woman. Then turning to Maslova again, she asked, "'How many years?' "'Four,' said Maslova, and the tears ran down her cheeks in such profusion that one fell on the cigarette. Maslova crumpled it up angrily and took another. Though the watchman's wife did not smoke, she picked up the cigarette Maslova had thrown away and began straightening it out, talking unceasingly. "'They're now, Ducky. So it's true,' she said. "'Truth's gone to the dogs, and they do what they please. "'And here we were, getting that you'd go free.' "'No,' Blaver says, "'She'll go free.' "'I say, no, say I. No, dear. "'My heart tells me they'll give it to her. "'And so it's turned out.' She went on, evidently listening with pleasure to her own voice. The women who had been standing by the window now also came up to Maslova, the convicts who had amused them having gone away. The first to come up were the woman imprisoned by her illicit trade in spirits and her little girl. "'Why such a hard sentence?' asked the woman, "'sitting down by Maslova and knitting fast. "'Why so hard?' "'Because there's no money. That's why.' "'Had there been money and had a good lawyer "'that's up to their tricks been hired, "'they'd have acquitted her. No fear,' said Coral Blaver. "'There's what's his name, that hairy one with the long nose. "'He'd bring you out clean from pitch, mum,' he would. "'Ah, if we'd only had him.' "'Him, indeed,' said Koreshavka. "'Why, he won't spit at you for less than a thousand rubles. "'Seems you've been born under an unlucky star,' interrupted the old woman who was imprisoned for incenduism. "'Only think to entice the lad's wife "'and lock him himself up to feed vermin and me, too, "'in my old days.' "'She began to retell her story for the hundredth's time. "'If it isn't the beggar's staff, it's the prison. "'Yes, the beggar's staff and the prison "'don't wait for an invitation.' "'Ah, it seems that's the way with all of them,' said the spirit trader. "'And after looking at her little girl, she put down her knitting, "'and drawing the child between her knees "'began to search her head with deft fingers. "'Why do you sell spirits?' she went on. "'Why, but what's one to feed the children on?' "'These words brought back to my slover's mind "'her craving for drink.' "'A little vodka,' she said to Korrableva, "'wiping the tears with her sleeve and sobbing less frequently.' "'All right, fork out,' said Korrableva.' "'End of Book One, Chapter 31 of Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy, "'translated by Louise Maud.' "'Book One, Chapter 32 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.' "'Recording by David Cole.' "'Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. "'Translated by Louise Maud.' "'Book One, Chapter 32, a prison quarrel.' "'Maslova got the money, which she had hidden in a roll, "'and passed the coupon to Korrableva. "'Korrableva accepted it, though she could not read, "'trusting to Karashothka, who knew everything, "'and who said that the slip of paper "'was worth two rubles, fifty copax, "'then climbed up to the ventilator, "'where she had hidden a small flask of vodka. "'Seeing this, the women whose places were further off went away. "'Meanwhile Maslova shook the dust out of her cloak and kerchief, "'got up on the bed scared, and began eating a roll. "'I kept your tea for you,' said Theodosia, "'getting down from the shelf a mug and a tin teapot wrapped in a rag. "'But I am afraid it's quite cold. "'The liquid was quite cold and tasted more of tin than of tea, "'yet Maslova filled the mug and began drinking it with her roll. "'Vineshka, here you are,' she said, "'breaking off a bit of the roll and giving it to the boy, "'who stood looking at her mouth. "'Meanwhile Korrableva handed the flask of vodka "'and a mug to Maslova, who offered some to her "'and to Karashothka. "'These prisoners were considered the aristocracy of the cell "'because they had some money, "'and shared what they possessed with the others. "'In a few moments Maslova brightened up and related merrily "'what had happened at the court and what struck her most, "'i.e., how all the men had followed her wherever she went. "'In the court they all looked at her,' she said, "'and kept coming into the prisoner's room "'while she was there. "'One of the soldiers even says, "'It's all to look at you that they come. "'One would come in, where is such a paper or something? "'But I see it is not the paper he wants. "'He just devours me with his eyes,' she said, shaking her head. "'Regular artists.' "'Yes, that so,' said the watchman's wife, "'and ran on in her musical strain. "'They're like flies after sugar. "'And here, too, Maslova interrupted her the same thing. "'They can do without anything else, "'but the likes of them will go without bread sooner than miss that. "'Hardly had they brought me back "'when in comes a gang from the railway. "'They pestered me so. "'I did not know how to rid myself of them. "'Thanks to the assistant, he turned them off. "'One bothered so. "'I hardly got away.' "'What's he like?' "'Arush Koreshevka. "'Dark with moustaches. "'It must be him. "'Him? "'Who? "'Why, Shegloff. "'Him has just gone by. "'What's he, this Shegloff? "'What, she don't know Shegloff? "'Why, he ran twice from Siberia. "'Now they've got him, but he'll run away.' "'The warders themselves are afraid of him,' said Koreshevka, "'who managed to exchange notes with the male prisoners "'and knew all that went on in the prison. "'He'll run away, that's flat. "'If he does go away, you and I have to stay,' said Karablaver, turning to Maslova. "'But you'd better tell us now "'what the advocate says about petitioning. "'Now's the time to hand it in.' Maslova answered that she knew nothing about it. "'At that moment the red-haired woman "'came up to the aristocracy "'with both freckled hands in her thick hair, "'scratching her head with her nails. "'I'll tell you all about it,' Katarina, she began. "'First and foremost, you'll have to write down. "'You're dissatisfied with the sentence. "'Then give notice to the procurer. "'What do you want here?' said Karablaver angrily. "'Smell the vodka, do you? "'Your chatter's not wanted. "'We know what to do without your advice. "'No one's speaking to you. "'What do you stick your nose in for? "'It's vodka, you want. "'That's why you come wriggling yourself in here. "'We'll offer a sum,' said Maslova, "'always ready to share anything she possessed with anybody. "'I'll offer a something.' "'Come on,' then said the red-haired one, "'advancing towards Karablaver. "'Ah, think I'm afraid of such issue. "'Convict fright, that's her, says it. "'Slut! "'I, a slut. "'Convict, murderous, scream the red-haired one. "'Go away, I tell you,' said Karablaver gloomily. "'But the red-haired one came nearer, "'and Karablaver struck her in the chest. "'The red-haired woman seemed only to have waited for this, "'and with a sudden movement caught hold "'of Karablaver's hair with one hand, "'and with the other struck her in the face. "'Karablaver seized this hand, "'and Maslova and Karashavka caught the red-haired woman "'by her arms, trying to pull her away. "'But she let go the old woman's hair with her hand, "'only twisted around her fist. "'Karablaver, with a hair bent to one side, "'was dealing out blows with our arm, "'and trying to catch the red-haired woman's hand "'with her teeth, while the rest of the women crowded round, "'screaming and trying to separate the fighters. "'Even the consumptive one came up "'and stood coughing in watching the fight. "'The children cried and huddled together. "'The noise brought the woman water and a jailer. "'The fighting women were separated, "'and Karablaver, taking out the bits of torn hair "'from her head and the red-haired one, "'holding her torn chemise together over her yellow breast, "'began loudly to complain. "'I know it's all the vodka. "'Wait a bit, I'll tell the inspector tomorrow. "'He'll give it to you. "'Can't I smell it? "'Mind, get it all out of the way, "'or it will be the worst for you,' said the warden. "'We've no time to settle your disputes. "'Go to your places and be quiet.' "'But quiet was not soon re-established. "'For a long time the women went on disputing "'and explaining to one another whose fault it all was. "'At last the warden and the jailer left the cell. "'The women grew quieter and began going to bed, "'and the old woman went to the icon and commenced praying. "'The two jailbirds have met. "'The red-haired woman suddenly called out in a hoarse voice "'from the other end of the shelf-beds, "'accompanying every word with frightfully vile abuse. "'Mind, you don't get it again,' Kara-Blaver replied, "'also adding words of abuse, and both who are quiet again. "'Had I not been stopped, I'd have pulled your damned eyes out,' "'again began the red-haired one, "'and an answer of the same kind followed from Kara-Blaver. "'Then again a short interval and more abuse. "'But the intervals became longer and longer "'as when a thunder-cloud is passing and last all was quiet. "'All were in bed, some began to snore, "'and only the old woman, who always prayed a long time, "'went on bowing before the icon and the deacon's daughter, "'who had got up after the water left, "'was pacing up and down the room again. "'Maslova kept thinking that she was now a convict "'to condemn to hard labour, and who had twice been reminded this. "'Once by Bochkova and once by the red-haired woman, "'and she could not reconcile herself to the thought. "'Kara-Blaver, who lay next to her, turned over in her bed. "'There now,' said Maslova in a low voice, "'who would have thought it? "'See what others do and get nothing for it? "'Never mind, girl. "'People managed to live in Siberia. "'As for you, you'll not be lost there either,' "'Kara-Blaver said, trying to comfort her. "'I know I'll not be lost. "'Still it is hard. "'It's not such a fate I want. "'I, whom used to a comfortable life. "'Ah, one can't go against God,' "'said Kara-Blaver with a sigh. "'One can't, my dear. "'I know, Granny, still it's hard. "'They were silent for a while. "'Did you hear that baggage,' "'whispered Kara-Blaver, "'during Maslova's attention to a strange sound "'proceeding from the other end of the room?' "'That sound was the smothered sobbing of the red-haired woman. "'The red-haired woman was crying because she had been abused "'and had not got any of the vodka she wanted so badly. "'Also because she remembered how all her life "'she had been abused, mocked at, offended, beaten. "'Remembering this, she pitted herself, "'and thinking no one heard her, "'began crying as children cry, "'sniffling with her nose and swallowing the salt tears. "'I'm sorry for her,' said Maslova. "'Of course one is sorry,' said Kara-Blaver. "'But she shouldn't come bothering.' End of book 1, chapter 32, read by David Cole, Medway, Massachusetts. Book 1, chapter 33 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. Book 1, chapter 33. The Leaven at Work. Necladoff's Domestic Changes. The next morning Necladoff awoke, conscious of something that happened to him, and even before he had remembered what it was, he knew it to be something important and good. Catoosha, the trial. Yes, he must stop lying and tell the whole truth. By his strange coincidence, on that very morning, he received the long-expected letter from Mary Valetyevna, the wife of the Maryshalde Noblesse, the very letter he particularly needed. She gave him full freedom, and wished him happiness in his intended marriage. Marriage, he repeated with irony. How far I am from all that at present. And he remembered the plans he had formed the day before, to tell the husband everything, to make a clean breast of it, and express his readiness to give him any kind of satisfaction. But this morning this did not seem so easy as the day before. And then also, why make a man unhappy by telling him what he does not know? Yes, if he came and asked, he would tell him all. But to go purposely and tell, no, that was unnecessary. And telling the whole truth to Missy seemed just as difficult this morning. Again, he could not begin to speak without a fence. As in many worldly affairs, something had to remain unexpressed. Only one thing he decided on, i.e., not to visit there, and to tell the truth if asked. But in connection with Ketusha, nothing was to remain unspoken. I shall go to the prison, and shall tell her everything, and ask her to forgive me. And if need be, yes, if need be, I shall marry her, he thought. This idea that he was ready to sacrifice all on moral grounds and marry her, again made him feel very tender towards himself. Concerning money matters, he resolved this morning to arrange them in accordance with his conviction that the holding of landed property was unlawful. Yet if he should not be strong enough to give of everything, he would still do what he could, not deceiving himself or others. It was long since he had met the coming day with so much energy. When Agrafenna Petrovna came in, he told her, with more firmness than he thought himself capable of, that he no longer needed this lodging nor her services. There had been a tacit understanding that he was keeping up so large an expensive establishment because he was thinking of getting married. The giving up of the house had, therefore, a special meaning. Agrafenna Petrovna looked at him in surprise. I thank you very much, Agrafenna Petrovna, for all your care for me. But I no longer require so large a house nor so many servants. If you wish to help me, be so good as to settle about the things, put them away as it used to be done during Mama's life, and when Natasha comes in, she will see to everything. Natasha was Neklodov's sister. Agrafenna Petrovna shook her head. See about the things? Why they'll be required again, she said. No they won't, Agrafenna Petrovna. I assure you they won't be required, said Neklodov, in answer to what the shaking of her head had expressed. Please tell Corny also that I shall pay him two months' wages, but shall have no further need of him. It is a pity, Dimitri Ivanovich, that you should think of doing this, she said. Well, supposing you go abroad, still you'll require a place of residence again. You are mistaken in your thoughts, Agrafenna Petrovna. I am not going abroad. If I go on a journey, it will be to quite a different place. He suddenly brushed very red. Yes, I must tell her, he thought. No hiding. Everybody must be told. A very strange and important thing happened to me yesterday. Do you remember my Aunt Mary Ivanovna's Katusha? Oh yes, why how I taught her how to sew? Well this Katusha was tried in the court, and I was on the jury. Oh Lord, what a pity, cried Agrafenna Petrovna. What was she being tried for? Murder! And it is I have done it all. Well now this is very strange. How could you do it all? Yes, I am the cause of it all, and it is this that has altered all my plans. What difference can it make to you? This difference, that I, being the cause of her getting onto that path, must do all I can to help her. This is just according to your own good pleasure. You are not particularly in fault there. It happens to everyone, and if one's reasonable, it all gets smoothed over and forgotten, she said, seriously and severely. Why should you place it to your account? There's no need. I have already heard before that she had strayed from the right path. Well, whose fault is it? Mine, that's why I want to put it right. It is hard to put right. That is my business. But if you are thinking about yourself, then I will tell you that, as Mama expressed the wish. I am not thinking about myself. I have been so bountifully treated by the dear defunct, that ideas die nothing. Lysenko, her married niece, has been inviting me, and I shall go to her when I am not wanted any longer. Only it is a pity you should take this so to heart. It happens to everybody. Well, I do not think so, and I still beg that you will help me let this lodging and put away the things. And please do not be angry with me. I am very, very grateful to you for all you have done. And, strangely, from the moment Neklodov realized that it was he who was so bad and disgusting to himself, others were no longer disgusting to him. On the contrary, he felt a kindly respect for Agrofina Petrovna and for Corny. He would have liked to go and confess to Corny also, but Corny's manner was so insinuatingly deferential that he had not the resolution to do it. On the way to the law courts, passing along the same streets were the same as Vostchik as the day before, he was surprised at what a different being he felt himself to be. The marriage with Missy, which only yesterday seemed so probable, appeared quite impossible now. The day before he felt it was for him to choose, and had no doubts that she would be happy to marry him. Today he felt himself unworthy, not only of marrying, but even of being intimate with her. If she only knew what I am, nothing would induce her to receive me. And only yesterday I was finding fault with her, because she flirted with N. Anyhow, even if she consented to marry me, could I be, I won't say happy, but at peace. Knowing that the other was here in prison, and would to-day or to-morrow be taken to Siberia with a gang of other prisoners, while I accepted congratulations and made calls with my young wife, or while I count the votes at the meetings, foreign against the motion, brought forward by the royal inspection, et cetera, together with the Mara Sheldon or bless, whom I abominably deceive, and afterwards make appointments with his wife, how abominable, or while I continue to work at my picture, which will certainly never get finished. Besides, I have no business to waste time on such things. I can do nothing of the kind now. He continued to himself, rejoicing at the change he felt within himself. The first thing now is to see the advocate and find out his decision, and then, then go and see her and tell her everything. And when he pictured to himself how he would see her and tell her whole, confess his sin to her, and tell her that he would do all in his power to atone for his sin, he was touched at his own goodness, and the tears came to his eyes. End of book one, chapter 33, recording by David Cole, Medway, Massachusetts. Book one, chapter 34 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. Recording by David Cole, Medway, Massachusetts. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise Mord. Book one, chapter 34. The absurdity of law, reflections of a juryman. Uncoming into the law courts, Necladoth met the usher of yesterday, who today seemed to him much to be pitted in the corridor, and asked him where those prisoners who had been sentenced were kept, and to whom one had to apply for permission to visit them. The usher told him that the condemned prisoners were kept in different places, and that until they received their sentence in its final form, the permission to visit them depended on the president. I'll come and call you myself and take you to the president after the session. The president is not even here at present, after the session, and now please come in, we are going to commence. Necladoth thanked the usher for his kindness, and went into the juryman's room. As he was approaching the room, the other jurymen were just leaving it to go into the court. The merchant had again partaken of a little refreshment, and was as merry as the day before, and greeted Necladoth like an old friend. And today Peter Jurati-Mović did not arouse any unpleasant feelings in Necladoth by his familiarity and his loud laughter. Necladoth would have liked to tell all the jurymen about his relations to yesterday's prisoner, but by rights he thought I ought to have got up yesterday during the trial and disclosed my guilt. He entered the court with the other jurymen and witnessed the same procedure as the day before. The judges are coming, was again proclaimed, and again three men with embroidered collars ascended the platform, and there was the same settling of the jury on the high back chairs, the same gendarmes, the same portraits, the same priest, and Necladoth felt that, though he knew what he ought to do, he could not interrupt all this solemnity. The preparations for the trials were just the same as the day before, accepting that the swearing in of the jury and the president's address to them were omitted. The case before the court this day was one of burglary. The prisoner, guarded by two gendarmes with naked swords, was a thin, narrow-chested lad of twenty, with a bloodless, sallow face dressed in a grey cloak. He sat alone in the prisoner's dock. This boy was accused of having, together with a companion, broken the lock of a sheared, and stolen several old mats, valued at three rubles. The ruble is worth a little over two shillings and contains one hundred copax, and sixty-seven copax. According to the indictment, a policeman stopped this boy, as he was passing with his companion, who was carrying the mats on his shoulder. The boy and his companion confessed it once, and were both imprisoned. The boy's companion, a locksmith, died in prison, and so the boy was being tried alone. The old mats were lying on the table as the objects of material evidence. The business was conducted just in the same manner as the day before, where the whole armory of evidence proves witnesses swearing in, questions experts and cross-examinations. In answer to every question put to him by the president, the prosecutor or the advocate, the policeman, one of the witnesses, invariably ejected the words, just so, or can't tell. Yet in spite of his being stupefied and rendered a mere machine by a military discipline, his reluctance to speak about the arrest of this prisoner was evident. Another witness, an old house proprietor and owner of the mats, evidently a rich old man, when asked whether the mats were his, reluctantly identified them as such. When the public prosecutor asked him what he meant to do with these mats, what use they were to him, he got angry and answered, the devil take those mats, I don't want them at all. Had I known there would be all this bother about them, I should not have gone looking for them, but would rather have added a ten-ruble note or two to them, only not to be dragged here and pestered with questions. I have spent a lot on his voss-chicks. Besides, I am not well. I have been suffering from rheumatism for the last seven years. It was thus the witness spoke. The accused himself confessed everything and looking around stupidly, like an animal at his court, related how it had all happened. Still the public prosecutor, drawing up his shoulders as he had done the day before, asked subtle questions, calculated to catch a cunning criminal. In his speech he proved that the theft had been committed from a dwelling place, and a lock had been broken, and that the boy therefore deserved a heavy punishment. The advocate appointed by the court proved that the theft was not committed from a dwelling place, and that, though the crime was a serious one, the prisoner was not so very dangerous to society, as the prosecutor stated. The president assumed the role of absolute neutrality in the same way as he had done on the previous day, and impressed on the jury, facts which they all knew and could not help knowing. Then came an interval, just as the day before, and they smoked and again the usher called out. The judges are coming, and in the same way the two gendarmes sat trying to keep awake and threatening the prisoner with their naked weapons. The proceedings showed that this boy was apprenticed by his father at a tobacco factory, where he remained five years. This year he had been discharged by the owner after a strike, and, having lost his place, had wandered about the town without any work, drinking all he possessed. In a track-tier, cheap restaurant, he met another like himself, who had lost his place before the prisoner had, a locksmith by trade in a drunkard. One night, those two, both drunk, broke the lock of a sheared and took the first thing they happened to lay hands on. They confessed all and were put in prison, where the locksmith died while awaiting the trial. The boy was now being tried as a dangerous creature from whom society must be protected. Just as dangerous a creature as yesterday's culprit thought necklid off, listening to all that was going on before him. They are dangerous, and we who judge them. I, a rake, an adulterer, a deceiver. We are not dangerous. But even supposing that this boy is the most dangerous of all that are here in this court, what should be done from a common-sense point of view when he has been caught? It is clear that he is not an exceptional evil doer, but a most ordinary boy. Everyone sees it, and that he has become what he is simply because he got into circumstances that create such characters. And therefore, to prevent such a boy from going wrong, the circumstances that create these unfortunate beings must be done away with. But what do we do? We seize one such lad who happens to get caught, knowing well that there are thousand like him whom we have not caught, and send him to prison where idleness or most wholesome, useless labor is forced on him, in company of others weakened and ensnared by the lives they have led. And then we send him at the public expense from the Moscow to the Akutsk government in company with the most depraved of men. But we do nothing to destroy the conditions in which people like these are produced. On the contrary, we support the establishments where they are formed. These establishments are well known. Factories, mills, workshops, public houses, gin shops, brothels, and we do not destroy these places, but looking at them as necessary, we support and regulate them. We educate in this way, not one, but millions of people, and then catch one of them and imagine that we have done something, that we have guarded ourselves and nothing more can be expected of us. Have we not sent him from the Moscow to the Akutsk government? Thus thought Neklodov with unusual clearness and vividness, sitting in his high back chair next to the colonel and listening to the different intonations of the advocates, prosecutors, and president's voices and looking at their self-confident gestures and how much and what hard effect this pretense requires, continued Neklodov in his mind, glancing around the enormous room, the portraits, lamps, armchairs, uniforms, the thick walls and large windows, and picturing to himself the tremendous size of the building and the still more ponderous dimensions of the whole of this organization, with its army of officials, scribes, watchmen, messengers, not only in this place, but all over Russia, who receive wages for carrying on this comedy which no one needs. Supposing we spent one hundredth of these efforts helping these castaways, whom we now only regard as hands and bodies, required by us for our own peace and comfort, had someone chance to take pity on him and given some help at the time when poverty made them send him to town, it might have been sufficient, Neklodov thought, looking at the boy's piteous face. Or even later, when after twelve hours work at the factory, he was going to the public house, led away by his companions, had someone then come and said, Don't go, Vanya, it is not right, he would not have gone, nor got into bad ways, and would not have done any wrong. But no, no one who would have taken pity on him came across this apprentice in the years he lived like a poor little animal in the town, and with his hair cut close so as not to breed vermin, and ran errands for the workmen. No, all he heard and saw from the older workmen and their companions, since he came to live in town, was that he who cheats, drinks, swears, and gives another a thrashing, who goes on the loose is a fine fellow. Ill his constitution undermined by unhealthy labour, drink and devortory, bewildered as in a dream, knocking aimlessly about town, he gets into some sort of a shed, and takes from there some old mats, which nobody needs, and here we, all of us educated people, rich or comfortably off, meet together, dressed in good clothes and fine uniforms, in a splendid apartment, to mock this unfortunate brother of ours, whom we ourselves have ruined. Terrible! It is difficult to say whether the cruelty or the absurdity is greater, but the one and the other seem to reach their climax. Neckladoff thought all this, no longer listening to what was going on, and he was horror-struck by that which was being revealed to him. He could not understand why he had not been able to see all this before, and why others were unable to see it. End of Book 1, Chapter 34 Book 1, Chapter 35 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. Recording by David Cole, Medway, Massachusetts Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy Translated by Louise Mord Book 1, Chapter 35 The Procurator Neckladoff refuses to serve. During an interval, Neckladoff got up and went out into the corridor, with the intention of not returning to the court. Let them do what they liked with him. He could take no more part in this awful and horrid tomfoolery. Having inquired where the procurer's cabinet was, he went straight to him. The attendant did not wish to let him in, saying that the procurer was busy. But Neckladoff paid no heed and went to the door, where he was met by an official. He asked to be announced the procurer, saying he was on the jury and had a very important communication to make. His title and good clothes were of assistance to him. The official announced him to the procurer, and Neckladoff was let in. The procurer met him standing, evidently annoyed with the persistence with which Neckladoff demanded admittance. What is it you want, the procurer asked severely? I am on the jury. My name is Neckladoff. And it is absolutely necessary for me to see the prisoner Maslova, Neckladoff said, quickly and resolutely, blushing, and feeling that he was taking a step which would have a decisive influence on his life. The procurer was a short, dark man with short, grisly hair, quick, sparkling eyes, and a thick beard cut close on his projecting, lower jaw. Maslova? Yes, of course, I know. She was accused of poisoning, the procurer said quietly. But why do you want to see her? And then, as if wishing to tone down the question he added, I cannot give you the permission without knowing why you require it. I require it for a particularly important reason. Yes, said the procurer, and lifting his eyes looked attentively at Neckladoff. Has her case been heard or not? She was tried yesterday and unjustly sentenced. She is innocent. Yes, if she was sentenced only yesterday went on the procurer, paying no attention to Neckladoff's statement concerning Maslova's innocence. She must still be in the preliminary detention prison until the sentence is delivered in its final form. Visiting is allowed there only on certain days. I should advise you to inquire there. But I must see her as soon as possible, Neckladoff said, his jaw trembling as he felt the decisive moment approaching. Why must you, said the procurer, lifting his brows with some agitation? Because I betrayed her and brought her to the condition which exposed her to this accusation. All the same, I cannot see what it has to do with visiting her. This, that whether I succeed or not in getting the sentence changed, I want to follow her and marry her, said Neckladoff, touched to tears by his own conduct, and at the same time pleased to see the effect he produced on the procurer. Really, dear me, said the procurer. This is certainly a very exceptional case. I believe you are a member of the Krasnoporsk rural administration, yes, as if he remembered having heard before of this Neckladoff, who was now making so strange a declaration. I beg your pardon, but I do not think that has anything to do with my request, answered Neckladoff, flushing angrily. Certainly not, said the procurer, with a scarcely perceptible smile, and not in the least abashed. Only your wish is so extraordinary and so out of the common. Well, but can I get the permission? The permission, yes. I will give you an order of admittance directly. Take a seat. He went up to the table, sat down, and began to write, please sit down. Neckladoff continued to stand. Having written an order of admittance and handed it to Neckladoff, the procurer looked curiously at him. I must also state that I can no longer take part in the sessions. Then you will have to lay valid reasons before the court, as you, of course, know. My reasons are that I consider all judging not only useless, but immoral. Yes, said the procurer, with the same scarcely perceptible smile, as if to show that this kind of declaration was well known to him and belonged to the amusing sort. Yes, but you will certainly understand that I, as procurer, could not agree with you on this point. Therefore I should advise you to apply to the court, which will consider your declaration and find it valid or not valid, and in the latter case will impose a fine. Apply then to the court. I have made my declaration and I shall apply nowhere else, Neckladoff said angrily. Well then, good afternoon to the procurer, bowing his head, evidently anxious to be rid of this strange visitor. Who was that you had there, as one of the members of the court, as he entered? Just after Neckladoff left the room. Neckladoff, you know, the same that used to make all sorts of strange statements at the Krasnoporsk rural meetings. Just fancy. He is on the jury and among the prisoners there is a woman or girl sentenced to penal servitude, whom he says he betrayed and now he wants to marry her. You don't mean to say so. That's what he told me and in such a strange state of excitement. There is something abnormal in the young man of today. Oh, but he is not so very young. Yes, but how tiresome your famous Ivoššenka was. He carries the day by whirring one out. He talked and talked without end. Oh, that kind of people should be simply stopped or they will become real obstructionists. End of Book 1, Chapter 35. Book 1, Chapter 36 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. Recording by S. M. Hammond. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louise Maud. Book 1, Chapter 36. Nikolodov endeavors to visit Moslova. From the procurer, Nikolodov went straight to the preliminary detention prison. However, no Moslova was to be found there and the inspector explained to Nikolodov that she would probably be in the old temporary prison. Nikolodov went there. Yes, Katarina Moslova was there. The distance between the two prisons was enormous and Nikolodov only reached the old prison towards evening. He was going up to the door of the large, gloomy building but the sentinel stopped him and rang. A water came in answer to the bell. Nikolodov showed him his order of admittance but the water said he could not let him in without the inspector's permission. Nikolodov went to see the inspector. As he was going up the stairs, he heard distant sounds of some complicated bravura played on the piano. When a cross-servant girl with a bandaged eye opened the door to him, those sounds seemed to escape from the room and to strike his car. It was a rhapsody of lists that everybody was tired of, splendidly played but only to one point. When that point was reached, the same thing was repeated. Nikolodov asked the bandage maid whether the inspector was in. She answered that he was not in. Will he return soon? The rhapsody again stopped and recommends loudly and brilliantly again up to the same charmed point. I will go and ask and the servant went away. Tell him he is not in and won't be today. He is out visiting. What do they come bothering for? came the sound of a woman's voice from behind the door and again the rhapsody rattled on and stopped and the sound of a chair pushback was heard. It was plainly the irritated pianist meant to rebuke the tiresome visitor who had come at an untimely hour. Papa is not in, a pale girl with crimped hair said crossly, coming out into the ante-room. But seeing a young man in a good coat, she softened. Come in, please. What is it you want? I want to see a prisoner in this prison. A political one, I suppose. No, not a political one. I have a permission from the procurer. Well, I don't know, and Papa is out. But come in, please, she said again. Or I'll speak to the assistant. He is in the office at present. Apply there. What is your name? I thank you, said Nikolodov without answering her question, and went out. The door was not yet closed after him, when the same lively tones recommend. In the courtyard, Nikolodov met an officer with bristly mustaches and asked for the assistant inspector. It was the assistant himself. He looked at the order of admittance, but said that he could not decide to let him in with a pass for the preliminary prison, besides it was too late. Please to come again tomorrow. Tomorrow at ten, everybody is allowed to go in. Come then, and the inspector himself will be at home. Then you can have the interview either in the common room or if the inspector allows it in the office. And so Nikolodov did not succeed in getting an interview that day and returned home. As he went along the streets, excited at the idea of meeting her, he no longer thought about the law courts, but recalled his conversations with the procurer and the inspector's assistant. The fact that he had been seeking an interview with her and had told the procurer, and had been in two prisons, so excited him that it was long before he could calm down. When he got home, he had once fetched out his diary that had long remained untouched, read a few sentences out of it, and then wrote as follows. For two years I have not written anything in my diary, and thought I never should return to this childishness, yet it is not childishness, but converse with my own self, with this real divine self which lives in every man. All this time that I slept there was no one for me to converse with. I was awakened by an extraordinary event on the 28th of April, in the law court. When I was on the jury, I saw her in the prisoner's dock, the catechia betrayed by me in a prisoner's cloak, condemned to penal servitude through a strange mistake, and my own fault. I have just been to the procurer's and to the prison, but I was not admitted. I have resolved to do all I can to see her, to confess to her, and to atone for my sin, even by a marriage. God help me. My soul is at peace, and I am full of joy. CHAPTER 37 Maslova recalls the past. That night Maslova lay awake a long time, with her eyes open, looking at the door, in front of which the deacon's daughter kept passing. She was thinking that nothing would induce her to go to the island of Sakhalin in Mary a convict, but would arrange matter somehow with one of the prison officials, the secretary, a water, or even a water's assistant. Aren't they all given that way? Only I must not get thin, or else I am lost. She thought of how the advocate had looked at her, and also the president, and of the men she met, and those who came in on purpose at the court. She recollected how her companion Bertha, who came to see her in prison, had told her about the student whom she had loved, while she was with Kitah Eba, and who had inquired about her, and pitied her very much. She recalled many to mind, only not Nekladov. She never brought back to mind the days of her childhood and youth, and her love to Nekladov. That would have been too painful. These memories lay untouched somewhere deep in her soul. She had forgotten him, and never recalled, and never even dreamt of him. Today in the court, she did not recognize him. Not only because when she last saw him, he was in uniform, without a beard, and had only a small mustache and thick curly, though short hair, and now was bald and bearded, but because she never thought about him. She had buried his memory on that terrible dark night, and he, returning from the army, had passed by on the railway, without stopping to call on his aunts. Katusha then knew her condition. Up to that night, she did not consider the child that lay beneath her heart a burden, but on that night everything changed, and the child became nothing but a weight. His aunts had expected Nekladov, had asked him to come and see them in passing, but he had telegraphed that he could not come, as he had to be in Petersburg at an appointed time. When Katusha heard this, she made up her mind to go to the station and see him. The train was to pass by at two o'clock in the night. Katusha having helped the old ladies to bed, and persuaded a little girl, the cook's daughter, Masha, to come with her, put on a pair of old boots, threw a shawl over her head, gathered up her dress, and ran to the station. It was a warm rainy and windy autumn night. The rain now pelted down and warm heavy drops now stopped again. It was too dark to see the path across the field, and in the wood it was pitch black, so that although Katusha knew the way well, she got off the path and got to the little station where the train stopped for three minutes, not before, as she had hoped, but after the second bell had been rung. Hearing up the platform, Katusha saw him at once at the windows of a first-class carriage. Two officers sat opposite each other on the velvet-covered seats, playing cards. This carriage was very brightly lit up on the little table between the seats to two thick, dripping candles. He sat in his close-fitting breeches on the arm of the seat, leaning against the back, and laughed. As soon as she recognized him, she knocked at the carriage window with her benumbed hand. But at that moment the last bell rang, and the train first gave a backward jerk, and then gradually the carriages began to move forward. One of the players rose with the cards in his hand and looked out. She knocked again and pressed her face to the window, but the carriage moved on, and she went alongside looking in. The officer tried to lower the window, but could not. Neckladoff pushed him aside and began lowering it himself. The train went faster so that she had to walk quickly. The train went on still faster, and the window opened. The guard pushed her aside and jumped in. Katusha ran on along the wet boards of the platform, and when she came to the end she could hardly stop herself from falling as she ran down the steps of the platform. She was running by the side of the railway, though the first-class carriage had long pastor and the second-class carriages were gliding by faster, and at last the third-class carriage is still faster. But she ran on, and when the last carriage with the lamps at the back had gone by, she had already reached the tank which fed the engines, and was unsheltered from the wind which was blowing her shawl about and making her skirt cling round her legs. The shawl flew off her head, but still she ran on. Katarina Mikolovna, you've lost your shawl, screamed the little girl, who was trying to keep up with her. Katusha stopped, threw back her head and, catching hold of it with both hands, sobbed aloud. Gone! She screamed. He is sitting in a velvet armchair, and joking and drinking, and a brightly lit carriage, and I, out here in the mud, in the darkness, in the wind and the rain, am standing and weeping, she thought to herself, and sat down on the ground, sobbing so loud that the little girl got frightened and put her arms round her, wet as she was. Come home, dear, she said. When a train passes, then under a carriage, and there will be an end, Katusha was thinking, without heeding the girl. And she made up her mind to do it, when, as it always happens, when a moment of quiet follows great excitement. He, the child, his child, made himself known within her. Suddenly all that a moment before had been tormenting her, so that it had seemed impossible to live. All her bitterness towards him, and the wish to revenge herself, even by dying, passed away. She grew quieter, got up, put the shawl on her head, and went home. Wet, muddy, and quite exhausted she returned, and from that day the change which brought her where she now was began to operate in her soul. And from that dreadful night she ceased believing in God and in goodness. She had herself believed in God, and believed that other people also believed in him, but after that night she became convinced that no one believed, and that all that was said about God and his laws was deception and untruth. He whom she loved, and who had loved her, yes, she knew that, had thrown her away, had abused her love. Yet he was the best of all the people she knew. All the rest were still worse. All that afterwards happened to her strengthened her in this belief at every step. His aunts, the pious old ladies, turned her out when she could no longer serve them as she used to. And of all those she met, the women used her as a means of getting money. The men, from the old police officer down to the waters of the prison, looked at her as on an object for pleasure, and no one in the world cared for ought but pleasure. In this belief the old author with whom she had come together in the second year of her life of independence had strengthened her. He had told her outright that it was this that constituted the happiness of life, and he called it poetical and aesthetic. Everybody lived for himself only, for his pleasure, and all the talk concerning God and righteousness was deception. And if sometimes doubts arose in her mind and she wondered why everything was so ill-arranged in the world that all hurt each other and made each other suffer, she thought it best not to dwell on it, and if she felt melancholy she could smoke, or better still drink, and it would pass. End of Book 1, Chapter 37