Resurrection - Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (interesting novels in english .TXT) 📗
- Author: Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy
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alike, swinging their free arms as if to keep up their spirits.
There were so many of them, they all looked so much alike, and
they were all placed in such unusual, peculiar circumstances,
that they seemed to Nekhludoff to be not men but some sort of
strange and terrible creatures. This impression passed when he
recognised in the crowd of convicts the murderer Federoff, and
among the exiles Okhotin the wit, and another tramp who had
appealed to him for assistance. Almost all the prisoners turned
and looked at the trap that was passing them and at the gentleman
inside. Federoff tossed his head backwards as a sign that he had
recognised Nekhludoff, Okhotin winked, but neither of them bowed,
considering it not the thing.
As soon as Nekhludoff came up to the women he saw Maslova; she
was in the second row. The first in the row was a short-legged,
black-eyed, hideous woman, who had her cloak tucked up in her
girdle. This was Koroshavka. The next was a pregnant woman, who
dragged herself along with difficulty. The third was Maslova; she
was carrying her sack on her shoulder, and looking straight
before her. Her face looked calm and determined. The fourth in
the row was a young, lovely woman who was walking along briskly,
dressed in a short cloak, her kerchief tied in peasant fashion.
This was Theodosia.
Nekhludoff got down and approached the women, meaning to ask
Maslova if she had got the things he had sent her, and how she
was feeling, but the convoy sergeant, who was walking on that
side, noticed him at once, and ran towards him.
“You must not do that, sir. It is against the regulations to
approach the gang,” shouted the sergeant as he came up.
But when he recognised Nekhludoff (every one in the prison knew
Nekhludoff) the sergeant raised his fingers to his cap, and,
stopping in front of Nekhludoff, said: “Not now; wait till we get
to the railway station; here it is not allowed. Don’t lag behind;
march!” he shouted to the convicts, and putting on a brisk air,
he ran back to his place at a trot, in spite of the heat and the
elegant new boots on his feet.
Nekhludoff went on to the pavement and told the isvostchik to
follow him; himself walking, so as to keep the convicts in sight.
Wherever the gang passed it attracted attention mixed with horror
and compassion. Those who drove past leaned out of the vehicles
and followed the prisoners with their eyes. Those on foot stopped
and looked with fear and surprise at the terrible sight. Some
came up and gave alms to the prisoners. The alms were received by
the convoy. Some, as if they were hypnotised, followed the gang,
but then stopped, shook their heads, and followed the prisoners
only with their eyes. Everywhere the people came out of the gates
and doors, and called others to come out, too, or leaned out of
the windows looking, silent and immovable, at the frightful
procession. At a cross-road a fine carriage was stopped by the
gang. A fat coachman, with a shiny face and two rows of buttons
on his back, sat on the box; a married couple sat facing the
horses, the wife, a pale, thin woman, with a light-coloured
bonnet on her head and a bright sunshade in her hand, the husband
with a top-hat and a well-cut light-coloured overcoat. On the
seat in front sat their children—a well-dressed little girl,
with loose, fair hair, and as fresh as a flower, who also held a
bright parasol, and an eight-year-old boy, with a long, thin neck
and sharp collarbones, a sailor hat with long ribbons on his
head.
The father was angrily scolding the coachman because he had not
passed in front of the gang when he had a chance, and the mother
frowned and half closed her eyes with a look of disgust,
shielding herself from the dust and the sun with her silk
sunshade, which she held close to her face.
The fat coachman frowned angrily at the unjust rebukes of his
master—who had himself given the order to drive along that
street—and with difficulty held in the glossy, black horses,
foaming under their harness and impatient to go on.
The policeman wished with all his soul to please the owner of the
fine equipage by stopping the gang, yet felt that the dismal
solemnity of the procession could not be broken even for so rich
a gentleman. He only raised his fingers to his cap to show his
respect for riches, and looked severely at the prisoners as if
promising in any case to protect the owners of the carriage from
them. So the carriage had to wait till the whole of the
procession had passed, and could only move on when the last of
the carts, laden with sacks and prisoners, rattled by. The
hysterical woman who sat on one of the carts, and had grown calm,
again began shrieking and sobbing when she saw the elegant
carriage. Then the coachman tightened the reins with a slight
touch, and the black trotters, their shoes ringing against the
paving stones, drew the carriage, softly swaying on its rubber
tires, towards the country house where the husband, the wife, the
girl, and the boy with the sharp collarbones were going to amuse
themselves. Neither the father nor the mother gave the girl and
boy any explanation of what they had seen, so that the children
had themselves to find out the meaning of this curious sight. The
girl, taking the expression of her father’s and mother’s faces
into consideration, solved the problem by assuming that these
people were quite another kind of men and women than her father
and mother and their acquaintances, that they were bad people,
and that they had therefore to be treated in the manner they were
being treated.
Therefore the girl felt nothing but fear, and was glad when she
could no longer see those people.
But the boy with the long, thin neck, who looked at the
procession of prisoners without taking his eyes off them, solved
the question differently.
He still knew, firmly and without any doubt, for he had it from
God, that these people were just the same kind of people as he
was, and like all other people, and therefore some one had done
these people some wrong, something that ought not to have been
done, and he was sorry for them, and felt no horror either of
those who were shaved and chained or of those who had shaved and
chained them. And so the boy’s lips pouted more and more, and he
made greater and greater efforts not to cry, thinking it a shame
to cry in such a case.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE LORD.
Nekhludoff kept up with the quick pace of the convicts. Though
lightly clothed he felt dreadfully hot, and it was hard to
breathe in the stifling, motionless, burning air filled with
dust.
When he had walked about a quarter of a mile he again got into
the trap, but it felt still hotter in the middle of the street.
He tried to recall last night’s conversation with his
brother-in-law, but the recollections no longer excited him as
they had done in the morning. They were dulled by the impressions
made by the starting and procession of the gang, and chiefly by
the intolerable heat.
On the pavement, in the shade of some trees overhanging a fence,
he saw two schoolboys standing over a kneeling man who sold ices.
One of the boys was already sucking a pink spoon and enjoying his
ices, the other was waiting for a glass that was being filled
with something yellowish.
“Where could I get a drink?” Nekhludoff asked his isvostchik,
feeling an insurmountable desire for some refreshment.
“There is a good eating-house close by,” the isvostchik answered,
and turning a corner, drove up to a door with a large signboard.
The plump clerk in a Russian shirt, who stood behind the counter,
and the waiters in their once white clothing who sat at the
tables (there being hardly any customers) looked with curiosity
at the unusual visitor and offered him their services. Nekhludoff
asked for a bottle of seltzer water and sat down some way from
the window at a small table covered with a dirty cloth. Two men
sat at another table with tea-things and a white bottle in front
of them, mopping their foreheads, and calculating something in a
friendly manner. One of them was dark and bald, and had just such
a border of hair at the back as Rogozhinsky. This sight again
reminded Nekhludoff of yesterday’s talk with his brother-in-law
and his wish to see him and Nathalie.
“I shall hardly be able to do it before the train starts,” he
thought; “I’d better write.” He asked for paper, an envelope, and
a stamp, and as he was sipping the cool, effervescent water he
considered what he should say. But his thoughts wandered, and he
could not manage to compose a letter.
“My dear Nathalie,—I cannot go away with the heavy impression
that yesterday’s talk with your husband has left,” he began.
“What next? Shall I ask him to forgive me what I said yesterday?
But I only said what I felt, and he will think that I am taking
it back. Besides, this interference of his in my private matters.
… No, I cannot,” and again he felt hatred rising in his heart
towards that man so foreign to him. He folded the unfinished
letter and put it in his pocket, paid, went out, and again got
into the trap to catch up the gang. It had grown still hotter.
The stones and the walls seemed to be breathing out hot air. The
pavement seemed to scorch the feet, and Nekhludoff felt a burning
sensation in his hand when he touched the lacquered splashguard
of his trap.
The horse was jogging along at a weary trot, beating the uneven,
dusty road monotonously with its hoofs, the isvostchik kept
falling into a doze, Nekhludoff sat without thinking of anything.
At the bottom of a street, in front of a large house, a group of
people had collected, and a convoy soldier stood by.
“What has happened?” Nekhludoff asked of a porter.
“Something the matter with a convict.”
Nekhludoff got down and came up to the group. On the rough
stones, where the pavement slanted down to the gutter, lay a
broadly-built, red-bearded, elderly convict, with his head lower
than his feet, and very red in the face. He had a grey cloak and
grey trousers on, and lay on his back with the palms of his
freckled hands downwards, and at long intervals his broad, high
chest heaved, and he groaned, while his bloodshot eyes were fixed
on the sky. By him stood a cross-looking policeman, a pedlar, a
postman, a clerk, an old woman with a parasol, and a short-haired
boy with an empty basket.
“They are weak. Having been locked up in prison they’ve got weak,
and then they lead them through the most broiling heat,” said the
clerk, addressing Nekhludoff, who had just come up.
“He’ll die, most likely,” said the woman with the parasol, in a
doleful tone.
“His shirt should be untied,” said the postman.
The policeman began, with his thick, trembling fingers, clumsily
to untie the tapes that fastened the shirt round the red, sinewy
neck. He was evidently excited and confused, but still thought it
necessary to address the crowd.
“What have you collected here for? It is hot enough without your
keeping
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