Book 2, Chapter 33 of Resurrection Book 2, Chapter 33, the aim of the law. Well, and how are the children, Necladov asked his sister, when he was calmer. The sister told him about the children. She said they were staying with their grandmother, their father's mother, and pleased that his dispute with her husband had come to an end, she began telling him how her children played that they were travelling, just as he used to do with his three dolls, one of them a negro and another which he called the French lady. When you really remember it all, said Necladov smiling. Yes, and just fancy, they play in the very same way. The unpleasant conversation had been brought to an end, and Natalie was quieter, but she did not care to talk in her husband's presence of what could be comprehensible only to her brother. So, wishing to start a general conversation, she began talking about the sorrow of Kamensky's mother at losing her only son, who had fallen in a duel, for this Petersburg topic of the day had now reached Moscow. Rogozinski expressed disapproval at the state of things that excluded murder in a duel from the ordinary criminal offences. This remark evoked a rejoinder from Necladov, and a new dispute arose on the subject.  Rogozinski felt that Necladov condemned him and despised his activity, and he wished to show him the injustice of his opinions. Necladov, on the other hand, felt provoked by his brother-in-law's interference in his affairs concerning the land, and knowing in his heart of hearts that his sister, her husband, and their children, as his heirs had a right to do so, was indignant that this narrow-minded man persisted with calm assurance to regard as just and lawful what Necladov no longer doubted was folly and crime. This man's arrogance annoyed Necladov. What could the law do? he asked. It could sentence one of the two duelists to the minds, like an ordinary murderer. Necladov's hands grew cold. Well, and what good would that be? he asked hotly. It would be just, as if justice were the aim of the law, said Necladov. What else? The upholding of class interests. I think the law is only an instrument for upholding the existing order of things beneficial to our class. This is a perfectly new view, said Rogazinski, with a quiet smile. The law is generally supposed to have a totally different aim. Yes, so it has in theory, but not in practice, as I have found out. The law aims only at preserving the present state of things, and therefore it persecutes and executes those who stand above the ordinary level and wish to raise it, the so-called political prisoners, as well as those who are below the average, the so-called criminal types. I do not agree with you. In the first place, I cannot admit that the criminals classed as political are punished because they are above the average. In most cases, they are the refuse of society, just as much perverted, though in a different way, as the criminal types whom you consider below the average. But I happen to know men who are morally far above their judges, all the sectarians are moral from. But Rogazinski, a man not accustomed to be interrupted when he spoke, did not listen to Nekladov, but went on talking at the same time, thereby irritating him still more. Nor can I admit that the object of the law is the upholding of the present state of things. The law aims at reforming, a nice kind of reform, in a prison, Nekladov put in.  That's just what it doesn't do. Society has not the means of doing either the one thing or the other. How is that? I don't understand, said Rogazinski, with a forced smile. I mean that only two reasonable kinds of punishment exist. Those used in the old days, corporal and capital punishment, which, as human nature gradually softens, come more and more into disuse, said Nekladov. There now, this is quite new and very strange to hear from your lips.  These punishments have a reasonable meaning. But what sense is there in locking up in a prison a man perverted by want of occupation and bad example, to place him in a position where he is provided for, where laziness is imposed on him, and where he is in company with the most perverted of men? What reason is there to take a man at public cost, it comes to more than five hundred rubles per head, from the Tula to the Irkutsk government or from Kursk, yes, but all the same, people are afraid of those journeys at public cost, and if it were not for such journeys and the prisons, you and I would not be sitting here as we are. The prisons cannot ensure our safety, because these people do not stay there forever, but are set free again. On the contrary, in those establishments men are brought to the greatest vice in degradation, so that the danger is increased. You mean to say that the penitentiary system should be improved? It cannot be improved. Improved prisons would cost more than all that is being now spent on the people's education, and would lay a still heavier burden on the people. The shortcomings of the penitentiary system in no wise invalidate the law itself, Rogazinski continued again, without heeding his brother-in-law. There is no remedy for these shortcomings, said Nikolayov, raising his voice. Out of that, shall we therefore go and kill, or as a certain statesman proposed, go putting out people's eyes, Rogazinski remarked? Yes, that would be cruel, but it would be effective. What is done now is cruel, and not only ineffective, but so stupid that one cannot understand how people in their senses can take part in so absurd and cruel a business as criminal law. But I happen to take part in it, said Rogazinski, growing pale. That is your business, but to me it is incomprehensible. I think there are good many things incomprehensible to you, said Rogazinski, with a trembling voice. I have seen how one public prosecutor did his very best to get an unfortunate boy condemned, who could have evoked nothing but sympathy in an unperverted mind. I know how another, a cross-examined a sectarian, and put down the reading of the Gospels as a criminal offence. In fact, the whole business of the law courts consists in scentless and cruel actions of that sort. I should not serve if I thought so, said Rogazinski, rising. Nikolayov noticed a peculiar glitter under his brother-in-law's spectacles. Can it be tears, he thought? And they were really tears of injured pride. Rogazinski went up to the window, got out his handkerchief, coughed and rubbed his spectacles, took them off, and wiped his eyes. When he returned to the sofa he lit a cigar, and did not speak any more.  He parted with them in confusion, and drove home. All I have said may be true. Anyhow he did not reply, but it was not said in the right way. How little I must have changed if I could be carried away by ill-feeling to such an extent as to hurt and wound poor Natalie in such a way, he thought. Book II, CHAPTER XXXIV. The Prisoner's Start for Siberia The gang of prisoners, among whom was Maslova, was to leave Moscow by train at three p.m. Therefore, in order to see the gang start, and walk to the station with the prisoners, Nektodov meant to reach the prison before twelve o'clock. The night before, as he was packing up and sorting his papers, he came upon his diary and read some bits here and there. The last bit written before he left for Petersburg ran thus. Katusha does not wish to accept my sacrifice. She wishes to make a sacrifice herself. She has conquered and so have I. She makes me happy by the inner change, which seems to me, though I fear to believe it, to be going on in her. I fear to believe it, yet she seems to be coming back to life. Even further on he read, I have lived through something very hard and very joyful. I learnt that she has behaved very badly in the hospital, and I suddenly felt great pain. I never expected that it could be so painful. I spoke to her with loathing and hatred, then all of a sudden I called to mind how many times I have been, and even still am, though but in thought, guilty of the thing that I hated her for. And immediately I became disgusting to myself, and pitted her and felt happy again. If only we could manage to see the beam in our own eye in time, how kind we should be. Then he wrote, I have been to see Natalie, and again self-satisfaction made me unkind and spiteful, and a heavy feeling remains. Well, what is to be done? Tomorrow a new life will begin, a final goodbye to the old. Many new impressions have accumulated, but I cannot yet bring them to unity. When he awoke the next morning, Neklodov's first feeling was regret about the affair between him and his brother-in-law. I cannot go away like this, he thought. I must go and make it up with them. But when he looked at his watch, he saw that he had not time to go, but must hurry so as not to be too late for the departure of the gang. He hastily got everything ready and sent the things to the station with a servant, and Tarras, Theodosia's husband, who was going with them. Then he took the first his Voschik he could find, and drove off to the prison. The prisoner's train started two hours before the train by which he was going, so Neklodov paid his bill in the lodgings and left for good. It was July and the weather was unbearably hot. From the stones, the walls, the iron of the roofs, which the sultry night had not cooled, the heat streamed into the motionless air. When at rare intervals a slight breeze did arise. It brought but a whiff of hot air filled with dust and smelling of oil paint. There were few people in the streets and those who were out tried to keep on the shady side. Only the sun burnt peasants with their bronzed faces and barked shoes on their feet, who were mending the road, sat hammering the stones into the burning sand in the sun, while the policemen in their holland blouses, with revolvers fastened with orange cords, stood melancholy and depressed in the middle of the road, changing from foot to foot, and the tram-cars, the horses of which wore holland hoods on their heads, with slits for the ears, kept passing up and down the sunny road with ringing bells. When Neklodov drove up to the prison, the gang had not left the yard. The work of delivering and receiving the prisoners that had commenced at 4 a.m. was still going on. The gang was to consist of 623 men and 64 women. They all had to be received according to the registry lists. They're sick and weak to be sorted out, and all to be delivered to the convoy. The new inspector, with two assistants, the doctor and medical assistant, the officer of the convoy and the clerk, were sitting in the prison yard at a table covered with writing materials and papers, which was placed in the shade of a wall. They called the prisoners one by one, examined and questioned them, and took notes. The rays of the sun had gradually reached the table, and it was growing very hot and oppressive for want of air, and because of the breathing crowd of prisoners that stood close by.  From where have you got them all? Are there many more, the clerk inquired? Twenty-four men and the women. What are you standing there for? Come on, shouted the convoy officer to the prisoners, who had not yet passed the revision, and who stood crowded one behind the other. The prisoners had been standing there more than three hours, packed in rows in the full sunlight, waiting their turns. While this was going on in the prison yard outside the gate, besides the sentinel who stood there as usual with a gun, were drawn off about twenty carts to carry the luggage of the prisoners, and such prisoners as were too weak to walk, and a group of relatives and friends waiting to see the prisoners as they came out, and to exchange a few words if a chance presented itself, and to give them a few things. Neklodov took his place among the group. He had stood there about an hour, when the clanking of chains, the noise of footsteps, authoritative voices, the sound of coughing, and the low murmur of a large crowd became audible. This continued for about five minutes, during which several jailers went in and out of the gateway. At last the word of command was given. The gate opened with a thundering noise. The clattering of the chains became louder, and the convoy soldiers, dressed in white blouses and carrying guns, came out into the street and took their places in a large exact circle in front of the gate. This was evidently a usual, often practiced, manoeuvre. Then another command was given, and the prisoners began coming out in couples, with flat, pancake-shaped caps on their shaved heads and sacks over their shoulders, dragging their chained legs and swinging one arm while the other held up a sack. First came the men condemned to hard labour, all dressed alike in grey trousers and cloaked with marks on the back. All of them, young and old, thin and fat, pale and red, dark and bearded and beardless, Russians, Tatars and Jews, came out, clattering with their chains and briskly swinging their arms as if prepared to go a long distance, but stopped after having taken ten steps and obediently took their places behind each other, four abreast. Then without interval streamed out more shaved men, dressed in the same manner, but with chains only on their legs. These were condemned to exile. They came out as briskly and stopped suddenly, taking their places four in a row. Then came those exiled by their communes. Then the women in the same order, first those condemned to hard labour, with grey cloaks and kerchiefs. Then the exiled women, and those following their husbands of their own free will, dressed in their own town or village clothing. Some of the women were carrying babies wrapped in the fronts of their grey cloaks. With the women came the children, boys and girls, who, like Colton a herd of horses, pressed in among the prisoners. The men took their places silently, only coughing now and then, or making short remarks. The women talked without intermission. Riklodov thought he saw Masloba as they were coming out, but she was at once lost in the large crowd, and he could only see grey creatures, seemingly devoid of all that was human, or at any rate of all that was womanly, with sacks on their backs and children round them, taking their places behind the men. Though all the prisoners had been counted inside the prison walls, the convoy counted them again, comparing the numbers with the list. This took very long, especially as some of the prisoners moved and changed places, which confused the convoy. The convoy soldiers shouted and pushed the prisoners, who complied obediently but angrily, and counted them over again. When all had been counted, the convoy officer gave a command, and the crowd became agitated. The weak men and women and children rushed, racing each other towards the carts, and began placing their bags on the carts and climbing up themselves. Women with crying babies, married children quarreling for places, and dull care-worn prisoners got into the carts. Several of the prisoners took off their caps and came up to the convoy officer with some request. Neklodov found out later that they were asking for places on the carts. Neklodov saw how the officer, without looking at the prisoners, drew in a whiff from his cigarette, and then suddenly waved his short arm in front of one of the prisoners, who quickly drew his shaved head back between his shoulders, as if afraid of a blow, and sprang back. I'll give you a lift such that you'll remember. You'll get there on foot right enough, shouted the officer. Only one of the men was granted his request, an old man with chains on his legs, and Neklodov saw the old man take off his pancake-shaped cap, and go up to the cart crossing himself. He could not manage to get up on the cart because of the chains that prevented him lifting his old legs, and a woman who was sitting in the cart at last pulled him in by the arm. When all the sacks were in the carts, and those who were allowed to get in were seated, the officer took off his cap, wiped his forehead, his bald head, and fat red neck, and crossed himself. March! commanded the officer. The soldiers' guns gave a click. The prisoners took off their caps and crossed themselves. Those who were seeing them off shouted something. The prisoners shouted in answer.  The soldiers went in front. Then came the convicts condemned to hard labor, clattering with their chains. Then the exiled and those exiled by the communes, chained in couples by their wrists. Then the women. After them, on the carts loaded with sacks came the week. High up on one of the carts sat a woman closely wrapped up, and she kept shrieking and sobbing. End of Book 2, Chapter 34. Book 2, 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 2, Chapter 35. Not men, but strange and terrible creatures. The procession was such a long one that the carts with the luggage in the week started only when those in front were already out of sight. When the last of the carts moved, Neklodov got into the trap that stood waiting for him, and told his Voschik to catch up to the prisoners in front so that he could see if he knew any of the men in the gang, and then try and find out Maslova among the women, and ask her if she had received the things he sent. It was very hot, and a cloud of dust that was raised by the thousand-tramping feet stood all the time over the gang that was moving down the middle of the street. The prisoners were walking quickly, and the slow going is Voschik's horse was some time in catching them up. Row upon row they passed, those strange and terrible looking creatures, none of whom Neklodov knew. On they went, all dressed alike, moving a thousand feet or shot 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 Neklodov to be not men, but some sort of strange and terrible creatures. This impression passed when he recognized in the crowd of convicts the murderer Fedorov, and among the exiles a hot-in, 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. Neklodov tossed his head backwards as a sign that he had recognized Neklodov. A hot-in, winked, but neither of them bowed, considering it not the thing. As soon as Neklodov 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 Karashavka. 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 looked 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. Neklodov 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's 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 recognized Neklodov, everyone in the prison knew Neklodov. The sergeant raised his fingers to his cap and, stopping in front of Neklodov, 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 as a trot, in spite of the heat and the elegant new boots on his feet. Neklodov went on to the pavement and told his Vostchik to follow him. He was self-walking, so as to keep the convicts in sight. Wherever the gang passed it attracted attention, mixed with horror and compassion.  Those on foot stopped and looked with fear and surprise at the terrible sight. Some came up and gave arms to the prisoners. The arms were received by the convoy. Some, as if they were hypnotized, 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.     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 had 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, threw 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 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 someone 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 ashamed to cry in such a case. Book 2, 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 Chris Caron. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy. Translated by Louis Maud, Book 2, Chapter 36. The Tender Mercies of the Lord. Necladoff kept up with the quick pace of the convicts. Though lightly closed, 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 Rat Collections 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.  The other was waiting for a glass that was being filled with something yellowish. Where could I get a drink? Necladoff asked, his in Vostchik 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. Necladoff asked for a bottle of salts or 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 Rahidinsky. This sight again reminded Necladoff of yesterday's talk with his brother-in-law, and his wish to see him and Natalie. I shall hardly be able to do it before the train starts, he thought. I better write, he asked for paper, an envelope, and a stamp, and as he was sipping the cool effrescent water. He considered what he should say, but his thoughts wandered, and he could not manage to compose a letter. My dear Natalie, 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 scratch the feet, and Necladoff felt a burning sensation in his hand when he touched the lacquered splash guard of his trap. The horse was jogging along at a wary trot, beating the uneven dusty road monotonously with his hooves. The isphotic chick kept falling into a dose. Necladoff sat without thinking of anything.  What has happened, Necladoff asked of a porter. Something the matter with a convict. Necladoff 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 gray cloak and gray trousers on, and lay on his back with the palms of his freckled hands downwards. And at long intervals, his broad, high chest heavened and he groaned while his bloodshot eyes were fixed on the sky.  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 Necladoff, who had just come up. He'll die, most likely, said the woman with the parasol, in a doful 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 was necessary to address the crowd. What have you collected here for? It is hot enough without your keeping the wind off. They should have been examined by a doctor, and the weak ones left behind, said the clerk, showing off his knowledge at the law. The policeman, having undone the tapes of the shirt, rose and looked round. Move on, I tell you. It is not your business, is it? What's there to stare at? he said, and turned to Necladoff for sympathy, but not finding any in his face. He turned to the convoy soldier, but the soldier stood aside, examining the troddened down heel of his boot, and was quite indifferent to the policeman's perplexity. Those whose business it is don't care. Is it right to do men to death like this? A convict is a convict, but still he is a man. In different voices were heard, saying in the crowd.  Water has been sent for, said the policeman, and taken the prisoner under the arms, he with difficulty pulled his body a little higher up. What's this gathering here? said a decided authoritative voice, and a police officer, with a wonderfully clean, shiny blouse, and still more shiny top boots, came up to the assembled crowd. Move on, no standing about here, he shouted to the crowd, before he knew what had attracted it. When he came near and saw the dying convict, he made a sign of approval with his head, just as if he had quite expected it, and turning to the policeman said, how was this? The policeman said that, as a gang of prisoners was passing, one of the convicts had fallen down, and the convoy officer had ordered him to be left behind. Well, that's all right, he must be taken to the police station. Colin is fudgic, a porter has gone for one, said the policeman, with his fingers raised to his cap. The shot man began something about the heat. It is your business, eh? Move on, said the police officer, and looked so severely at him that the clerk was silenced. He ought to have a little water, said Necladoff. The police officer looked severely at Necladoff also, but said nothing. When the porter thought, a mug full of water, he told the policeman to offer some to the convict. The policeman raised the drooping head, and tried to pour a little water down the mouth. But the prisoner could not swallow it, and it ran down his beard, wetting his jacket and his course, dirty linen shirt. Pour it on his head, ordered the officer, and the policeman took off the pancake-shaped cap, and poured the water over the red curls of the bald part of the prisoner's head. His eyes opened wide, as if in fear, but his position remained unchanged. Streams of dirt trickled down his dusty face, but the mouth continued to gasp in the same, regular way, and his whole body shook. And what's this? Take this one, said the police officer, pointing to Necladoff's esfachik.  I am engaged, said his esfachik, dismally, and without looking up. It is my esfachik, but take him. I will pay you, said Necladoff, turning to the esfachik. Well, what are you waiting for? shouted the officer, catch hold. The policeman, the porter, and the convoy soldier lifted the dying man and carried him to the trap, and put him on the seat, but he could not sit up.  Make him lie down, ordered the officer. It is all right, your honor. I'll manage him like this, said the policeman, sitting down by the dying man, and clasping his strong right arm around the body under the arms. The convoy soldier lifted the stockingless feet in prison shoes and put them into the trap. The police officer looked around, and noticing the pancake-shaped hat of the convict, lifted it up and put it on the wet, drooping head. Go on, he ordered. The esfachik looked angrily around, shook his head, and accompanied by the convoy soldier, drove back to the police station. The policeman, sitting behind the convict, kept dragging up the body that was continually sliding down from the seat, while the head swung from side to side. The convoy soldier, who was walking by the side of the trap, kept putting his legs in their place. Necladoff followed the trap. End of Book 2, Chapter 36. Recording by Chris Caron. Book 2, Chapter 37, 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 Chris Caron. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy, translated by Luis Maude, Book 2, Chapter 37, spilled like water on the ground. The trap passed the fireman, who stood sentinel, at the entrance. The headquarters of the fire brigade and the police stations are generally together in Moscow. Drove into the yard of the police station and stopped at one of the doors. In the yard, several firemen with their sleeves tucked up were washing some kind of cart and talking loudly. When the trap stopped, several policemen surrounded it, and taking the lifeless body of the convict under the arms, took him out of the trap, which creaked under him. The policeman, who had brought the body, got down, shook his numbed arm, took off his cap, and crossed himself. The body was carried through the door and up the stairs. Neklodov followed. In the small dirty room where the body was taken, there stood four beds. On two of them sat a couple of sick men in dressing gowns, one with a crooked mouth, whose neck was bandaged, the other one in consumption. Two of the beds were empty. The convict was laid on one of them, a little man, with glistening eyes and continually moving brows. With only his underclothes and stockings on, came up with quick, soft steps, looked at the convict, and then at Neklodov and burst into loud laughter. This was a madman who was being kept in the police hospital. They wished to frighten me, but no, they won't succeed. He said, the policeman, who carried the corpse, were followed by a police officer and a medical assistant. The medical assistant came up to the body and touched a freckled hand, already growing cold, which, though still soft, was deadly pale. He held it for a moment and then let it go. It fell lifelessly on the stomach of the dead man. He's ready, said the medical assistant, but evidently, to be quite in order, he undid the wet brown shirt and tossing back the curls from his ear. Put it to the yellowish, broad, immovable chest of the convict. All were silent. The medical assistant raised himself again, shook his head and touched with his fingers, first one and then, the other lid over the open, fixed blue eyes. I'm not frightened. I'm not frightened, the madame kept repeating these words and spitting in the direction of the medical assistant. Well, as the police officer, well, he must be put into the mortuary. Are you sure, mind, said the police officer? It's time I should know, said the medical assistant, drawing the shirt over the body's chest. However, I will send for Matthew Ivanovich. Let him have a look, Petrov called him, and the medical assistant stepped away from the body. Take him to the mortuary, said the police officer, and then, you must come into the office and sign. He added to the convoy's soldier, who had not left the convict for a moment. Yes, sir, said the soldier. The policeman lifted his body and carried it down again. Niklodov wished to follow, but madame kept him back. You are not in the plot. Well, then give me a cigarette, he said. Niklodov got out his cigarette case and gave him one. The madman, quickly moving his brows all the time, began relating how they tormented him, by thought's suggestion. Why they are all against me and torment and torture me. Through their mediums. I beg your pardon, said Nikolov, without listening any further. He left the room and went out into the yard, wishing to know where the body would be put. The policeman, with their burden, had already crossed the yard, and were coming to the door of a cellar. Niklodov wished to go up to them, but the police officer stopped him. What do you want? Nothing. Nothing, then go away. Niklodov obeyed, and went back to his Isvachik, who was dosing. He awoke him, and they drove back towards the railway station. They had not made a hundred steps when they met a cart accompanied by a convoy soldier with a gun. On the cart lay another convict, who was already dead. The convict lay on his back, in the cart his shaved head, from which the pancake-shaped cap had slid over the back-bearded face down to the nose, shaking and thumping at every jolt. The driver, in his heavy boots, walked by the side of the cart, holding the reins. A policeman, followed on foot, Niklodov touched his Isvachik's shoulder. Just look what they are doing, said the Isvachik, stopping his horse. Niklodov got down and following the cart, again past his sentinel, and entered the gate of the police station.  And with his hands, in his pockets, was severely looking at a fat-necked, well-fed, bay stallion that was being led up and down before him by a fireman. The stallion was lame on one of his four feet, and the chief of the firemen was angrily saying something to a ventunary who stood by. The police officer was also present. When he saw the cart, he went up to the convoy soldier. Where did you bring him from? He asked, shaking his head disapprovingly. From the Gorbat Toskaya, answered the policeman. A prisoner asked the chief of the fire brigade, yes, it's a second today. Well, I must say, they've got some queer arrangements. Though, of course, it's a broiling day, said the chief of the fire brigade, then turning to the firemen, who is leading the same stallion, he shouted, put him into the corner stall, and as to you, you hound, I'll teach you how to cripple horses which are worth more than you are, you scoundrel. The dead man was taken from the cart by the policeman just in the same way as the first had been, and carried upstairs into the hospital. Neclotov followed them as if he were hypnotized. What do you want, asked one of the policemen, but Neclotov did not answer, and followed where the body was being carried, the madman sitting on a bed with smoking greedily the cigarette Neclotov had given him. Ah, you've come back, he said, and laughed. When he saw the body, he made a face, and said, again, I am sick of it. I am not a boy, am I, eh? And he turned to Neclotov with a questioning smile. Neclotov was looking at a dead man, whose face, which had been hidden by his cap, was now visible. His convict was as handsome in face and body as the other was hideous. He was a man in the full bloom of life, not withstanding that he was disfigured by the half of his head being shaved. The straight, rather low forehead raised a bit over the black, lifeless eyes was very fine, and so though, norce above the thin, black mustaches, there was a smile on the lips that were already growing blue. A small beard outlined the lower part of the face, and on the shaved side of the head, a firm, well-shaped ear was visible. One could see what possibilities of a higher life had been destroyed in this man, the fine bones of his hands, and shackled feet, the strong muscles of all his well-proportioned limbs.  As an animal, merely he had been a far more perfect one of his kind than the base stallion, about the laming of which the fireman was so angry. Yet he had been, done to death, and no one was sorry for him as a man, nor was anyone sorry that so fine a working animal had perished. The only feeling evinced was that of annoyance because of the brother caused by the necessity of getting his body threatening putrefaction out of the way. The doctor and his assistant entered the hospital, accompanied by the inspector of the police station. The doctor was a thick-set man, dressed in pongee silk coat, and trousers of the same material, closely fitting his muscular thighs. The inspector was a little fat fellow with a red face, round as a ball, which he made still broader by habit he had of filling his cheeks with air, and slowly letting it out again, the doctor sat down on the bed by the side of the dead man, and touched the hands in the same way as his assistant had done. Put his ear to the heart, rose, and pulled his trousers straight. Could not be more dead, he said. The inspector filled his mouth with air and slowly blew it out again. Which prison is he from, he asked the convoy soldier. The soldier told him, and reminded him of the chains of the dead man's feet.  We have got a smith about. The Lord be thanked, said the inspector, and blew up his cheeks again. He went towards the door, slowly letting out the air. Why has this happened, that Kledov asked the doctor. The doctor looked at him through his spectacles. Why has that happened?  This is why. They sit all through the winter without exercise and without light, and suddenly they are taken out into the sunshine, and on a day like this, and they march in a crowd so that they get nowhere, and sunstroke is the result. Then why are they sent out? Oh, as to that, go on and ask those who send them. But I may ask who are you? I am a stranger. Ah, well, good afternoon. I have no time. The doctor was vexed. He gave his trousers a downward pull, and went towards the beds of the sick. Well, how are you getting on, he asked the pale man with a croaked mouth and bandaged neck. Meanwhile, the madman sat on a bed, and having finished his cigarette, kept spitting in the direction of the doctor. Kledov went down into the yard, and out of the gate passed the fireman's horses, and the hens, and the sentinel in his brass helmet, and got into the trap, the driver of which had again fallen asleep. End of Book 2, Chapter 37, Recording by Chris Caron, Ham Lake, Minnesota. Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy, translated by Louise Mould. Book 2, Chapter 38, The Convict Train When Nekledov came to the station, the prisoners were all seated in railway carriages with grated windows. Several persons come to see them off, stood on the platform, but were not allowed to come up to the carriages. The convoy was much troubled that day. On the way from the prison to the station, besides the two Nekledov had seen, three other prisoners had fallen, and died of sunstroke. One was taken to the nearest police station, like the first two, and the other two died at the railway station. In Moscow, in the beginning of the eighth decade of this century, five convicts died of sunstroke in one day, on their way from the Buturky prison to the Nijini railway station. The convoy men were not troubled because five men who might have been alive died while in their charge. This did not trouble them, but they were concerned, lest anything that the law required in such cases should be omitted. To convey the bodies to the places appointed, to deliver up their papers, to take them off the list to be conveyed to Nijini, all this was very troublesome, especially on so hot a day. It was this that occupied the convoy men, and before it could all be accomplished, Nekledov and the others, who asked for leave to go up to the carriages, were not allowed to do so. Nekledov, however, was soon allowed to go up, because he tipped the convoy sergeant. The sergeant let Nekledov pass, but asked him to be quick, and get his talk over before any of the authorities noticed. There were fifteen carriages in all, and except one carriage for the officials they were full of prisoners. As Nekledov passed the carriages, he listened to what was going on in them. In all the carriages was heard the clanging of chains, the sound of bustle mixed with loud and senseless language, but not a word was being said about their dead fellow prisoners. The talk was all about sacks, drinking water, and the choice of seats. Looking into one of the carriages, Nekledov saw convoy soldiers taking the manacles off the hands of the prisoners. The prisoners held out their arms, and one of the soldiers unlocked the manacles with a key and took them off, the other collected them. After he had passed all the other carriages, Nekledov came up to the women's carriages.  Nekledov passed this carriage, and went up to a window of the third carriage, which a soldier pointed out to him. When he approached his face to the window he felt the hot air filled with the smell of perspiration coming out of it, and heard distinctly the shrill sound of women's voices. All the seats were filled with red, perspiring, loudly talking women dressed in prison cloaks and white jackets. Nekledov's face at the window attracted their attention. Those nearest ceased talking and drew closer.  The white skinned, smiling Theodosia sat a little nearer. When she recognized Nekledov she nudged Maslova and pointed to the window. Maslova rose hurriedly, threw her kerchief over her black hair, and with her smile on her hot red face came up to the window and took hold of one of the bars. Well, it is hot, she said with a glad smile. Did you get the things? Yes, thank you. Is there anything more you want? Nekledov, while the air came out of the hot carriage, as out of an oven. I want nothing, thank you. If we could get a drink, said Theodosia. Yes, if we could get a drink, repeated Maslova. Why, have you not got any water? They put some in, but it is all gone. Directly, I will ask one of the convoy men. Now, we shall not see each other till we get to Nidshni. Why, are you going? said Maslova, as if she did not know it, and looked joyfully at Nekledov. I am going by the next train. Maslova said nothing, but only sighed deeply. Is it true, sir, that twelve convicts have been done to death? said a severe-looking old prisoner with a deep voice like a man's. It was horrible, Ava. I did not hear of twelve. I have seen two, said Nekledov. They say there were twelve they killed, and will nothing be done to them, only think the fiends. And have none of the women fallen ill, Nekledov asked. Women are stronger, said another of the prisoners, a short little woman, and laughed. Only there is one who has taken it into her head to be delivered. There she goes. She said, pointing to the next carriage, whence preceded the groans. You ask if we want anything, said Maslova, trying to keep the smile of joy from her lips. Could not this woman be left behind, suffering as she is? There now, if you would tell the authorities. Yes, I will. And one thing more. Could she not see her husband, Taras? She added, pointing with her eyes to the smiling Theodosia. He is going with you. Is he not? Sir, you must not talk, said a convoy sergeant, not the one who had let Nekledov come up. Nekledov left the carriage, and went in search of an official to whom he might speak for the woman in travail, and about Taras, but could not find him, nor get an answer from any of the convoy for a long time. They were all in a bustle. Some were leading a prisoner somewhere or other, others running to get themselves provisions. Some were placing their things in the carriages, or attending on a lady who was going to accompany the convoy officer, and they answered Nekledov's questions unwillingly. Nekledov found the convoy officer only after the second bell had been rang. The officer, with his short arm, was wiping the moustaches that covered his mouth and shrugging his shoulders, reproving the corporal for something or other.  He asked Nekledov. You've got a woman there who is being confined, so I thought best—well, let her be confined. We shall see later on. And briskly, swinging his short arms, he ran up to his carriage. At the moment the guard passed with a whistle in his hand, and from the people on the platform and from the women's carriages there arose a sound of weeping and words of prayer. Nekledov stood on the platform by the side of Taras, and looked how, one after the other, the carriages glided past him, with the shaved heads of the men at the grated windows. Then the first of the women's carriages came up, with women's heads at the windows, some covered with kerchiefs and some uncovered. Then the second went and proceeded the same groans, then the carriage where Maslova was.  CHAPTER XXXIII CHAPTER XXXXIII There were still two hours before the passenger train by which Nekledov was going would start. He had thought of using this interval to see his sister again, but after the impressions of the morning he felt much excited, and so done up that, sitting down on the sofa in the first-class refreshment room, he suddenly grew so drowsy that he turned over onto his side, and laying his face on his hand fell asleep at once. A waiter in a dress-coat with a napkin in his hand woke him. "- Sir, sir, are you not Prince Nekledov? There's a lady looking for you." Nekledov started up, and recollected where he was, and all that had happened in the morning. He saw in his imagination the procession of prisoners, the dead bodies, the railway carriages with barred windows, and the women locked up in them, one of whom was groaning in travail with no one to help her, and another who was pathetically smiling at him through the bars. The reality before his eyes was very different, i.e. a table with vases, candlesticks and crockery, and agile waiters moving round the table, and in the background a cupboard and a counter laden with fruit and bottles, behind it a barman, and in front the backs of passengers who had come up for refreshments. When Nekledov had risen and sat gradually collecting his thoughts he noticed that everybody in the room was inquisitively looking at something that was passing by the open doors. He also looked and saw a group of people carrying a chair on which sat a lady whose head was wrapped in a kind of airy fabric. Nekledov thought he knew the footman who was supporting the chair in front, and also the man behind, and a doorkeeper with gold cord on his cap seemed familiar. A lady's maid with a fringe and an apron who was carrying a parcel, a parasol, and something round in a leather case was walking behind the chair.  Behind him Missy, her cousin Misha, and an acquaintance of Nekledov's, the long-neck diplomat Austin, with his protruding Adam's apple, and his unvarying merry mood and expression. He was saying something very emphatically, though jokingly, to the smiling Missy. The Khorchagins were moving from their estate near the city to the estate of the princess's sister on the Nizhny Railway. The procession, the men carrying the chair, the maid, and the doctor, vanished into the lady's waiting-room, evoking a feeling of curiosity and respect in the onlookers. But the old prince remained and sat down at the table, called a waiter and ordered food and drink. Missy and Austin also remained in the refreshment-room, and were about to sit down when they saw an acquaintance in the doorway and went up to her. It was Natalie Rogazinski. Natalie came into the refreshment-room, accompanied by Agrafina Petrovna, and both looked around the room. Natalie noticed, at one and the same moment, both her brother and Missy. She first went up to Missy, only nodding to her brother, but having kissed her, at once turned to him. At last I have found you, she said. Neklodov rose to greet Missy, Misha and Austin, and to say a few words to them. Missy told him about their house in the country having been burnt down, which necessitated them moving to her aunt's. Austin began relating a funny story about a fire. Neklodov paid no attention, and turned to his sister, how glad I am that you have come. I have been here a long time, she said, Agrafina Petrovna is with me. And she pointed to Agrafina Petrovna, who, in a waterproof and with a bonnet on her head, stood some way off, and bowed to him with kindly dignity and some confusion, not wishing to intrude. We looked for you everywhere. And I had fallen asleep here, how glad I am that you have come, repeated Neklodov. I had begun to write to you. Really, she said, looking frightened, what about? Missy and the gentleman, noticing that an intimate conversation was about to commence, between the brother and sister, went away. Neklodov and his sister sat down by the window on a velvet-covered sofa, on which lay a plaid, a box, and a few other things. Yesterday, after I left you, I felt inclined to return and express my regret, but I did not know how he would take it, said Neklodov. I spoke hastily to your husband, and this tormented me. I knew, said his sister, that you did not mean to. Oh, you know! And the tears came to her eyes, and she touched his hand. The sentence was not clear, but he understood it perfectly, and was touched by what it expressed. Her words meant that, besides the love for her husband, which held her in its sway, she prized and considered important the love she had for him, her brother, and that every misunderstanding between them caused her deep suffering. Thank you, thank you, what I have seen to-day, he said, suddenly recalling the second of the dead convicts, two prisoners have been done to-death. Done to-death? How? Yes, done to-death. They led them in this heat, and two died of sunstroke. Impossible! What! To-day! Just now! Yes, just now, I have seen their bodies. But why done to-death? Who killed them? asked Natalie. They, who forced them to go, killed them, said Nekladov, with irritation, feeling that she looked at this, too, with her husband's eyes. Oh, Lord! said Agrofina Protrovna, who had come up to them. Yes, we have not the slightest idea of what is being done to these unfortunate beings, but it ought to be known, added Nekladov, and looked at Olkor Shagin, who sat with a napkin tied round him, and a bottle before him, and who looked round at Nekladov.  It is excellent before a journey. Nekladov refused, and turned away. But what are you going to do? Natalie continued. What I can, I don't know, but I feel I must do something, and I shall do what I am able to. Yes, I understand, and how about them? She continued, with a smile, and a look towards Olkor Shagin. Is it possible that it is all over? Completely, and I think without any regret on either side. It is a pity. I am sorry. I am fond of her. However, it's all right. But why do you wish to bind yourself? She added, shyly. Why are you going? I go, because I must," answered Nekladov, seriously and dryly, as if wishing to stop this conversation. But he felt ashamed of his coldness towards his sister at once. Why not tell her all I am thinking, he thought, and let Agrafina Petrovna also hear it, he thought, with a look at the old servant, whose presence made the wish to repeat his decision to his sister even stronger. You mean my intention to marry Katusha? Well, you see, I made up my mind to do it, but she refuses, definitely and firmly, he said, and his voice shook, as it always did when he spoke of it. She does not wish to accept my sacrifice, but is herself sacrificing what in her position means much, and I cannot accept this sacrifice, if it is only a momentary impulse. And so I am going with her, and shall be where she is, and shall try to lighten her fate as much as I can. Natalie said nothing. Agrafina Petrovna looked at her with a questioning look and shook her head. At this moment the former procession issued from the lady's room, the same handsome footman, Philip, and the doorkeeper were carrying the princess Kurchagin. She stopped the men who were carrying her, and motioned to Nekladov to approach, and with a pitiful, languishing air, she extended her white-ringed hand, expecting the firm pressure of his hand with a sense of horror. « Épouvantable! » she said, meaning the heat, I cannot stand it. « C'est clémer me, too! » And after a short talk about the horrors of the Russian climate, she gave the men a sign to go on. « Be sure and come! » she added, turning her long face towards Nekladov as she was born away. The procession with the princess turned to the right towards the first-class carriages. Nekladov, with the porter who was carrying his things, and Taras with his bag, turned to the left. « This is my companion! » said Nekladov to his sister, pointing to Taras, whose story he had told her before. « Surely not, third-class! » said Natalie, when Nekladov stopped in front of the third-class carriage, and Taras and the porter with the things went in. « Yes, it is more convenient for me to be with Taras, » he said. One more thing he added, up to now I have not given the Kuzminski land to the peasants, so that in case of my death your children will inherit it. « Dimitri don't! » said Natalie. If I do give it away, all I can say is that the rest will be theirs, as it is not likely I shall marry, and if I do marry I shall have no children, so that « Dimitri, don't talk like that! » said Natalie. And yet Nekladov noticed that she was glad to hear him say it. Higher up by the side of her first-class carriage there stood a group of people still looking at the carriage into which the Princess Kurchagin had been carried. Most of the passengers were already seated. Some of the late-comers hurriedly clattered along the boards of the platform. The guard was closing the doors, and asking the passengers to get in, and those who were seeing them off to come out. Nekladov entered the hot, smelling carriage, but at once stepped out again onto the small platform at the back of the carriage. They stood opposite the carriage, with her fashionable bonnet and cape, by the side of Agrofina Petrovna, and was evidently trying to find something to say. She could not even say « Écrévée » because they had long ago laughed at this word, habitually spoken by those about to part. The short conversation about money-matters had in a moment destroyed detender, brotherly and sisterly feelings that had taken hold of them. They felt estranged, so that Natalie was glad when the train moved, and she could only say, nodding her head with a sad and tender look, « Goodbye! Goodbye, Dmitri! » But as soon as the carriage had passed her, she thought of how she should repeat her conversation with her brother to her husband, and her face became serious and troubled. Nekladov too, though he had nothing but the kindest feelings for his sister, and had hidden nothing from her, now felt depressed and uncomfortable with her and was glad to part. He felt that the Natalie, who was once so near to him, no longer existed, and in her place was only a slave of that hairy and pleasant husband who was so foreign to him. He saw it clearly when her face lit up with peculiar animation as he spoke of what would peculiarly interest her husband, i.e., the giving up of the land to the peasants and the inheritance. And this made him sad. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE FUNDAMENTAL LAW OF HUMAN LIFE. The heat in the large third-class carriage, which had been standing in the burning sun all day, was so great that Nekladov did not go in, but stopped on the little platform behind the carriage, which formed a passage to the next one, but there was not a breath of fresh air here either, and Nekladov breathed freely, only when the train had passed the buildings, and the draught blew across the platform. Yes, killed, he repeated to himself, the words he had used to his sister, and in his imagination, in the midst of all other impressions, there arose with wonderful clearness the beautiful face of the second dead convict, with the smile of the lips, the severe expression of the brows, and the small, firm ear below the shaved bluish skull. And what seemed terrible was that he had been murdered, and no one knew who had murdered him. Yet he had been murdered. He was led out like all the rest of the prisoners, by Maslenikov's orders.  Real less were the careful doctor who examined the convicts consider himself guilty. He had performed his duty accurately, and had separated the weak. How could he have foreseen this terrible heat, or the fact that they would start so late in the day, and in such crowds? The prison inspector? But the inspector had only carried into execution the order that on a given day a certain number of exiles and convicts, men and women, had to be sent off. The convoy officer could not be guilty either, for his business was to receive a certain number of persons in a certain place, and to deliver up the same number. He conducted them in the usual manner, and could not foresee that two such strong men as those Nekolovs all would not be able to stand it and would die. No one is guilty, and yet the men have been murdered by these people who are not guilty of their murder. All this comes, Nekolov thought, from the fact that all these people, governors, inspectors, police officers, and men, consider that there are circumstances in which human relations are not necessary between human beings. All these men, Musslenikov and the inspector, and the convoy officer, if they were not governor-inspector officer, would have considered twenty times before sending people in such heat, in such a mass, would have stopped twenty times on the way, and seeing that a man was growing weak, gasping for breath, would have led him into the shade, would have given him water, and let him rest. And if an accident had still occurred, they would have expressed pity. But they not only did not do it, but hindered others from doing it, as they considered not men and their duty toward them, but only the office they themselves filled, and held what that office demanded of them to be above human relations. That's what it is, Nekolov went on in his thoughts, if one acknowledges, but for a single hour, that anything could be more important than love for one's fellow men, even in some one exceptional case, any crime can be committed without a feeling of guilt. Nekolov was so engrossed by his thoughts, that he did not notice how the weather changed. The sun was covered over by a low-hanging ragged cloud. A compact, light-gray cloud was rapidly coming from the west, and was already falling, in heavy driving rain on the fields and woods far in the distance, moisture coming from the cloud mixed with the air. Now and then the cloud was rent by flashes of lightning and peals of thunder mingled more and more often with the rattling of the train. The cloud came nearer and nearer. The raindrops, driven by the wind, began to spot the platform and Nekolov's coat, and he stepped to the other side of the little platform, and inhaling the fresh moist air, filled with the smell of corn and wet earth, that had long been waiting for rain. He stood looking at the gardens, the woods, the yellow rye fields, the green outfields, the dark green strips of potatoes in bloom, that glided past. Everything looked as if covered over with varnish. The green turned greener, the yellow, the yellower, the black, blacker. More and more, said Nekolov, gladdened by the sight of gardens and fields revived by the beneficent shower. The shower did not last long. Part of the cloud had come down in rain. Part passed over, and the last fine drops fell straight onto the earth. The sun reappeared. Everything began to glisten, and in the east, not very high above the horizon, appeared a bright rainbow, with the violet tint very distinct and broken only at one end. Why, what was I thinking about, Nekolov asked himself, when all these changes in nature were over, and the train ran into cutting between two high banks. Oh, I was thinking that all those people, inspector, convoy men, all those in the service, are for the greater part kind people, cruel only because they are serving. He recalled Maslennikov's indifference when he told him about what was being done in the prison. The inspector's severity, the cruelty of the convoy officer, when he refused places on the carts to those who asked for them, and paid no attention to the fact that there was a woman in travail in the train. All these people were evidently invulnerable and impregnable to the simplest feelings of compassion, only because they held offices. As officials they were impermeable to the feelings of humanity, as this paved ground is impermeable to the rain. Thus thought Nekolov, as he looked at the railway embankment, with stones of different colours, down which the water was running in streams instead of soaking into the earth. Perhaps it is necessary to pave the banks with stones, but it is sad to look at the ground which might be yielding corn, grass, bushes, or trees in the same way as the ground visible up there is doing. Deprived of vegetation, and so it is with men, thought Nekolov. Perhaps these governors, inspectors, policemen are needed, but it is terrible to see men deprived of the chief human attribute, that of love and sympathy for one another. The thing is, he continued, that these people consider lawful what is not lawful, and do not consider the eternal immutable law written in the hearts of men by God as law. That is why I feel so depressed when I am with these people. I am simply afraid of them. And really they are terrible, more terrible than robbers. A robber might after all feel pity, but they can feel no pity. They are enured against pity as these stones are against vegetation. That is what makes them terrible. It is said that the Pugachev's, the Razine's, leaders of rebellions in Russia, Stonkharazine in the 17th and Pugachev in the 18th century, are terrible. These are a thousand times more terrible, he continued in his thoughts. If a psychological problem were set to find means of making men of our time, Christian, humane, simple kind people, perform the most horrible crimes without feeling guilty, only one solution could be defied, to go on doing what is being done. It is only necessary that these people should be governors, inspectors, policemen, that they should be fully convinced that there is a kind of business called government service, which allows men to treat other men as things, without human brotherly relations with them, and also that these people should be so linked together by this government service that the responsibility for the results of their actions should not fall on any one of them separately. Without these conditions the terrible acts I witness today would be impossible in our times. It all lies in the fact that men think there are circumstances in which one may deal with human beings without love, and there are no such circumstances. One may deal with things without love, one may cut down trees, make bricks, hammer iron without love, but you cannot deal with men without it, just as one cannot deal with bees without being careful. If you deal carelessly with bees you will injure them and will yourself be injured, and so with men it cannot be otherwise. Because natural love is the fundamental law of human life. It is true that a man cannot force another to love him, as he can force him to work for him, but it does not follow that a man may deal with men without love, especially to demand anything from them. If you feel no love sit still, Necladov thought, occupy yourself with things, with yourself, with anything you like, only not with men. You can only eat without injuring yourself when you feel inclined to eat, so you can only deal with men usefully when you love. Only let yourself deal with a man without love as I did yesterday with my brother-in-law, and there are no limits to the suffering you will bring on yourself, as all my life proves. Yes, yes, it is so, thought Necladov, it is good, yes, it is good, he repeated, enjoying the freshness after the torturing heat, and conscious of having attained to the fullest clearness on a question that had long occupied him. Chapter 40 Book II. Chapter 41. 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 II. Chapter 41. TERRASSES STORY. The carriage in which Necladov had taken his place was half filled with people. There were in it servants, working men, factory hands, butchers, Jews, shopmen, workmen's wives, a soldier, two ladies, a young one and an old one, with bracelets on her arm, and a severe-looking gentleman with a cockade on his black cap. All these people were sitting quietly. The bustle of taking their places was long over. Some sat cracking and eating sunflower seeds, some smoking, some talking. Terrass sat, looking very happy, opposite the door, keeping a place for Necladov, and carrying on an animated conversation with a man in a cloth coat, who sat opposite to him, and who was, as Necladov afterwards found out, a gardener going to a new situation. Before reaching the place where Terrass sat, Necladov stopped between the seats, near a reverent-looking old man with a white beard, and nankine coat, who was talking with a young woman in peasant dress. A little girl of about seven, dressed in a new peasant costume, sat, her little legs dangling above the floor, by the side of the women, and kept cracking seeds. The old man turned round, and seeing Necladov, he moved the lapets of his coat off the varnish-sheet next to him, and said, in a friendly manner, Please, here's a seat. Necladov thanked him and took the seat. As soon as he was seated, the woman continued the interrupted conversation. She was returning to her village, and related to how her husband, whom she had been visiting, had received her in town. I was there during the carnival, and now, by the Lord's help, I've been again, she said. Then God willing, at Christmas I'll go again. That's right, said the old man, with a look at Necladov. It's the best way to go and see him, else a young man can easily go to the bad, living in a town. Oh, no, sir, mine is not such a man. No nonsense of any kind about him. His life is as good as a young maiden's. The money he earns he sends home, all to a co-peck. And as to our girl here, he was so glad to see her. There were no words for it, said the woman, and smiled.  Well, if he's good, that's better still, said the old man. And none of that sort of thing, he added, with a look at a couple, evidently factory hands, who sat at the other side of the carriage. The husband, with his head thrown back, was pouring vodka down his throat out of a bottle, and the wife sat holding a bag, out of which they had taken the bottle, and washed him intently. No, mine neither drinks nor smokes, said the woman, who was conversing with the old man, glad of the opportunity of praising her husband once more. No, sir, the earth does not hold many such, and, turning to Necladov, she added, that's the sort of man he is. What could be better, said the old man, looking at the factory worker, who had had his drink, and had passed the bottle to his wife. The wife laughed, shook her head, and also raised the bottle to her lips. Noticing Necladov's and the old man's look directed towards them, the factory worker addressed the former. What is it, sir, that we are drinking? Ah, no one sees how we work, but everyone sees how we drink. I have earned it, and I am drinking, and treating my wife and no one else. Yes, yes, said Necladov, not knowing what to say. True, sir, my wife is a steady woman. I am satisfied with my wife, because she can feel for me. Is it right what I am saying, Mavra? There you are. Take it. I don't want any more, said the wife, returning the bottle to him. And what do you join for like that, she added. There now. She's good. That good. And suddenly she'll begin squeaking like a wheel that's not greased. Mavra, is it right what I am saying? Mavra laughed and moved her hand with a tipsy gesture. Oh, my! He's at it again. There now. She's that good. That good. But let her get her tail over the reins, and you can't think what she'll be up to. Is it right what I am saying? You must excuse me, sir. I've had a drop. What's to be done? said the factory worker, and, preparing to go to sleep, put his head in his wife's lap. Necladov sat a while with the old man, who told him all about himself. The old man was a stove-builder, who had been working for fifty-three years, and had built so many stoves that he had lost count. And now he wanted to rest, but had no time. He had been to town and found employment for the young ones, and was now going to the country to see the people at home. After hearing the old man's story, Necladov went to the place that Tarras was keeping for him. It's all right, sir. Sit down. We'll put the bag here, said the gardener, who sat opposite Tarras, in a friendly tone, looking up into Necladov's face. Rather a tight fit, but no matter since we are friends at Tarras, smiling and lifting the bag, which weighed more than five stone, as if it were a feather, he carried it across to the window. Plenty of room. Besides we might stand up a bit, and even under the seat it's as comfortable as you could wish. Much the good of humbogging, he said, beaming with friendliness and kindness. Tarras spoke of himself as being unable to utter a word when quite sober, but drink, he said, helped him to find the right words, and then he could express everything. And in reality, when he was sober, Tarras kept silent. But when he had been drinking, which happened rarely, and only on special occasions, he became very pleasantly talkative. Then he spoke a great deal, spoke well, and very simply and truthfully, and especially with great kindness, which shone in his gentle blue eyes, and in the friendly smile that never left his lips. He was in such a state today, Necladov's approach interrupted the conversation. But when he had put the bag in its place, Tarras sat down again, and with his strong hands folded in his lap, and looking straight into the gardener's face continued his story. He was telling his new acquaintance about his wife and giving every detail, what she was being sent to Siberia for, and why he was now following her. Necladov had never heard a detailed account of this affair, and so he listened with interest. When he came up, the story had reached the point where the attempt to poison was already an accomplished fact, and the family had discovered that it was Theodosia's doing. It's about my troubles that I'm talking," said Tarras, addressing Necladov with cordial friendliness. I have a chance to come across such a hearty man, and we've got into conversation, and I'm telling him all. I see," said Necladov. Well then, in this way, my friend, the business became known. Mother she takes that cake. I am going, she says, to the police officer. My father is a just old man. Wait, wife, says he. The little woman is a mere child, and did not herself know what she was doing. We must have pity. She may come to her senses. Dear me, mother would not hear of it. While we keep her here, she says, she may destroy us all like cockroaches. Well friend, so she goes off to the police officer. He bounces in upon us at once, calls for witnesses. Well, and you, as the gardener? Well I, you see friend, roll about with a pain in my stomach and vomit. All my inside is turned inside out. I can't even speak. Well so farther he goes and harnesses the mere, and puts Theodosia into the cart, and is off to the police station, and then to the magistrates. And she, you know, just as she had done from the first, so also there, confesses all to the magistrate, where she got the arsenic, and how she kneaded the cake. Why did you do it, says he. Why say she? Because he's hateful to me. I prefer Siberia to a life with him. That's me, and Tarris smiles. Well so she confessed all. Then naturally the prison and father returns alone, and harvest time just coming, and mother the only woman at home, and she no longer strung. So we think what we are to do. Could we not bail her out? So farther went to see an official. No go, than another. I think he went to five of them, and we thought of giving it up. Then we happened to come across a clerk. Such an art for one, as you don't often find. You give me five rubles, and I'll get her out, says he. We agreed to do it for three. Well, and what do you think, friend? I went and poured the linen she herself had woven, and gave him the money. As soon as he had written that paper, drawled out Tarris, just as he was speaking of a shot being fired, we succeeded at once. I went to fetch her myself. Well, friend, so I got to town, put up the mare, took the paper, and went to the prison. What do you want? This is what I want, say I. You've got my wife here in prison, and have you got a paper? I gave him the paper. He gave it a look. Wait, says he. So I sat down on a bench. It was already past noon by the sun. An official comes out. You are Vagusoth? I am. Well, you may take her. The gates opened, and they laid her out in her own clothes, quite all right. Well, come along.  No, I have a horse here. So I went and paid the osla, and harnessed, put in all the hay that was left, and covered it with sacking for her to sit on. She got in and wrapped her shawl round her, and off we drove. She says nothing, and I say nothing, just as we were coming up to the house, she says. And house mother, is she alive? Yes, she's alive. And father, is he alive? Yes, he is. Forgive me, terrace, she says, for my folly. I did not myself know what I was doing. So I say, words won't men matters. I have forgiven you long ago, and I said no more. We got home, and she just fell at mother's feet. Mother says, the Lord will forgive you. And father said, how do you do? And what's past is past. Live as best you can. Now says he. Is not the time for all that. There's the harvest to be gathered in, down in Scorodino, he says. Down on the manure naked, by the Lord's help, the ground has borne such rye that the sickle can't tackle it. It's all interwoven and heavy, and has sunk beneath its weight. That must be reaped. You and terrace had better go and see to it tomorrow. Well, friend, from that moment she took to the work, and worked so that everyone wondered. At that time we rented three desiatins, and by God's help we had a wonderful crop, both of oats and rye. I mow and she binds the sheaves, and sometimes we both of us reap. I am good at work and not afraid of it, but she's better still at whatever she takes up.  We get home, our fingers swollen, our arms aching, and she, instead of resting, rushes off to the barn to make binders for the sheaves for next day. Such a change. Well, and to you, was she kinder now, as the gardener? That's beyond question. She clings to me as if we were one soul. Whatever I think she understands, even mother, angry as she was, could not help saying. It's as if our Theodosia had been transformed. She's quite a different woman now. We were once going to cart the sheaves with two carts. She and I were in the first, and I say, how could you think of doing that, Theodosia? And she says, how could I think of it? Just so. I did not wish to live with you. I thought I'd rather die than live with you. I say, and now. And she says, now you're in my heart.  Hardly had we got the harvest home when I went to soak the hemp, and when I got home there was a summons. She must go to be tried, and we had forgotten all about the matter that she was to be tried for. It can only be the evil ones of the gardener. Could any man have himself think of destroying a living soul? We had a fellow once, and the gardener was about to commence his tale when the train began to stop. It seems we are coming to a station, he said. I'll go and have a drink. The conversation stopped, and Neklodov followed the gardener out of the carriage, onto the wet platform of the station. End of Book 2, Chapter 41. Book 2, Chapter 42 of Resurrection. This is a LibriVox recording, or LibriVox recordings from 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 2, Chapter 42. Lovre Grand Monde. Before Neklodov got out, he had noticed in the station yard several elegant equipages, some with three, some with four, well-fed horses, with tinkling bells on their harness. When he stepped out on the wet, dark-coloured boards of the platform, he saw a group of people in front of the first-class carriage, among whom were conspicuous, a stout lady with costly feathers on her hat, and a waterproof, and a tall, thin-legged young man in a cycling suit. The young man had by his side an enormous, well-fed dog with a valuable collar. Behind them stood footmen, holding wraps and umbrellas, and a coachman who had also come to meet the train. On the whole of the group, from the fat lady down to the coachman who stood holding up his lung coat, there lay the stamp of wealth and quiet self-assurance. A curious and servile crowd rapidly gathered round this group. The station master in his red cap, a Jean-Dame, a thin young lady in a Russian costume with beads round her neck, who made a point of seeing the trains come in all through the summer, a telegraph clock, and passengers, men and women. In the young man with a dog, Neklodov recognised young Kochagin, a gymnasium student. The fat lady was the princess's sister to whose estate the Kochagins were now moving. The guard with his gold cord and shiny top boots opened the carriage door and stood holding it as a sign of deference, while Philip and a porter with a white apron carefully carried out the long-faced princess in her folding chair. The sisters greeted each other and French sentences began flying about. Would the princess go in a closed or an open carriage? At last the procession started towards the exit. The lady's maid, with her curly fringe, parasol and leather case in the rear. Neklodov not wishing to meet them and to have to take leave over again, stopped before he got to the door, waiting for the procession to pass. The princess, her son Missy, the doctor and the maid went out first. The old prince and his sister-in-law remained behind. Neklodov was too far to catch anything but a few disconnected French sentences of their conversation. One of the sentences uttered by the prince, as it often happens, for some unaccountable reason, remained in his memory with all its intonations and the sound of the voice. Oh, il est du vrai grand monde, du vrai grand monde, said the prince in his loud self-assured tone as he went out of the station with his sister-in-law, accompanied by the respectful guards and porters. At this moment, from behind the corner of the station, suddenly appeared a crowd of workmen in bark shoes, wearing sheepskin coats and carrying bags on their backs. The workmen went up to the nearest carriage with soft yet determined steps and were about to get in but were at once driven away by a guard. Without stopping, the workmen passed on, hurrying and jostling one another to the next carriage and began getting in, catching their bags against the corners and door of the carriage, but another guard caught sight of them from the door of the station and shouted at them severely. The workmen, who had already got in, hurried out again and went on with the same soft and firm steps, still further towards Neklodov's carriage. A guard was again going to stop them, but Neklodov said there was plenty of room inside and that they had better get in. They obeyed and got in, followed by Neklodov. The workmen were about to take their seats when the gentleman with the cockade and the two ladies, looking at this attempt to settle in their carriage as a personal insult to themselves, indignantly protested and wanted to turn them out. The workmen, there were twenty of them, old men and quite young ones, all of them wearied sunburnt with haggard faces, began at once to move on through the carriage, catching the seats, the walls and the doors with their bags. They evidently felt they had offended in some way and seemed ready to go on indefinitely wherever they were ordered to go. Where are you pushing to, you fiends? Sit down here, shouted another guard they met. Voila, encore de Novel, exclaimed the younger of the two ladies, quite convinced that she would attract Neklodov's notice by her good French. The other lady with the bracelets kept sniffing and making faces and remarked something about how pleasant it was to sit with smelly peasants. The workmen who had felt the joy and calm experienced by people who have escaped some kind of danger threw off their heavy bags with a movement of their shoulders and stowed them under the seats. The gardener had left his own seat to talk with Terrace and now went back so that there were two unoccupied seats opposite and one next to Terrace. Three of the workmen took these seats but when Neklodov came up to them in his gentlemen's clothing, they got so confused that they rose to go away but Neklodov asked them to stay and himself sat down on the arm of the seat by the passage down the middle of the carriage. One of the workmen, a man of about fifty, exchanged a surprise and even frightened look with a young man that Neklodov, instead of scolding and driving them away, as was natural to a gentleman, should give up his seat to them, astonished and perplexed them. They even feared that this might have some evil result for them. However, they soon noticed that there was no underlying plot when they heard Neklodov talking quite simply with Terrace and they grew quiet and told one of the lads to sit down on his bag and give his seat to Neklodov. At first the elderly workman who sat opposite Neklodov shrank and drew back his legs for fear of touching the gentleman but after a while he grew quite friendly and in talking to him and Terrace even slapped Neklodov on the knee when he wanted to draw special attention to what he was saying. He told them all about his position and his work in the peat-bugs whence he was now returning home. He had been working there for two and a half months and was bringing home his wages which only came to ten roubles since part had been paid beforehand when he was hired. They worked, as he explained, off to their knees in water from sunrise to sunset with two hours interval for dinner. Those who are not used to it find it hard, of course, he said. But when once hardened it doesn't matter if only the food is right. At first the food was bad. Later the people complained and they got good food and it was easy to work. Then he told them how during twenty-eight years he went out to work and sent all his earnings home. First to his father, then to his eldest brother and now to his nephew who was at the head of the household. On himself he spent only two or three roubles out of the fifty or sixty year and in a year just for luxuries, tobacco and matches. I'm a sinner. When tired I even drink a little vodka sometimes. He added with a guilty smile. Then he told them how the women did the work at home and how the contractor had treated them to half a pail of vodka before they started to-day, how one of them had died and another was returning home ill. The sick workman he was talking about was in a corner of the same carriage. He was a young lad with a pale, sallow face and bluish lips. He was evidently tormented by intimate and fever. Neckladoff went up to him, but the lad looked up with such a severe and suffering expression that Neckladoff did not care to bother him with questions, but advised the elder man to give him quinine and wrote down the name of the medicine. He wished to give him some money, but the old workman said he would pay for it himself. Well, much as I have travelled I have never met such a gentleman before.  It seems there are all sorts of gentle folk too. Yes, this is quite a new and different world, thought Neckladoff, looking at these spare, sinewy limbs, coarse, homemade garments, and sunburnt, kindly, though weary-looking faces, and fitting himself surrounded on all sides with new people and the serious interests, joys and sufferings of a life of labour. Here is Le Vray Grand Monde, thought Neckladoff, remembering the words of Prince Carchargin, and all that idle, luxurious world to which the Carchargin's belonged, with their petty mean interests, and he felt the joy of a traveller on discovering a new, unknown, and beautiful world. End of Book 2, Chapter 42 End of Book 2 of Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy Translated by Louise Maud