49

‘SO this is what it means – this,’ thought Nekhlyudov as he left the prison, only now fully understanding his crime. Had he not tried to expiate, to atone for his guilt he would never have felt the extent of his crime; moreover, neither would she have become conscious of just how much she had been wronged. Only now was all the horror of it made plain. Only now did he see what he had done to the soul of this woman; only now did she see and realize what had been done to her. Up to now Nekhlyudov had been dallying with his feelings of remorse, delighting in himself: now he was quite simply filled with horror. To cast her off – that, he felt, he could never do now, and yet he could not imagine what would come of his relations to her.

As he was leaving the prison a warder with crosses and medals on his breast approached him and with an air of mystery handed him a note. He had a disagreeable ingratiating face.

‘Here is a note from a certain person, your excellency,’ he said, giving Nekhlyudov an envelope.

‘What person?’

‘Read it, and you will see. A woman political prisoner. I am in charge of her ward, so she asked me. And though it’s against the regulations, still, feelings of humanity…’ The gaoler spoke in an unnatural manner.

Nekhlyudov was surprised that a gaoler of the ward where the political prisoners were kept should pass notes, inside the very prison walls and almost within sight of everyone; he did not know then that the man was both a gaoler and a spy, but he took the note and read it as he came out of the prison. The note was written in pencil, in a bold hand, in the new orthography, and ran as follows:

Having heard that you visit the prison and are interested in one of the convicts, I thought I should like to talk to you. Ask for a permit to see me. It will be granted to you, and I can tell you much of importance both for your protégée and our group.

Yours gratefully,

Vera Bogodoukhovskaya.

Vera Bogodoukhovskaya had been a teacher in an out-of-the-way part of the province of Novgorod, where Nekhlyudov and some friends of his had once gone bear-hunting. She had come to him to ask if he would give her some money so that she could attend a course of studies. Nekhlyudov gave her money and forgot about her. Now it appeared that the lady was a political offender and in prison, where, no doubt, she had heard about him, and was now offering her services. How simple and easy everything had been then. And how difficult and complicated it all was now. Nekhlyudov vividly and with pleasure recalled the old days and his acquaintance with Bogodoukhovskaya. It was just before Lent, in a remote spot about forty miles from the railway. The hunt had been successful – they had killed two bears and were having dinner before starting back, when the owner of the cottage in which they were stopping came in to say that the deacon’s daughter wanted to speak to Prince Nekhlyudov.

‘Is she pretty?’ somebody asked.

‘That will do!’ said Nekhlyudov, putting on a serious look and rising from the table, wiping his mouth and wondering what the deacon’s daughter could want with him, as he went into the landlord’s private hut.

There he found a girl in a felt hat and a warm cloak – a wiry girl with a thin plain face in which only the eyes with their arched brows were beautiful.

‘Here, miss, you can speak to him now,’ said the old woman of the hut. ‘It’s the prince himself. I’ll leave you with him.’

‘What can I do for you?’ Nekhlyudov asked.

‘I… I…. You see, you are a rich man, you squander money on trifles, on hunting, I know,’ the girl began, in great embarrassment, ‘and I have only one desire in the world – I want to be of use to people, and I can do nothing because I am ignorant.’

Her eyes were so truthful, so kind, and her whole expression, which was both resolute and yet shy, was so touching that Nekhlyudov, as often happened with him, suddenly put himself in her place, and understood and felt sorry for her.

‘What can I do?’

‘I am a schoolteacher, but I should like to take a university course, and they won’t take me. That is to say, they would take me, but I have no money. Give me the money, and I will pay you back when I have finished the course. I think it’s wrong that rich people bait bears and give the peasants drink. Why shouldn’t they do some good? I only need eighty roubles. But if you don’t want to, I don’t care,’ she added angrily.

‘On the contrary, I am very much obliged to you for the opportunity…. I will bring it this minute,’ said Nekhlyudov.

He went out into the passage and there met one of his companions who had overheard the conversation. Paying no heed to his comrades’ chaffing, he took the money out of his pouch and brought it to her.

‘Oh, please, do not thank me: it is I who should be thanking you.’

It was pleasant for Nekhlyudov to remember all this now: pleasant to remember how he had nearly had a quarrel with an officer who tried to make the whole thing an objectionable joke; how another of his comrades had taken his part and how that had led to a closer friendship between them; how successful and happy the whole expedition had been, and how content he had felt as they returned by night to the railway-station. The line of two-horse sleighs glided swiftly and silently along the narrow road through the forest, fringed here with tall pine-trees, there with low firs, all weighed down by the snow caked in heavy lumps on their branches. There is a red glow in the dark as someone lights a fragrant cigarette. Ossip, the game-keeper, runs from sledge to sledge, up to his knees in snow, arranging a strap here, a rug there, and telling them about the elks now going about in the deep snow and gnawing the bark off the aspen-trees, and about bears lying asleep in their hidden dens, their warm breath puffing out from the air-holes.

Nekhlyudov remembered all this, but more than anything else he remembered the blissful awareness of his own health and strength, and freedom from care. His lungs breathe in the frosty air so deeply that his sheepskin coat is drawn tight across his chest; the fine snow spatters down on to his face every time the shaft-bow touches the branches overhead; his body feels warm, his face fresh, and his soul knows neither care, nor regret, nor fear, nor desires. What a good time it was! And now? O God, what torment, what trouble!…

Evidently Vera Bogodoukhovskaya was a revolutionary, and now in prison for her activities. He must see her, especially as she promised to advise him how to make things easier for Maslova.