57

THE next day Nekhlyudov went to his lawyer and told him about the Menshovs, requesting him to undertake their defence, too. The lawyer, after hearing all he had to say, promised to look into the case and if it turned out to be as Nekhlyudov said, which was very probable, to undertake their defence without a fee. Nekhlyudov also told him about the hundred and thirty men being held in prison through a misunderstanding, and asked him who was responsible, who was to blame. The lawyer was silent for a moment, evidently anxious to give a correct answer.

‘Whose fault? No one’s,’ he said decidedly. ‘Ask the public prosecutor, he’ll say it’s the governor’s fault; ask the governor, he’ll blame the public prosecutor. No one is to blame.’

‘I am on my way to see Maslennikov. I will tell him.’

‘Oh, that’s no good,’ said the lawyer with a smile. ‘He is such a – not a relation or a friend of yours, is he? – such a blackguard, if I may say so, and at the same time a cunning brute!’

Recalling what Maslennikov had said about the lawyer, Nekhlyudov did not reply, and taking his leave drove to Maslennikov’s. He had two requests to make: he wanted Maslova transferred to the prison hospital and redress for the hundred and thirty men without identity papers. It went very much against the grain to ask favours of a man whom he did not respect, but there was no other way and he must go through with it.

As he drew near the house Nekhlyudov saw various carriages by the front door and remembered that it was Madame Maslennikov’s at home day, to which he had been invited. As he drove up there was a barouche at the entrance, and a footman in livery with a cockade in his hat was helping a lady from the step of the porch into the carriage. She was holding up the train of her gown and showing her slippered feet and thin ankles in black stockings. Among the waiting carriages he recognized the Korchagins’ closed landau. Their grey-haired, ruddy-faced coachman took off his hat and bowed in a respectful and friendly manner, as to a gentleman he knew well. Before Nekhlyudov had time to ask the doorkeeper for Mikhail Ivanovich (Maslennikov), Maslennikov himself appeared on the carpeted stairs, escorting a very important guest not only to the first landing but all the way down. This very important visitor, a military man, was talking in French about a lottery for the benefit of some children’s homes which were being founded in the city, and expressing his opinion that this was a good occupation for the ladies. ‘It amuses them, and brings in the money.

‘Qu’elles s’amusent et que le hon Dieu les bénisse…’¹ Ah, Nekhlyudov, how are you? Where do you hide yourself nowadays?’ he greeted Nekhlyudov. ‘Allez présenter vos devoirs à madame.² The Korchagins are here, too. And Nadine Bukshevden. Toutes les jolies femmes de la ville’³ he said, slightly hunching his uniformed shoulders as his own footman in magnificent gold-braided livery helped him on with his greatcoat. ‘Au revoir, mon cher!’ And he pressed Maslennikov’s hand again.

‘Now let us go up. I am so glad to see you,’ said Maslennikov enthusiastically, taking Nekhlyudov by the arm and, in spite of his own bulk, hurrying him quickly up the stairs.

Maslennikov was in extremely good spirits as the result of the attention bestowed on him by the important personage. Maslennikov ought to have been used by now to meeting the Imperial family, but obviously the commonplace thrives on repetition and every such attention produced in Maslennikov the same rapture that an affectionate little dog feels whenever his master strokes it, pats it on the head or scratches it behind the ear. The dog wags its tail, crouches on the ground, wriggles, lays back its ears and rushes madly round in circles. Maslennikov was ready to do the same. He did not notice the serious expression on Nekhlyudov’s face, did not listen to him and impetuously dragged him along to the drawing-room, so that Nekhlyudov could not but follow.

‘We’ll talk business later. I will do anything in the world for you,’ said Maslennikov as they were crossing the ballroom. ‘Announce Prince Nekhlyudov,’ he told a footman, without stopping. The footman ambled off ahead of them. ‘Vous n’avez qu’à ordonner.¹ But first you absolutely must see my wife. I got into trouble last time for not bringing you in.’

By the time they reached the drawing-room the footman had already announced Nekhlyudov, and Anna Ignatyevna, the deputy-governor’s lady (Madame la générale, as she styled herself) turned a beaming smile on him from behind the heads and bonnets that surrounded her sofa. At the other end of the drawing-room several ladies were seated at a tea-table, while men, some in military, some in civil attire, stood round them. The hubbub of men’s and women’s voices never slackened.

‘Enfin!² We thought you had quite forgotten us. How have we offended?’ With these words, suggesting an intimacy between them which had never existed, Anna Ignatyevna greeted Nekhlyudov.

‘Do you know each other? Have you met? Madame Byelyavskaya, Mikhail Ivanovich Chernov. Come and sit near us. Missy, venez donc à notre table. On vous apportera votre thé,….³ And you, too,’ she said to an officer who was talking to Missy, having apparently forgotten his name, ‘please come over here…. A cup of tea, prince?’

‘No, I shall never agree with you, never: she simply did not love him,’ a feminine voice was heard to say.

‘But she did love cakes.’

‘Oh, you and your silly jokes!’ laughingly put in another lady, resplendent in silks, gold and jewels, and a tall bonnet.

‘C’est excellent, this wafer biscuit, and it’s so light. I’d like another.’

‘Are you leaving soon?’

‘Yes, today is our last day. That’s why we are here.’

‘Such a delightful spring, it must be lovely now in the country.’

Missy looked beautiful in a hat and a sort of dark striped gown that fitted her slender waist like a glove – she might have been born in it. She blushed when she saw Nekhlyudov.

‘Why, I thought you had gone,’ she said to him.

‘I should have gone,’ he replied, ‘but business detained me. I am really here on business today.’

‘Do go and see mamma. She would be so pleased,’ she said, and knowing that it was not true, and that he knew it wasn’t, she blushed still more.

‘I shall hardly have time,’ replied Nekhlyudov sullenly, trying to appear as if he had not noticed her blushing.

Missy frowned angrily, shrugged her shoulders and turned to an elegant young officer who seized the empty cup from her hands and manfully carried it across the room to another table, his sword knocking against every chair on the way.

‘You, too, must contribute something towards the orphanage.’

‘I am not refusing, but I want to keep all my largess for the lottery. There I shall show up in all my glory.’

‘Well, see that you do!’ exclaimed a voice, followed by a noticeably artificial laugh.

Her at home was being a brilliant success and Anna Ignatyevna was beside herself with delight.

‘Mika tells me that you are interested in prison work. I understand you so well,’ she said to Nekhlyudov. ‘Mika’ (this was her fat husband) ‘may have his faults, but you know how kind-hearted he is. All those unfortunate prisoners – they’re his children That is exactly the way he feels about them. Il est d’une bonté…’¹

She stopped, finding no words to do justice to the bonté of her husband, by whose orders men were flogged, and immediately turned with a smile to welcome a wrinkled old woman in lilac ribbons, who was just coming in.

When he had made as many remarks as were necessary, and had as little meaning as was necessary in order not to flout the conventions, Nekhlyudov rose and walked over to Maslennikov.

‘Can you give me a few minutes now?’

‘Oh yes, of course. What is it? Let us go in here.’

They entered a small room furnished in Japanese style, and sat down by the window.