8

WHEN Nekhlyudov returned he found in the office which had been arranged as a bedroom for him a high bedstead with a feather bed, two pillows and a large coverlet of crimson silk, elaborately quilted and very stiff – borrowed no doubt from the trousseau of the bailiff’s wife. The bailiff” offered Nekhlyudov what had been left over from dinner and, when Nekhlyudov declined, apologized for the poor hospitality and uncomfortable quarters, and went away, leaving Nekhlyudov to himself.

The peasants’ rejection of his offer had not upset Nekhlyudov. On the contrary, although at Kuzminskoye it had been accepted gratefully, whereas here it had met with suspicion and even hostility, he felt calm and happy. It was stuffy in the office and not very clean. Nekhlyudov went outside and was making for the garden when he remembered that other night, the window in the maids’ room, and the porch at the back of the house – and he did not like the idea of strolling about in places defiled by guilty memories. He sat down again on a seat in the front porch and, breathing in the warm air heavy with the sharp scent of young birch leaves, remained for a long time looking into the dark garden and listening to the mill-wheel, the nightingales and some other bird that whistled monotonously in a bush close by. The light disappeared from the bailiff’s window; over in the east, beyond the barn, appeared the first glow of the rising moon; summer lightning flashed brighter and brighter, lighting up the lush, blooming garden and the dilapidated house; there was a distant roll of thunder, and a black cloud overspread a third of the sky. The nightingales and the other birds were silent. The cackling of geese sounded above the noise of the mill waters, and then the first cocks in the village began to call to their fellows in the bailiff’s yard, crowing early, as cocks generally do on hot thundery nights. There is a saying that cocks crow early on a gay night. This was more than a gay night for Nekhlyudov – it was a joyous, happy night. His imagination took him back to the happy summer he had spent in this place as an innocent youth, and he felt now that he was again the sort of person he had been – not only then but at all the best moments of his life. He did not just remember but actually felt like the boy of fourteen praying to God to reveal His truth; again he was the child who had cried in his mother’s lap when they had to part, promising always to be good and never grieve her; he felt as he had felt in the days when he and Nikolenka Irtenyev made resolutions to help each other to lead good lives and try to make everybody happy.

He thought how at Kuzminskoye he was tempted to regret the house, the forest, the estate, the land, and he asked himself whether he still regretted them – but it seemed strange now that he could ever have felt any regret. He went over everything he had seen that day: the woman with the children whose husband was in prison for cutting down trees in his, Nekhlyudov’s, forest, and that horrible creature, Matriona, who thought (or at least talked as if she thought) that the best thing for women of their class was to become a gentleman’s paramour; he recalled her attitude about babies and the way they were hurried off to the Foundling Hospital; and that wretched, wizened, smiling little mite in the patchwork cap, dying of starvation. He recalled the tired pregnant woman obliged to work for him because, overburdened as she was, she had not kept an eye on her hungry cow. And then he suddenly remembered the prison – the shaven heads, the cells, the disgusting smell, the chains – and, side by side with it, the senseless luxury of his own life and the lives of the aristocracy in a great metropolis. Everything was now quite clear and unambiguous.

The bright, almost full moon rose from behind the barn: dark shadows fell across the yard, and the iron roof of the dilapidated house glittered.

And, as though reluctant to waste this light, the nightingales, which had fallen silent, began singing and trilling in the garden again.

Nekhlyudov called to mind how at Kuzminskoye he had started to reflect over his life, trying to decide what he should do and how he should do it, and remembered how tangled up he had become, unable to arrive at any decision because there were so many considerations connected with each problem. He now put the same problems to himself and was surprised how easy they were. Everything was simple now because he was not thinking of what would be the result for himself – he was not even interested in that – but only of what he ought to do. And, strange to say, he had no idea what to do for his own needs, but knew beyond any doubt what he had to do for others. He knew beyond all doubt now that the peasants must have the land because to keep it would be wrong. He knew beyond all doubt that he must never abandon Katusha but try to help her as best he could, in order to expiate his guilt towards her. He knew beyond all doubt that he must study, examine, elucidate to himself and comprehend the whole system of trial and punishment, in which he was conscious of seeing something that nobody else saw. What the result would be of all this he did not know, but he knew for certain that this, that and the other he had to do. And this firm conviction gave him joy.

The black cloud had spread until the whole sky was dark. Now it was not sheet-but fork-lightning that flashed vivid, lighting up the yard and outlining the crumbling house with its tumble-down porches, while thunder growled overhead. The birds were all silent but the leaves began to rustle and the wind reached the porch where Nekhlyudov sat, and blew his hair about. One drop fell, then another; then the rain began to drum on the dock-leaves and the iron roof, and there was a sudden blaze of light; all was still, and before Nekhlyudov could count three a fearful crash sounded immediately above his head and went rolling across the heavens.

Nekhlyudov went into the house.

‘No, no,’ he thought, ‘the reason for what happens in our lives, all that we do, the meaning of it, is incomprehensible and must remain incomprehensible to me. Why did I have aunts? Why did Nikolenka Irtenyev die, while I am still alive? Why should there be a Katusha? What about my lunacy? Why that war? Why my reckless life afterwards? To understand all that, to understand the Master’s purpose is beyond me. But to do His will, inscribed in my conscience – is in my power, and this I know unquestioningly. And when I am obeying His will, there is no doubt that my soul is at peace.’

The rain was coming down in torrents, splashing from the roofs into the rain-water barrel; the lightning less often lit up the yard and house. Nekhlyudov returned to his room, undressed and got into bed, not without some apprehension – the dirty, torn wall-paper made him suspect the presence of bugs.

‘Yes, to feel oneself not the master but a servant,’ he said to himself, and rejoiced at the thought.

His misgivings were justified. No sooner had he put out the candle than the bugs began to settle on him and bite.

‘To give up the land and go to Siberia – the fleas, the bugs, the dirt.… Well, what of it? If I have to bear it, I will bear it.’ But in spite of his good intentions he could not endure it and got up and sat by the window, feasting his eyes on the fleeting clouds and the reappearing moon.