10

THE town impressed Nekhlyudov in a strange, fresh fashion when he reached it this time. It was dusk and the street lamps were lit when he drove from the station to his house, where all the rooms still smelt of naphthaline, and Agrafena Petrovna and Korney – both tired and bad-tempered – had even had a quarrel over things which, it seemed, were never used but only brought out, aired and then put away again. His own room was not being used but it had not been done and was, indeed, so cluttered with piles of boxes and trunks that it was difficult to get inside. It was evident that his arrival interfered with the life of the house, which carried on by a curious kind of inertia. The contrast between the abject poverty of the peasants in the country and this stupid waste in which he himself had once taken part was so disagreeable to Nekhlyudov that he decided next day to move to a hotel, leaving Agrafena Petrovna to manage matters in her own way until his sister should arrive and finally dispose of everything in the house.

Nekhlyudov departed early the next morning and took a couple of rooms in one of the very modest and not over-clean lodging-houses in the vicinity of the prison. Then, giving orders for a few of his things to be fetched from the house, he went to see his lawyer.

It was chilly out of doors. After the thunder-storms and the rain a cold spell had set in, as generally happens in spring. It was so cold, and the wind so piercing, that Nekhlyudov shivered in his light overcoat and walked as fast as he could, trying to get warm.

His thoughts were full of the peasants in the country – women, children, old men – and the poverty and suffering which he seemed to have seen for the first time, especially the smiling baby like a little old man, kicking with its skinny legs that had no calves, and he could not help comparing their lot with that of the townsfolk. As he passed the butchers’, fishmongers’, and ready-made clothiers’ he was struck again, as though he saw it for the first time, by the well-fed appearance of such an immense number of clean, fat shopkeepers, the like of whom simply did not exist in the country. These people were obviously firmly convinced that their efforts to cheat the ignorant who knew nothing about the quality of their wares was a very useful occupation, certainly not an idle one. The coachmen with their huge backsides and rows of buttons behind looked just as well-fed; so did the house-porters in their caps with gold braid; so did the chambermaids with their curled fringes and their aprons; and so especially did the dare-devil cab-drivers with the nape of their necks clean-shaven, lolling back in their seats and staring insolendy at pedestrians. In all these people Nekhlyudov could not help seeing peasants who had been driven to the town owing to lack of land. Some had adapted themselves to city life, become independent and were well-content with their situation; but others had fallen into a worse state than had been theirs in the country, and were even more pitiable. In this pitiful category were the bootmakers Nekhlyudov noticed working in basement windows; the pale dishevelled washerwomen with their thin bare arms, ironing at open windows from which the soapy steam poured out in clouds; the two house-painters he met, in aprons and with ragged footwear, bespattered with paint from top to toe. Their sleeves were rolled up above the elbows of their stringy, feeble brown arms, and they were carrying a bucket of paint, swearing at each other without interruption. Their faces looked haggard and ill-tempered. The same expression was to be seen on the dusty, swarthy draymen, jolting along in their carts. The same expression was on the swollen faces of the ragged men and women with children in their arms, who stood begging at the street corners. The faces Nekhlyudov caught sight of at the open windows of an eating-house he passed wore a like expression. Red, perspiring dull-eyed men sat shouting and chorusing at dirty tables littered with bottles and tea-things, waiters in white swaying and hurrying about between them. One man sat by the window with uplifted eyebrows, pouting lips and a fixed stare, as if trying to remember something.

‘And why are they all gathered here?’ Nekhlyudov wondered, involuntarily breathing in with the dust which the cold wind blew into his face the ubiquitous smell of rancid oil and fresh paint.

In one street a procession of carts caught up with him, loaded with iron of some sort, which made such a terrific din on the uneven roadway that his ears and head started to ache. He began to walk faster in order to get ahead of the row of carts, when suddenly he heard his name called above the clatter. He stopped and saw a few steps in front of him an officer with sharp-pointed waxed moustaches and a smooth shining face, sitting in a smart droshky and waving his hand in greeting, his smile displaying a row of remarkably white teeth.

‘Nekhlyudov! Can it be you?’

Nekhlyudov’s first feeling was one of pleasure.

‘Why, Schönbock!’ he exclaimed with delight, but the next moment he knew that there was absolutely nothing to be delighted about.

This was the same Schönbock who had called for him at his aunts’ that day. Nekhlyudov had quite lost sight of him, but had heard that in spite of his debts, leaving the regiment and staying in the cavalry reserves, he had somehow managed to keep his place in the society of the wealthy. His gay contented appearance seemed to corroborate this report.

‘So glad I saw you! There isn’t a soul in town,’ he said, getting out of the trap and straightening his shoulders. ‘But you’ve aged, my dear fellow! I only recognized you by your walk. Can’t we dine together? Is there anywhere we can find a decent meal?’

‘I don’t know that I have the time,’ said Nekhlyudov, trying to think of some way to escape that would not offend his old friend. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Business, my dear fellow, business. A matter of a trusteeship. You see I am a trustee. I manage Samanov’s affairs for him – you know, the millionaire. He’s got softening of the brain – but he owns getting on for a hundred and fifty thousand acres ! ‘he said with great pride, as if he himself had created all those acres. ‘His affairs had been dreadfully neglected. The entire estate had been let out to the peasants. They were paying nothing and were over eighty thousand roubles in arrears. In a single year I changed everything and increased the revenue by seventy per cent. What do you say to that?’ he asked proudly.

Nekhlyudov remembered having heard that Schönbock, for the very reason that he had run through his own fortune and piled up debts, had by some special influence been appointed trustee for the property of a rich old man who was squandering his estate; and he was now, apparently, living on the trusteeship.

‘How can I get away without hurting his feelings?’ wondered Nekhlyudov, looking at the sleek fat face with the waxed moustaches, and listening to his good-hearted friendly chatter about where one could get a good dinner, and his bragging over the way he managed the affairs of his trust.

‘Now then, where shall we dine?’

‘Really I have no time,’ said Nekhlyudov, glancing at his watch.

‘Well, then, look here. Tonight at the races – will you be there?’

‘No, I shan’t.’

‘Oh, please do! I haven’t any horses of my own these days but I always back Grisha’s. Do you remember him? He has a first-rate stable. So come, won’t you, and we’ll have supper together.’

‘No, I can’t have supper with you either,’ said Nekhlyudov with a smile.

‘Well, that’s too bad! Where are you going now? Let me give you a lift.’

‘I am on my way to my lawyer. He’s just round the corner here,’ said Nekhlyudov.

‘Oh yes, of course. You have got something to do with prisons – have turned prisoners’ advocate, I hear,’ said Schönbock, laughing. ‘The Korchagins told me. They have already gone out of town. What does it all mean? Do tell me about it!’

‘Yes, yes, it is quite true,’ Nekhlyudov replied, ‘but I can’t tell you about it in the street.’

‘Of course, of course, you always were a crank. But you will come to the races?’

‘No, I can’t, and really I don’t want to. Please don’t be angry with me.’

‘Why should I be angry? But where is it you live?’ he asked, and all at once his face grew serious, his eyes became fixed and he raised his eyebrows. He was evidently trying to recall the address, and Nekhlyudov suddenly recognized the same dull expression that had struck him on the face of the man with the raised brows and pouting lips at the window of the eating-house.

‘Isn’t it cold, eh?’

‘Yes, it is indeed.’

Schönbock turned to the driver. ‘You’ve got the parcels?’

‘Well, good-bye, then. I am awfully glad to have met you,’ he said, and pressing Nekhlyudov’s hand warmly, jumped into the trap, waving his broad hand in a new white chamois-leather glove in front of his sleek face and smiling a habitual smile which showed his unusually white teeth.

‘Was I really like that once?’ Nekhlyudov thought, continuing on his way to the lawyer’s. ‘Perhaps not quite like that, but I wanted to be, and believed I should spend life in that way.’