Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕

on military men even more depravingly than on others, because if any other than a military man lead such a life he cannot help being ashamed of it in the depth of his heart. A military man is, on the contrary, proud of a life of this kind especially at war time, and Nekhlúdoff had entered the army just after war with the Turks had been declared. “We are prepared to sacrifice our lives at the wars, and therefore a gay, reckless life is not only pardonable, but absolutely necessary for us, and so we lead it.”

Such were Nekhlúdoff’s confused thoughts at this period of his existence, and he felt all the time the delight of being free of the moral barriers he had formerly set himself. And the state he lived in was that of a chronic mania of selfishness. He was in this state when, after three years’ absence, he came again to visit his aunts.

XIV

Nekhlúdoff went to visit his aunts because their estate lay near the road he had to travel in order to join his regiment, which had gone forward, because they had very warmly asked him to come, and especially because he wanted to see Katúsha. Perhaps in his heart he had already formed those evil designs against Katúsha which his now uncontrolled animal self suggested to him, but he did not acknowledge this as his intention, but only wished to go back to the spot where he had been so happy, to see his rather funny, but dear, kindhearted old aunts, who always, without his noticing it, surrounded him with an atmosphere of love and admiration, and to see sweet Katúsha, of whom he had retained so pleasant a memory.

He arrived at the end of March, on Good Friday, after the thaw had set in. It was pouring with rain so that he had not a dry thread on him and was feeling very cold, but yet vigorous and full of spirits, as always at that time. “Is she still with them?” he thought, as he drove into the familiar, old-fashioned courtyard, surrounded by a low brick wall, and now filled with snow off the roofs.

He expected she would come out when she heard the sledge bells but she did not. Two barefooted women with pails and tucked-up skirts, who had evidently been scrubbing the floors, came out of the side door. She was not at the front door either, and only Tíkhon, the manservant, with his apron on, evidently also busy cleaning, came out into the front porch. His aunt Sophia Ivánovna alone met him in the anteroom; she had a silk dress on and a cap on her head. Both aunts had been to church and had received communion.

“Well, this is nice of you to come,” said Sophia Ivánovna, kissing him. “Mary is not well, got tired in church; we have been to communion.”

“I congratulate you, Aunt Sophia,”9 said Nekhlúdoff, kissing Sophia Ivánovna’s hand. “Oh, I beg your pardon, I have made you wet.”

“Go to your room⁠—why you are soaking wet. Dear me, you have got moustaches!⁠ ⁠… Katúsha! Katúsha! Get him some coffee; be quick.”

“Directly,” came the sound of a well-known, pleasant voice from the passage, and Nekhlúdoff’s heart cried out “She’s here!” and it was as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds.

Nekhlúdoff, followed by Tíkhon, went gaily to his old room to change his things. He felt inclined to ask Tíkhon about Katúsha; how she was, what she was doing, was she not going to be married? But Tíkhon was so respectful and at the same time so severe, insisted so firmly on pouring the water out of the jug for him, that Nekhlúdoff could not make up his mind to ask him about Katúsha, but only inquired about Tíkhon’s grandsons, about the old so-called “brother’s” horse, and about the dog Polkán. All were alive except Polkán, who had gone mad the summer before.

When he had taken off all his wet things and just begun to dress again, Nekhlúdoff heard quick, familiar footsteps and a knock at the door. Nekhlúdoff knew the steps and also the knock. No one but she walked and knocked like that.

Having thrown his wet greatcoat over his shoulders, he opened the door.

“Come in.” It was she, Katúsha, the same, only sweeter than before. The slightly squinting naive black eyes looked up in the same old way. Now as then, she had on a white apron. She brought him from his aunts a piece of scented soap, with the wrapper just taken off, and two towels⁠—one a long Russian embroidered one, the other a bath towel. The unused soap with the stamped inscription, the towels, and her own self, all were equally clean, fresh, undefiled and pleasant. The irrepressible smile of joy at the sight of him made the sweet, firm lips pucker up as of old.

“How do you do, Dmítri Ivánovitch?” she uttered with difficulty, her face suffused with a rosy blush.

“Good morning! How do you do?” he said, also blushing. “Alive and well?”

“Yes, the Lord be thanked. And here is your favorite pink soap and towels from your aunts,” she said, putting the soap on the table and hanging the towels over the back of a chair.

“There is everything here,” said Tíkhon, defending the visitor’s independence, and pointing to Nekhlúdoff’s open dressing case filled with brushes, perfume, fixatoire, a great many bottles with silver lids and all sorts of toilet appliances.

“Thank my aunts, please. Oh, how glad I am to be here,” said Nekhlúdoff, his heart filling with light and tenderness as of old.

She only smiled in answer to these words, and went out. The aunts, who had always loved Nekhlúdoff, welcomed him this time more warmly than ever. Dmítri was going to the war, where he might be wounded or killed, and this touched the old aunts. Nekhlúdoff had arranged to stay only a day and night with his aunts, but