“I am rather tired, but, if it won’t take long, I will listen to your case. Let us walk into that room.”
And Fanarin led Nekhludoff into a room, probably the cabinet of some judge. They seated themselves at a table.
“Well, state your case.”
“First of all, I will ask you,” said Nekhludoff, “not to disclose that I am interesting myself in this case.”
“That is understood. Well?”
“I was on a jury to-day, and we sent an innocent woman to Siberia. It torments me.”
To his own surprise, Nekhludoff blushed and hesitated. Fanarin glanced at him, then lowered his eyes and listened.
“Well?”
“We condemned an innocent woman, and I would like to have the case appealed to a higher court.”
“To the Senate?” Fanarin corrected him.
“And I wish you to take the case.”
Nekhludoff wanted to get through the most difficult part, and therefore immediately added:
“I take all expenses on myself, whatever they may be,” he said, blushing.
“Well, we will arrange all that,” said the lawyer, condescendingly smiling at Nekhludoff’s inexperience.
“What are the facts of the case?”
Nekhludoff related them.
“Very well; I will examine the record to-morrow. Call at my office the day after–no, better on Thursday, at six o’clock in the evening, and I will give you an answer. And now let us go; I must make some inquiries here.”
Nekhludoff bade him good-by, and departed.
His conversation with the lawyer, and the fact that he had already taken steps to defend Maslova, still more calmed his spirit. The weather was fine, and when Nekhludoff found himself on the street, he gladly inhaled the spring air. Cab drivers offered their services, but he preferred to walk, and a swarm of thoughts and recollections of Katiousha and his conduct toward her immediately filled his head. He became sad, and everything appeared to him gloomy. “No, I will consider it later,” he said to himself, “and now I must have some diversion from these painful impressions.”
The dinner at the Korchagin’s came to his mind, and he looked at his watch. It was not too late to reach there for dinner. A tram-car passed by. He ran after it, and boarded it at a bound. On the square he jumped off, took one of the best cabs, and ten minutes later he alighted in front of Korchagin’s large dwelling.
CHAPTER XXVI.
“Walk in, Your Excellency, you are expected,” said the fat porter, pushing open the swinging, oaken door of the entrance. “They are dining, but I was told to admit you.”
The porter walked to the stairway and rang the bell.
“Are there any guests?” Nekhludoff asked, while taking off his coat.
“Mr. Kolosoff, also Michael Sergeievich, besides the family,” answered the porter.
A fine-looking lackey in dress coat and white gloves looked down from the top of the stairs.
“Please to walk in, Your Excellency,” he said.
Nekhludoff mounted the stairs, and through the spacious and magnificent parlor he entered the dining-room. Around the table were seated the entire family, except Princess Sophia Vasilievna, who never left her own apartments. At the head of the table sat old Korchagin, on his left the physician; on his right, a visitor, Ivan Ivanovich Kolosoff, an ex-district commander, and now a bank manager, who was a friend of the family, and of liberal tendencies; further to the left was Miss Rader, governess to Missy’s four-year-old sister, with the little girl herself; then to the right, Missy’s only brother, Peter, a high-school pupil, on account of whose forthcoming examinations the entire family remained in the city, and his tutor, also a student; then again to the left, Katherine Alexeievna, a forty-year-old girl Slavophile; opposite to her was Michael Sergeievich, or Misha Telegin, Missy’s cousin, and at the foot of the table, Missy herself, and beside her, on the table, lay an extra cover.
“Ah, very glad you came! Take a seat! We are still at the fish,” chewing carefully with his false teeth old Korchagin said, lifting his bloodshot eyes on Nekhludoff. “Stepan!” he turned with a full mouth to the fat, majestic servant, pointing with his eyes to Nekhludoff’s plate. Although Nekhludoff had often dined with and knew Korchagin well, this evening his old face, his sensual, smacking lips, the napkin stuck under his vest, the fat neck, and especially the well-fed, military figure made an unpleasant impression on him.
“It is all ready, Your Excellency,” said Stepan, taking a soup ladle from the sideboard and nodding to the fine-looking servant with the side-whiskers, who immediately began to set the table beside Missy.
Nekhludoff went around the table shaking hands with every one. All, except Korchagin and the ladies, rose from their seats when he approached them. And this walking around the table and his handshaking, although most of the people were comparative strangers to him, this evening seemed to Nekhludoff particularly unpleasant and ridiculous. He excused himself for his late coming, and was about to seat himself at the end of the table between Missy and Katherine Alexeievna, when old Korchagin demanded that, since he would not take any brandy, he should first take a bite at the table, on which were lobster, caviare, cheese and herring. Nekhludoff did not know he was as hungry as he turned out to be, and when he tasted of some cheese and bread he could not stop eating, and ate ravenously.
“Well? Have you been undermining the bases of society?” asked Kolosoff, ironically, using an expression of a retrogressive newspaper, which was attacking the jury system. “You have acquitted the guilty and condemned the innocent? Have you?”
“Undermining the bases–undermining the bases”–smilingly repeated the Prince, who had boundless confidence in the intelligence and honesty of his liberal comrade and friend.
Nekhludoff, at the risk of being impolite, did not answer Kolosoff, and, seating himself before the steaming soup, continued to eat.
“Do let him eat,” said Missy, smiling. By the pronoun “him,” she meant to call attention to her intimacy with Nekhludoff.
Meanwhile Kolosoff was energetically and loudly discussing the article against trial by jury which had roused his indignation. Michael Sergeievich supported his contentions and quoted the contents of another similar article.
Missy, as usual, was very distingue and unobtrusively well dressed. She waited until Nekhludoff had swallowed the mouthful he was chewing, and then said: “You must be very tired and hungry.”
“Not particularly. Are you? Have you been to the exhibition?” he asked.
“No, we postponed it. But we went to play lawn tennis at the Salamatoff’s. Mister Crooks is really a remarkable player.”
Nekhludoff had came here for recreation, and it was always pleasant to him to be in this house, not only because of the elegant luxury, which acted pleasantly on his senses, but because of the adulating kindnesses with which they invisibly surrounded him. To-day, however–it is wonderful to relate–everything in this house disgusted him; the porter, the broad stairway, the flowers, the lackeys, the table decorations, and even Missy herself, who, just now, seemed to him unattractive and unnatural. He was disgusted with that self-confident, vulgar, liberal tone of Kolosoff, the bull-like, sensual, figure of old Korchagin, the French phrases of the Slavophile maiden, the ceremonious faces of the governess and the tutor. But above all, he was disgusted with the pronoun “him” that Missy had used. Nekhludoff was always wavering between two different relations he sustained toward Missy. Sometimes he looked at her as through blinking eyes or by moonlight, and then she seemed to him beautiful, fresh, pretty, clever and natural. At other times he looked at her as if under a bright sun, and then he saw only her defects. To-day was such a day. He saw the wrinkles on her face; saw the artificial arrangement of her hair; the pointed elbows, and, above all, her large thumb nail, resembling that of her father.
“It is the dullest game,” Kolosoff said, speaking of tennis, “baseball, as we played it when we were boys, is much more amusing.”
“You have not tried it. It is awfully interesting,” retorted Missy, unnaturally accentuating the word “awfully,” as it seemed to Nekhludoff.
A discussion arose in which Michael Sergeievich and Katherine Alexeievna took part. Only the governess, the tutor and the children were silent, evidently from ennui.
“They are eternally disputing!” laughing aloud, said old Korchagin. He pulled the napkin from his vest, and, noisily pushing back his chair, which was immediately removed by a servant, rose from the table. They all rose after him and went to a small table, on which stood figured bowls filled with perfumed water; then they washed their finger-tips and rinsed their mouths, and continued their conversation, in which no one took any interest.
“Is it not true?” Missy said to Nekhludoff, desiring to receive confirmation of her opinion that man’s character can best be learned in play. She noticed on his thoughtful face an expression of reproach, which inspired her with fear, and she wished to know the cause of it.
“I really don’t know. I never thought of it,” answered Nekhludoff.
“Will you go to mamma?” asked Missy.
“Yes, yes,” he said, producing a cigarette. The tone of his voice plainly betrayed that he did not wish to go.
She looked at him inquiringly, but was silent. He felt ashamed. “It is hardly proper for me to come here to put people out of temper,” he thought, and, in an effort to be pleasant, he said that he would go with pleasure if the Princess were in a mood to receive him.
“Yes, yes; mamma will be glad. You can smoke
