Resurrection

"So this is what it means, this," thought Nekhludoff as he left

the prison, only now fully understanding his crime. If he had not

tried to expiate his guilt he would never have found out how

great his crime was. Nor was this all; she, too, would never have

felt the whole horror of what had been done to her. He only now

saw what he had done to the soul of this woman; only now she saw

and understood what had been done to her.

Up to this time Nekhludoff had played with a sensation of

self-admiration, had admired his own remorse; now he was simply

filled with horror. He knew he could not throw her up now, and

yet he could not imagine what would come of their relations to

one another.

Just as he was going out, a jailer, with a disagreeable,

insinuating countenance, and a cross and medals on his breast,

came up and handed him a note with an air of mystery.

"Here is a note from a certain person, your honour," he said to

Nekhludoff as he gave him the envelope.

"What person?"

"You will know when you read it. A political prisoner. I am in

that ward, so she asked me; and though it is against the rules,

still feelings of humanity--" The jailer spoke in an unnatural

manner.

Nekhludoff was surprised that a jailer of the ward where

political prisoners were kept should pass notes inside the very

prison walls, and almost within sight of every one; he did not

then know that this was both a jailer and a spy. However, he took

the note and read it on coming out of the prison.

The note was written in a bold hand, and ran as follows: "Having

heard that you visit the prison, and are interested in the case

of a criminal prisoner, the desire of seeing you arose in me. Ask

for a permission to see me. I can give you a good deal of

information concerning your protegee, and also our group.--Yours

gratefully, VERA DOUKHOVA."

Vera Doukhova had been a school-teacher in an out-of-the-way

village of the Novgorod Government, where Nekhludoff and some

friends of his had once put up while bear hunting. Nekhludoff

gladly and vividly recalled those old days, and his acquaintance

with Doukhova. It was just before Lent, in an isolated spot, 40

miles from the railway. The hunt had been successful; two bears

had been killed; and the company were having dinner before

starting on their return journey, when the master of the hut

where they were putting up came in to say that the deacon's

daughter wanted to speak to Prince Nekhludoff. "Is she pretty?"

some one asked. "None of that, please," Nekhludoff said, and rose

with a serious look on his face. Wiping his mouth, and wondering

what the deacon's daughter might want of him, he went into the

host's private hut.