Resurrection

While the peasant was kissing Nekhludoff and giving him a dark

brown egg, the lilac dress of Matrona Pavlovna and the dear black

head with the red bow appeared.

Katusha caught sight of him over the heads of those in front of

her, and he saw how her face brightened up.

She had come out with Matrona Pavlovna on to the porch, and

stopped there distributing alms to the beggars. A beggar with a

red scab in place of a nose came up to Katusha. She gave him

something, drew nearer him, and, evincing no sign of disgust, but

her eyes still shining with joy, kissed him three times. And

while she was doing this her eyes met Nekhludoff's with a look as

if she were asking, "Is this that I am doing right?" "Yes, dear,

yes, it is right; everything is right, everything is beautiful. I

love!"

They came down the steps of the porch, and he came up to them.

He did not mean to give them the Easter kiss, but only to be

nearer to her. Matrona Pavlovna bowed her head, and said with a

smile, "Christ is risen!" and her tone implied, "To-day we are

all equal." She wiped her mouth with her handkerchief rolled into

a ball and stretched her lips towards him.

"He is, indeed," answered Nekhludoff, kissing her. Then he looked

at Katusha; she blushed, and drew nearer. "Christ is risen,

Dmitri Ivanovitch." "He is risen, indeed," answered Nekhludoff,

and they kissed twice, then paused as if considering whether a

third kiss were necessary, and, having decided that it was,

kissed a third time and smiled.

"You are going to the priests?" asked Nekhludoff.

"No, we shall sit out here a bit, Dmitri Ivanovitch," said

Katusha with effort, as if she had accomplished some joyous task,

and, her whole chest heaving with a deep sigh, she looked

straight in his face with a look of devotion, virgin purity, and

love, in her very slightly squinting eyes.

In the love between a man and a woman there always comes a moment

when this love has reached its zenith--a moment when it is

unconscious, unreasoning, and with nothing sensual about it. Such

a moment had come for Nekhludoff on that Easter eve. When he

brought Katusha back to his mind, now, this moment veiled all

else; the smooth glossy black head, the white tucked dress

closely fitting her graceful maidenly form, her, as yet,

un-developed bosom, the blushing cheeks, the tender shining black

eyes with their slight squint heightened by the sleepless night,

and her whole being stamped with those two marked features,

purity and chaste love, love not only for him (he knew that), but

for everybody and everything, not for the good alone, but for all

that is in the world, even for that beggar whom she had kissed.