Resurrection

The next day the gay, handsome, and brilliant Schonbock joined

Nekhludoff at his aunts' house, and quite won their hearts by his

refined and amiable manner, his high spirits, his generosity, and

his affection for Dmitri.

But though the old ladies admired his generosity it rather

perplexed them, for it seemed exaggerated. He gave a rouble to

some blind beggars who came to the gate, gave 15 roubles in tips

to the servants, and when Sophia Ivanovna's pet dog hurt his paw

and it bled, he tore his hemstitched cambric handkerchief into

strips (Sophia Ivanovna knew that such handkerchiefs cost at

least 15 roubles a dozen) and bandaged the dog's foot. The old

ladies had never met people of this kind, and did not know that

Schonbock owed 200,000 roubles which he was never going to pay,

and that therefore 25 roubles more or less did not matter a bit

to him. Schonbock stayed only one day, and he and Nekhludoff

both, left at night. They could not stay away from their regiment

any longer, for their leave was fully up.

At the stage which Nekhludoff's selfish mania had now reached he

could think of nothing but himself. He was wondering whether his

conduct, if found out, would be blamed much or at all, but he did

not consider what Katusha was now going through, and what was

going to happen to her.

He saw that Schonbock guessed his relations to her and this

flattered his vanity.

"Ah, I see how it is you have taken such a sudden fancy to your

aunts that you have been living nearly a week with them,"

Schonbock remarked when he had seen Katusha. "Well, I don't

wonder--should have done the same. She's charming." Nekhludoff

was also thinking that though it was a pity to go away before

having fully gratified the cravings of his love for her, yet the

absolute necessity of parting had its advantages because it put a

sudden stop to relations it would have been very difficult for

him to continue. Then he thought that he ought to give her some

money, not for her, not because she might need it, but because it

was the thing to do.

So he gave her what seemed to him a liberal amount, considering

his and her station. On the day of his departure, after dinner,

he went out and waited for her at the side entrance. She flushed

up when she saw him and wished to pass by, directing his

attention to the open door of the maids' room by a look, but he

stopped her.

"I have come to say good-bye," he said, crumbling in his hand an

envelope with a 100-rouble note inside. "There, I . . . "

She guessed what he meant, knit her brows, and shaking her head

pushed his hand away.

"Take it; oh, you must!" he stammered, and thrust the envelope

into the bib of her apron and ran back to his room, groaning and

frowning as if he had hurt himself. And for a long time he went

up and down writhing as in pain, and even stamping and groaning

aloud as he thought of this last scene. "But what else could I

have done? Is it not what happens to every one? And if every one

does the same . . . well I suppose it can't be helped." In this

way he tried to get peace of mind, but in vain. The recollection

of what had passed burned his conscience. In his soul--in the

very depths of his soul--he knew that he had acted in a base,

cruel, cowardly manner, and that the knowledge of this act of his

must prevent him, not only from finding fault with any one else,

but even from looking straight into other people's eyes; not to

mention the impossibility of considering himself a splendid,

noble, high-minded fellow, as he did and had to do to go on

living his life boldly and merrily. There was only one solution

of the problem--i.e., not to think about it. He succeeded in doing

so. The life he was now entering upon, the new surroundings, new

friends, the war, all helped him to forget. And the longer he

lived, the less he thought about it, until at last he forgot it

completely.