AN OLD GENERAL OF REPUTE.
The man on whom depended the easing of the fate of the Petersburg prisoners was an old General of repute--a baron of German descent, who, as it was said of him, had outlived his wits. He had received a profusion of orders, but only wore one of them, the Order of the White Cross. He had received this order, which he greatly valued, while serving in the Caucasus, because a number of Russian peasants, with their hair cropped, and dressed in uniform and armed with guns and bayonets, had killed at his command more than a thousand men who were defending their liberty, their homes, and their families. Later on he served in Poland, and there also made Russian peasants commit many different crimes, and got more orders and decorations for his uniform. Then he served somewhere else, and now that he was a weak, old man he had this position, which insured him a good house, an income and respect. He strictly observed all the regulations which were prescribed "from above," and was very zealous in the fulfilment of these regulations, to which he ascribed a special importance, considering that everything else in the world might be changed except the regulations prescribed "from above." His duty was to keep political prisoners, men and women, in solitary confinement in such a way that half of them perished in 10 years' time, some going out of their minds, some dying of consumption, some committing suicide by starving themselves to death, cutting their veins with bits of glass, hanging, or burning themselves to death.
The old General was not ignorant of this; it all happened within his knowledge; but these cases no more touched his conscience than accidents brought on by thunderstorms, floods, etc. These cases occurred as a consequence of the fulfilment of regulations prescribed "from above" by His Imperial Majesty. These regulations had to be carried out without fail, and therefore it was absolutely useless to think of the consequences of their fulfilment. The old General did not even allow himself to think of such things, counting it his patriotic duty as a soldier not to think of them for fear of getting weak in the carrying out of these, according to his opinion, very important obligations. Once a week the old General made the round of the cells, one of the duties of his position, and asked the prisoners if they had any requests to make. The prisoners had all sorts of requests. He listened to them quietly, in impenetrable silence, and never fulfilled any of their requests, because they were all in disaccord with the regulations. Just as Nekhludoff drove up to the old General's house, the high notes of the bells on the belfry clock chimed "Great is the Lord," and then struck two. The sound of these chimes brought back to Nekhludoff's mind what he had read in the notes of the Decembrists [the Decembrists were a group who attempted, but failed, to put an end to absolutism in Russia at the time of the accession of Nicholas the First] about the way this sweet music repeated every hour re-echoes in the hearts of those imprisoned for life.
Meanwhile the old General was sitting in his darkened drawing-room at an inlaid table, turning a saucer on a piece of paper with the aid of a young artist, the brother of one of his subordinates. The thin, weak, moist fingers of the artist were pressed against the wrinkled and stiff-jointed fingers of the old General, and the hands joined in this manner were moving together with the saucer over a paper that had all the letters of the alphabet written on it. The saucer was answering the questions put by the General as to how souls will recognise each other after death.
When Nekhludoff sent in his card by an orderly acting as footman, the soul of Joan of Arc was speaking by the aid of the saucer. The soul of Joan of Arc had already spelt letter by letter the words: "They well knew each other," and these words had been written down. When the orderly came in the saucer had stopped first on b, then on y, and began jerking hither and thither. This jerking was caused by the General's opinion that the next letter should be b, i.e., Joan of Arc ought to say that the souls will know each other by being cleansed of all that is earthly, or something of the kind, clashing with the opinion of the artist, who thought the next letter should be l, i.e., that the souls should know each other by light emanating from their astral bodies. The General, with his bushy grey eyebrows gravely contracted, sat gazing at the hands on the saucer, and, imagining that it was moving of its own accord, kept pulling the saucer towards b. The pale-faced young artist, with his thin hair combed back behind his cars, was looking with his lifeless blue eyes into a dark corner of the drawing-room, nervously moving his lips and pulling the saucer towards l.
The General made a wry face at the interruption, but after a moment's pause he took the card, put on his pince-nez, and, uttering a groan, rose, in spite of the pain in his back, to his full height, rubbing his numb fingers.
"Ask him into the study."
"With your excellency's permission I will finish it alone," said the artist, rising. "I feel the presence."
"All right, finish alone," the General said, severely and decidedly, and stepped quickly, with big, firm and measured strides, into his study.
"Very pleased to see you," said the General to Nekhludoff, uttering the friendly words in a gruff tone, and pointing to an armchair by the side of the writing-table. "Have you been in Petersburg long?"
Nekhludoff replied that he had only lately arrived.
"Is the Princess, your mother, well?"
"My mother is dead."
"Forgive me; I am very sorry. My son told me he had met you."
The General's son was making the same kind of career for himself that the father had done, and, having passed the Military Academy, was now serving in the Inquiry Office, and was very proud of his duties there. His occupation was the management of Government spies.
"Why, I served with your father. We were friends--comrades. And you; are you also in the Service?"
"No, I am not."
The General bent his head disapprovingly.
"I have a request to make, General."
"Very pleased. In what way can I be of service to you? If my request is out of place pray pardon me. But I am obliged to make it."
"What is it?"
"There is a certain Gourkevitch imprisoned in the fortress; his mother asks for an interview with him, or at least to be allowed to send him some books."
The General expressed neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction at Nekhludoff's request, but bending his head on one side he closed his eyes as if considering. In reality he was not considering anything, and was not even interested in Nekhludoff's questions, well knowing that he would answer them according to the law. He was simply resting mentally and not thinking at all.
"You see," he said at last, "this does not depend on me. There is a regulation, confirmed by His Majesty, concerning interviews; and as to books, we have a library, and they may have what is permitted."
"Yes, but he wants scientific books; he wishes to study."
"Don't you believe it," growled the General. "It's not study he wants; it is just only restlessness."
"But what is to be done? They must occupy their time somehow in their hard condition," said Nekhludoff.
"They are always complaining," said the General. "We know them."
He spoke of them in a general way, as if they were all a specially bad race of men. "They have conveniences here which can be found in few places of confinement," said the General, and he began to enumerate the comforts the prisoners enjoyed, as if the aim of the institution was to give the people imprisoned there a comfortable home.
"It is true it used to be rather rough, but now they are very well kept here," he continued. "They have three courses for dinner--and one of them meat--cutlets, or rissoles; and on Sundays they get a fourth--a sweet dish. God grant every Russian may eat as well as they do."
Like all old people, the General, having once got on to a familiar topic, enumerated the various proofs he had often given before of the prisoners being exacting and ungrateful.
"They get books on spiritual subjects and old journals. We have a library. Only they rarely read. At first they seem interested, later on the new books remain uncut, and the old ones with their leaves unturned. We tried them," said the old General, with the dim likeness of a smile. "We put bits of paper in on purpose, which remained just as they had been placed. Writing is also not forbidden," he continued. "A slate is provided, and a slate pencil, so that they can write as a pastime. They can wipe the slate and write again. But they don't write, either. Oh, they very soon get quite tranquil. At first they seem restless, but later on they even grow fat and become very quiet." Thus spoke the General, never suspecting the terrible meaning of his words.
Nekhludoff listened to the hoarse old voice, looked at the stiff limbs, the swollen eyelids under the grey brows, at the old, clean-shaved, flabby jaw, supported by the collar of the military uniform, at the white cross that this man was so proud of, chiefly because he had gained it by exceptionally cruel and extensive slaughter, and knew that it was useless to reply to the old man or to explain the meaning of his own words to him.
He made another effort, and asked about the prisoner Shoustova, for whose release, as he had been informed that morning, orders were given.
"Shoustova--Shoustova? I cannot remember all their names, there are so many of them," he said, as if reproaching them because there were so many. He rang, and ordered the secretary to be called. While waiting for the latter, he began persuading Nekhludoff to serve, saying that "honest noblemen," counting himself among the number, "were particularly needed by the Tsar and--the country," he added, evidently only to round off his sentence. "I am old, yet I am serving still, as well as my strength allows."
The secretary, a dry, emaciated man, with restless, intelligent eyes, came in and reported that Shoustova was imprisoned in some queer, fortified place, and that he had received no orders concerning her.
"When we get the order we shall let her out the same day. We do not keep them; we do not value their visits much," said the General, with another attempt at a playful smile, which only distorted his old face.
Nekhludoff rose, trying to keep from expressing the mixed feelings of repugnance and pity which he felt towards this terrible old man. The old man on his part considered that he should not be too severe on the thoughtless and evidently misguided son of his old comrade, and should not leave him without advice.
"Good-bye, my dear fellow; do not take it amiss. It is my affection that makes me say it. Do not keep company with such people as we have at our place here. There are no innocent ones among them. All these people are most immoral. We know them," he said, in a tone that admitted no possibility of doubt. And he did not doubt, not because the thing was so, but because if it was not so, he would have to admit himself to be not a noble hero living out the last days of a good life, but a scoundrel, who sold, and still continued in his old age to sell, his conscience.
"Best of all, go and serve," he continued; "the Tsar needs honest men--and the country," he added. "Well, supposing I and the others refused to serve, as you are doing? Who would be left? Here we are, finding fault with the order of things, and yet not wishing to help the Government."
With a deep sigh Nekhludoff made a low bow, shook the large, bony hand condescendingly stretched out to him and left the room.
The General shook his head reprovingly, and rubbing his back, he again went into the drawing-room where the artist was waiting for him. He had already written down the answer given by the soul of Joan of Arc. The General put on his pince-nez and read, "Will know one another by light emanating from their astral bodies."
"Ah," said the General, with approval, and closed his eyes. "But how is one to know if the light of all is alike?" he asked, and again crossed fingers with the artist on the saucer.
The isvostchik drove Nekhludoff out of the gate.
It is dull here, sir, he said, turning to Nekhludoff. "I almost wished to drive off without waiting for you."
Nekhludoff agreed. "Yes, it is dull," and he took a deep breath, and looked up with a sense of relief at the grey clouds that were floating in the sky, and at the glistening ripples made by the boats and steamers on the Neva.
操纵彼得堡全体囚犯命运的是一个德国男爵出身的老将军。他一生战功卓著，得过许多勋章，但平时只在钮扣孔里挂一个白十字章。据说现在他已头脑糊涂了。他在高加索服务时，获得了这枚他特别引以为荣的十字章。当时他统率剪短头发、身穿军服的俄罗斯农民，手持步槍和刺刀，屠杀了一千多名保卫自由、家园和亲人的人①。后来他在波兰服务时，又驱使俄国农民犯下种种罪行②，为此他又获得勋章和军服上新的饰品。后来又在别的地方工作过。如今他已是个龙钟的老人，但获得了这个重要职位，再加一座好房子、一笔可观的年俸和尊贵的地位。他认真执行上司各种命令，对派给他的任务特别卖力。他非常重视上司的命令，认为天下万事都可以改变，唯独上司的命令不能改变。他的职责就在于把男女政治犯关在特种监狱和单身牢房里，关得这些人在十年之内一半瘐死，一部分发疯，一部分死于痨病，一部分自杀：其中有人绝食而死，有人用玻璃割破血管，有人上吊，有人自焚。
--------
①指十九世纪上半叶高加索山区少数民族反抗沙皇俄国的斗争，遭到沙皇军队残酷镇压。
②指一八三○年沙皇军队镇压波兰人民起义的罪行。
老将军知道这一切，这一切都是在他眼前发生的，但所有这些事都没有触动他的良心，就象雷击和洪水等天灾造成的苦难不会触动他的良心一样。这一切都是执行以皇帝名义发布的命令的结果。这些命令都非执行不可，因此考虑这类命令的后果是完全无益的。老将军也不让自己去考虑这些事，认为军人的爱国天职不容许他考虑，免得在执行时心慈手软。
老将军按照规定的职责，每星期到各监狱巡查一次，询问囚犯有什么要求。囚犯们向他提出各种各样的要求。他不动声色地听着，一声不吭，但对他们的要求总是置之不理，认为这些要求都是非法的。
聂赫留朵夫坐车来到老将军寓所，塔楼上的自鸣钟正用尖细的钟声奏出《荣耀归于上帝》的乐曲，然后敲了两下。聂赫留朵夫听着这钟声，不禁回想起十二月党人的笔记，那里谈到这种每小时响一次的可爱音乐怎样打动终身囚徒的心。聂赫留朵夫来到的时候，老将军正坐在陰暗的会客室里，挨着一张嵌花小桌，跟一个年轻人一起在纸上转动一个小碟。那年轻人是他一个部下的弟弟，是个画家。画家潮润的细弱手指嵌在老将军皮肤发皱、瘦骨嶙峋的僵硬手指中。这两只合在一起的手一起按住一个倒扣的茶碟，茶碟在那张写有全部字母的纸上转动。那个茶碟正在解答将军的问题：人死后灵魂怎样才能相互认识？
勤务兵拿着聂赫留朵夫名片进来的时候，贞德①的灵魂正通过茶碟说话。贞德的灵魂用一个个字母拼成的字句说：“他们相互认识是……”这几个字刚记下来。勤务兵一进来，茶碟刚拼完“通过”两字，正在滑来滑去转动。茶碟所以这样游移不定，老将军认为是由于下一个字应该是“清”，也就是贞德要说，人的灵魂只有通过清除一切尘世杂念，才能相互认识。画家却认为下一个字应该是“灵”，贞德的灵魂将说，他们相互认识是通过灵魂本身发出的光。老将军陰郁地拧紧两条浓密的白眉毛，盯住茶碟上面的两只手，拚命把茶碟往拼成“清”的字母上推，但还以为那是茶碟自己在移动。脸色苍白的年轻画家则把稀疏的头发撩到耳朵后面，一双暗淡无神的浅蓝眼睛瞧着会客室里陰暗的角落，神经质地动着嘴唇，把茶碟往拼成“灵”的字母那里推。老将军因为手头的事被打断而皱起眉头，沉默了一会儿，接过名片，戴上夹鼻眼镜，因为他的粗腰作痛哼了一声，站起来，挺直高大的身躯，揉揉发麻的手指。
--------
①贞德（1412—1431）——法国民族女英雄，在百年战争时期领导法国人民抗击英国侵略者。
“请他到书房里去。”
“大人，您让我一个人来把它弄完吧，”画家站起来说。
“我觉得灵魂还在这儿。”
“好的，您把它弄完吧，”老将军果断而严厉地说，迈开僵直的腿，刚毅而均匀地大步向书房走去。“欢迎，欢迎，”将军用粗糙的声音亲切地对聂赫留朵夫说，指指写字台旁那张圈椅请他坐。“来彼得堡好久了吗？”
聂赫留朵夫说来了没有多久。
“令堂大人，公爵夫人身体好吗？”
“妈妈已经过世了。”
“对不起，真没想到，太遗憾了。儿子对我说他遇见过您了。”
将军的儿子象父亲一样官运亨通。他在军事学院毕业后，就进侦察局工作，并为这个差事扬扬得意。他的工作就是管理暗探。
“是啊，我跟令尊同过事。我们是老朋友，又是老同事。
怎么样，您在担任什么差事吗？”
“不，我没有担任什么差事。”
将军不以为然地低下头去。
“我有事要拜托您，将军，”聂赫留朵夫说。
“太—好了。什么事我能为您效劳哇？”
“要是我拜托您的事不得当，那就请您原谅。但那件事我不得不来麻烦您。”
“什么事啊？”
“您这儿关着一个叫古尔凯维奇的人。他的母亲要求探望他，或者至少能把一些书转交给他。”
将军听到聂赫留朵夫的问题，既没有表示高兴，也没有表示不高兴，只是侧着头，眯缝着眼睛，仿佛在考虑似的。其实他根本不在思考，对聂赫留朵夫的问题也毫无兴趣，因为他心里明白他将照章回答。他只是在闭目养神，根本不想什么。
“这件事，老实说，我做不了主，”他歇了一会儿说。“探监的问题，有最高当局批准的法令明确规定，凡是法令许可的，可以同意。至于书籍，我们这儿有个图书馆，凡是许可的书，都可以借给他们看。”
“是的，不过他需要学术性的书籍，他要研究学问。”
“您别相信他们那一套。”将军沉吟了一会儿，说。“他们根本不是要研究学问。他们只是无事生非罢了。”
“不过，他们处境这么痛苦，总得有些活动消磨消磨时间哪，”聂赫留朵夫说。
“他们老是诉苦，”将军说。“我们可知道他们。”他谈到他们就象谈到一种品质恶劣的特殊的人。“其实这里给他们提供的条件很舒服，这在监狱里是少见的，”将军继续说。
他仿佛要证实自己的话，就详详细细列举为囚犯提供的舒服条件，仿佛他们的宗旨就是为囚犯安排舒适的居留地。
“以前确实相当艰苦，但现在他们在这儿得到很好的照顾。他们经常吃三道菜，而且总有肉吃：不是牛排就是肉饼。每逢礼拜天还要添一道菜，就是甜点心。啊，上帝保佑，但愿个个俄国人都能吃到这样的伙食！”
将军也象一切老年人那样，一旦遇到他要强调的事，总会反反复复讲上好几遍。此刻他想证明，那些囚犯都是贪得无厌，不知感恩的。
“我们给他们提供宗教书籍，还有旧杂志。在我们图书馆里适当的书有的是，可是他们难得去翻阅。开头他们似乎还感兴趣，后来新书倒有一半书页都没有裁开，旧书更没有人问津。我们还做过试验，”将军似笑非笑地说，“故意在书里夹上一些纸片。结果那些纸片都原封不动夹在里面。再有，这里也不禁止他们写字，”将军继续说。“发给他们石板，发给他们石笔，他们尽可以写写字消遣消遣。他们可以擦掉再写。可他们也不写。不，他们很快就完全定下心来。他们只是开头有点烦躁，后来甚至会慢慢发胖，变得十分安静，”将军说，根本没想到他的话其实是多么残酷。
聂赫留朵夫听着他那沙哑苍老的声音，瞧瞧他那僵直的手脚和白眉毛下暗淡无神的眼睛，又瞧瞧他那被军服直领撑住的皮肉松弛的光颧骨，以及他特别引以为荣的白十字章——那是因为极端残酷和血腥屠杀而获得的，——心里明白，反驳他或者揭穿他这话的实质，都是多余的。但他还是强自镇定，又问到另一个案子，打听囚犯舒斯托娃的情况，还说他今天得到消息，上面已下令要释放她了。
“舒斯托娃吗？舒斯托娃……我记不住所有犯人的名字。因为人数太多，”他说，显然责怪犯罪的人太多。他打了打铃，吩咐把办事员叫来。
将军趁办事员还没有来，就劝告聂赫留朵夫担任些差事，说什么凡是高尚正直的人（他自以为是其中的一个）都是皇上……“和祖国”所特别需要的。他加上“和祖国”三个字，显然只是为了说起来音调更动听罢了。
“我虽然老了，但还要尽力当好差。”
办事员瘦小而结实，生有一双聪明灵活的眼睛，走来报告说，舒斯托娃关在一个警卫森严的特殊地方，有关她的公文还没有收到。
“只要公文一下来，我们当天就把她释放。我们不会留住他们的，他们的光临我们并不太欢迎，”将军说，又试图现出调皮的微笑，结果只是使他的老脸显得更丑。
聂赫留朵夫起身告辞，竭力克制自己，免得流露出对这个可恶的老头又嫌恶又怜悯的复杂心情。老头儿呢，他则认为对老同事的这个轻浮而分明不走正路的儿子不必过分严厉，只要顺便教诲他几句就是了。
“再见，老弟，请勿见怪，我这是爱护您才说这话的。不要跟关在我们这里的人打交道。没有一个是无罪的。他们都是些道德败坏的人。我可了解他们了，”他用不容怀疑的口气说。他对这一点确实毫不怀疑，倒不是因为这是事实，而是因为不这样想，他就无法肯定自己是一位可敬的英雄，可以心安理得地过优裕的生活，而成了个出卖过良心、到了晚年还在继续出卖良心的无赖。“您最好还是去担任些差事，”他继续说。“皇上需要正直的人……祖国也需要正直的人，”他补充说。“嗯，要是我们这些人都象您那样不当差，那怎么得了？叫谁来干呢？我们动不动批评现在的制度，可自己又不愿帮政府的忙。”
聂赫留朵夫深深地叹了一口气，低低地鞠了一躬，握了握宽宏大量地向他伸出来的瘦骨嶙峋的大手，走出房间。
将军不以为然地摇摇头，揉揉腰，又走到会客室里。画家已把贞德灵魂的答复记录下来，正在那里等将军。老将军戴上夹鼻眼镜，念道：“他们相互认识是通过灵魂本身发出来的光。”
“啊，”将军闭上眼睛，赞许地说。“要是大家的光都是一样的，那又怎么认得清楚呢？”他问，又在小桌旁坐下来，手指同画家的手指夹在一起。
聂赫留朵夫的马车这时正好驶出大门。
“这地方真气闷哪，老爷，”马车夫对聂赫留朵夫说。“我本来想不等您出来就走掉。”
“是的，很气闷，”聂赫留朵夫同意道，深深地吸了一口气，如释重负地望望空中烟灰色的浮云，又望望涅瓦河上被小舟和轮船激起的银光闪闪的波浪。