Resurrection

Author: (Russian) Leo Tolstoy
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2001-06-01
Features: "This is impossible," continued to himself, but at the same time, he undoubtedly understood that it was her, the adopted daughter and maid girl he had once loved sincerely, had fallen in love with her genuinely, but later had lured her as if possessed, abandoned her, and had not thought of her since, because the memories were too painful, they would clearly reveal his true nature, showing that he, a man proud of his integrity, had treated this woman not only unjustly but also utterly base and vile. Indeed, it was her. Now he could see that unique, mysterious quality that distinguished her face from others, making it unique, one-of-a-kind, and irreproducible. Although her face was unnaturally pale and had become fuller, this lovely, distinctive quality still lingered on her face, on her lips, in her slightly slanted eyes, especially in her innocent, smiling gaze. It was not only on her face but also in the submissive expression that radiated from her entire body. "You should have said so much earlier," the judge continued in an exceptionally gentle tone. "What is your patronymic?" "I am an illegitimate child," Maslova replied. "Then what is your patronymic according to your godfather?" "Mikhailovna." "What could she have possibly done wrong?" continued to ponder, his breathing slightly hurried. "What is your surname? What do others call you?" the judge asked. "According to my mother's surname, Maslova." "What is your background?" "Petty bourgeois." "Are you Orthodox?" "Orthodox." "What is your occupation? What kind of work do you do?" Maslova remained silent. "What kind of work?" the judge repeated. "In the institute," she said. "In what institute?" the judge with glasses asked sharply. "You yourself know what institute it is," Maslova said, smiling, but she glanced suddenly around the courtroom and fixed her gaze on the judge. A strange expression appeared on her face. In the meaning of her words, in her smile, and in her hurried glances around the courtroom, there was something both frightening and pitiful, and the judge could not help but lower his head. For a moment, the courtroom fell silent. The laughter of someone in the gallery broke the stillness. Someone shouted a "!" (sh!). The judge lifted his head and continued his questions: "Have you ever been tried or interrogated before?" "No," Maslova said softly, sighing. "Have you received a copy of the indictment?" "Yes." "Sit down," the judge said. The defendant, dressed in fine attire, adjusted the hem of her long skirt behind her as she rose and sat down, her small, pale hands clasped inside the sleeves of her prison uniform, still staring intently at the judge. After that, the court began to call witnesses, dismiss them, determine the forensic examiner, and bring the examiner to the stand. Then, the clerk stood up to read the indictment. He read it clearly and loudly, but too quickly—his "J" and "P" were indistinguishable, and as a result, he