payment of fares and all sorts of travelling expenses from the Crown, and to do anything the Government might require of him in return. To ruin hundreds of innocent people, to cause them to be imprisoned, to be exiled because of their love for their people and the religion of their fathers, as he had done in one of the governments of Poland when he was governor there. He did not consider it dishonourable, but even thought it a noble, manly and patriotic action. Nor did he consider it dishonest to rob his wife and sister-in-law, as he had done, but thought it a wise way of arranging his family life. His family consisted of his commonplace wife, his sister-in-law, whose fortune he had appropriated by selling her estate and putting the money to his account, and his meek, frightened, plain daughter, who lived a lonely, weary life, from which she had lately begun to look for relaxation in evangelicism, attending meetings at Aline's, and the Countess Katerina Ivanovna. Wolf's son, who had grown a beard at the age of 15, and had at that age begun to drink and lead a depraved life, which he continued to do till the age of 20, when he was turned out by his father because he never finished his studies, moved in a low set and made debts which committed the father. The father had once paid a debt of 250 roubles for his son, then another of 600 roubles, but warned the son that he did it for the last time, and that if the son did not reform he would be turned out of the house and all further intercourse between him and his family would he put a stop to. The son did not reform, but made a debt of a thousand roubles, and took the liberty of telling his father that life at home was a torment anyhow. Then Wolf declared to his son that he might go where he pleased—that he was no son of his any longer. Since then Wolf pretended he had no son, and no one at home dared speak to him about his son, and Vladimir Vasilievitch Wolf was firmly convinced that he had arranged his family life in the best way. Wolf stopped pacing up and down his study, and greeted Nekhludoff with a friendly though slightly ironical smile. This was his way of showing how comme il faut he was, and how superior to the majority of men. He read the note which Nekhludoff handed to him.
'Please take a seat, and excuse me if I continue to walk up and down, with your permission,' he said, putting his hands into his coat pockets, and began again to walk with light, soft steps across his large, quietly and stylishly furnished study. 'Very pleased to make your acquaintance and of course very glad to do anything that Count Ivan Michaelovitch wishes,' he said, blowing the fragrant blue smoke out of his mouth and removing his cigar carefully so as not to drop the ash.
'I should only like to ask that the case might come on soon, so that if the prisoner has to go to Siberia she might set off early,' said Nekhludoff.
'Yes, yes, with one of the first steamers from Nijni. I know,' said Wolf, with his patronising smile, always knowing in advance whatever one wanted to tell him.
'What is the prisoner's name?'
'Maslova.'
Wolf went up to the table and looked at a paper that lay on a piece of cardboard among other business papers.
'Yes, yes. Maslova. All right, I will ask the others. We shall hear the case on Wednesday.'
'Then may I telegraph to the advocate?'
'The advocate! What's that for? But if you like, why not?'
'The causes for appeal may be insufficient,' said Nekhludoff, 'but I think the case will show that the sentence was passed owing to a misunderstanding.'
'Yes, yes; it may be so, but the Senate cannot decide the case on its merits,' said Wolf, looking seriously at the ash of his cigar. 'The Senate only considers the exactness of the application of the laws and their right interpretation.'
'But this seems to me to be an exceptional case.'
'I know, I know! All cases are exceptional. We shall do our duty. That's all.' The ash was still holding on, but had began breaking, and was in danger of falling.
'Do you often come to Petersburg?' said Wolf, holding his cigar so that the ash should not fall. But the ash began to shake, and Wolf carefully carried it to the ashpan, into which it fell.
'What a terrible thing this is with regard to Kaminski,' he said. 'A splendid young man. The only son. Especially the mother's position,' he went on, repeating almost word for word what every one in Petersburg was at that time saying about Kaminski. Wolf spoke a little about the Countess Katerina Ivanovna and her enthusiasm for the new religious teaching, which he neither approved nor disapproved of, but which was evidently needless to him who was so comme il faut, and then rang the bell.
Nekhludoff bowed.
'If it is convenient, come and dine on Wednesday, and I will give you a decisive answer,' said Wolf, extending his hand.
It was late, and Nekhludoff returned to his aunt's.
CHAPTER XVII.
COUNTESS KATERINA IVANOVNA'S DINNER PARTY.
Countess Katerina Ivanovna's dinner hour was half-past seven, and the dinner was served in a new manner that Nekhludoff had not yet seen anywhere. After they had placed the dishes on the table the waiters left the room and the diners helped themselves. The men would not let the ladies take the trouble of moving, and, as befitted the stronger sex, they manfully took on themselves the burden of putting the food on the ladies' plates and of filling their glasses. When one course was finished, the Countess pressed the button of an electric bell fitted to the table and the waiters stepped in noiselessly and quickly carried away the dishes, changed the plates, and brought in the next course. The dinner was very refined, the wines very costly. A French chef was working in the large, light kitchens, with two white-clad assistants. There were six persons at dinner, the Count and Countess, their son (a surly officer in the Guards who sat with his elbows on the table), Nekhludoff, a French lady reader, and the Count's chief steward, who had come up from the country. Here, too, the conversation was about the duel, and opinions were given as to how the Emperor regarded the case. It was known that the Emperor was very much grieved for the mother's sake, and all were grieved for her, and as it was also known that the Emperor did not mean to be very severe to the murderer, who defended the honour of his uniform, all were also lenient to the officer who had defended the honour of his uniform. Only the Countess Katerina Ivanovna, with her free thoughtlessness, expressed her disapproval.
'They get drunk, and kill unobjectionable young men. I should not forgive them on any account,' she said.
'Now, that's a thing I cannot understand,' said the Count.
'I know that you never can understand what I say,' the Countess began, and turning to Nekhludoff, she added:
'Everybody understands except my husband. I say I am sorry for the mother, and I do not wish him to be contented, having killed a man.' Then her son, who had been silent up to then, took the murderer's part, and rudely attacked his mother, arguing that an officer could not behave in any other way, because his fellow-officers would condemn him and turn him out of the regiment. Nekhludoff listened to the conversation without joining in. Having been an officer himself, he understood, though he did not agree with, young Tcharsky's arguments, and at the same time he could not help contrasting the fate of the officer with that of a beautiful young convict whom he had seen in the prison, and who was condemned to the mines for having killed another in a fight. Both had turned murderers through drunkenness. The peasant had killed a man in a moment of irritation, and he was parted from his wife and family, had chains on his legs, and his head shaved, and was going to hard labour in Siberia, while the officer was sitting in a fine room in the guardhouse, eating a good dinner, drinking good wine, and reading books, and would be set free in a day or two to live as he had done before, having only become more interesting by the affair. Nekhludoff said what he had been thinking, and at first his aunt, Katerina Ivanovna, seemed to agree with him, but at last she became silent as the rest had done, and Nekhludoff felt that he had committed something akin to an impropriety. In the evening, soon after dinner, the large hall, with high-backed carved chairs arranged in rows as for a meeting, and an armchair next to a little table, with a bottle of water for the speaker, began to fill with people come to hear the foreigner, Kiesewetter, preach. Elegant equipages stopped at the front entrance. In the hall sat richly-dressed ladies in silks and velvets and lace, with false hair and false busts and drawn-in waists, and among them men in
