The man in whose power it was to lighten the condition of the prisoners in St. Petersburg had earned a great number of medals, which, except for a white cross in his button-hole, he did not wear, however. The old general was of the German barons, and, as it was said of him, had become childish. He had served in the Caucasus, where he had received this cross; then in Poland and in some other place, and now he held the office which gave him good quarters, maintenance and honor. He always strictly carried out the orders of his superiors, and considered their execution of great importance and significance, so much so that while everything in the world could be changed, these orders, according to him, were above the possibility of any alteration.
As Nekhludoff was approaching the old general’s house the tower clock struck two. The general was at the time sitting with a young artist in the darkened reception-room, at a table, the top of which was of inlaid work, both of them turning a saucer on a sheet of paper. Holding each others fingers over the saucer, placed face downward, they pulled in different directions over the paper on which were printed all the letters of the alphabet. The saucer was answering the general’s question. How would souls recognize each other after death?
At the moment one of the servants entered with Nekhludoff’s card, the soul of Jeanne D’Arc was speaking through the saucer. The soul had already said, “They will recognize each other,” which was duly entered on a sheet of paper. When the servant entered, the saucer, stopping first on the letter p, then on the letter o, reached the letter s and began to jerk one way and another. That was because, as the general thought, the next letter was to be l, that is to say, Jeanne D’Arc, according to his idea, intended to say that souls would recognize each other only after they had been purged of everything mundane, or something to that effect, and that therefore the next letter ought to be l (posl, i. e., after); the artist, on the other hand, thought that the next letter would be v; that the soul intended to say that souls would recognize each other by the light—posv (ietu) that would issue from the ethereal body of the souls. The general, gloomily knitting his brow, gazed fixedly on the hands, and imagining that the saucer moved itself, pulled it toward the letter l. The young, anaemic artist, with his oily hair brushed behind his ears, looked into the dark corner of the room, with his blue, dull eyes, and nervously twitching his lips, pulled toward the letter v. The general frowned at the interruption, and, after a moment’s silence, took the card, put on his pince-nez and, groaning from pain in his loins, rose to his full height, rubbing his benumbed fingers.
“Show him into the cabinet.”
“Permit me, Your Excellency, to finish it myself,” said the artist, rising. “I feel a presence.”
“Very well; finish it,” said the general with austerity, and went, with firm, long strides, into the cabinet.
“Glad to see you,” said the general in a rough voice to Nekhludoff, pointing to an arm-chair near the desk. “How long have you been in St. Petersburg?”
Nekhludoff said that he had but lately arrived.
“Is your mother, the Princess, well?”
“My mother is dead.”
“Beg pardon; I was very sorry. My son told me that he had met you.”
The general’s son was making the same career as his father, and was very proud of the business with which he was entrusted.
“Why, I served with your father. We were friends, comrades. Are you in service?”
“No, I am not.”
The general disapprovingly shook his head.
“I have a request to make of you, general,” said Nekhludoff.
“Very glad. What can I do for you?”
“If my request be out of season, please forgive me. But I must state it.”
“What is it?”
“There is a man, Gurkevitch, kept in prison under your jurisdiction. His mother asks to be permitted to visit him, or, at least to send him books.”
The general expressed neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction at Nekhludoff’s request, but, inclining his head to one side, seemed to reflect. As a matter of fact he was not reflecting; Nekhludoff’s question did not even interest him, knowing very well that his answer would be as the law requires. He was simply resting mentally without thinking of anything.
“That is not in my discretion, you know,” he said, having rested awhile. “There is a law relating to visits, and whatever that law permits, that is permitted. And as to books, there is a library, and they are given such books as are allowed.”
“Yes, but he wants scientific books; he wishes to study.”