Resurrection
sad and solemn look, and left the room.
“What an affected fellow!” said the advocate’s wife, when he had gone
out.
In the ante-room the assistant handed him a ready-written petition,
and said that the fees, including the business with the Senate and the
commission, would come to 1,000 roubles, and explained that M. Fanarin
did not usually undertake this kind of business, but did it only to
oblige Nekhludoff.
“And about this petition. Who is to sign it?”
“The prisoner may do it herself, or if this is inconvenient, M. Fanarin
can, if he gets a power of attorney from her.”
“Oh, no. I shall take the petition to her and get her to sign it,” said
Nekhludoff, glad of the opportunity of seeing her before the appointed
day.
CHAPTER XLVI.
A PRISON FLOGGING.
At the usual time the jailer’s whistle sounded in the corridors of the
prison, the iron doors of the cells rattled, bare feet pattered, heels
clattered, and the prisoners who acted as scavengers passed along the
corridors, filling the air with disgusting smells. The prisoners washed,
dressed, and came out for revision, then went to get boiling water for
their tea.
The conversation at breakfast in all the cells was very lively. It was
all about two prisoners who were to be flogged that day. One, Vasiliev,
was a young man of some education, a clerk, who had killed his mistress
in a fit of jealousy. His fellow-prisoners liked him because he
was merry and generous and firm in his behaviour with the prison
authorities. He knew the laws and insisted on their being carried out.
Therefore he was disliked by the authorities. Three weeks before a
jailer struck one of the scavengers who had spilt some soup over his new
uniform. Vasiliev took the part of the scavenger, saying that it was not
lawful to strike a prisoner.
“I’ll teach you the law,” said the jailer, and gave Vasiliev a scolding.
Vasiliev replied in like manner, and the jailer was going to hit him,
but Vasiliev seized the jailer’s hands, held them fast for about three
minutes, and, after giving the hands a twist, pushed the jailer out of
the door. The jailer complained to the inspector, who ordered Vasiliev
to be put into a solitary cell.
The solitary cells were a row of dark closets, locked from outside, and
there were neither beds, nor chairs, nor tables in them, so that the
inmates had to sit or lie on the dirty floor, while the rats, of which
there were a great many in those cells, ran across them. The rats were
so bold that they stole the bread from the prisoners, and even attacked
them if they stopped moving. Vasiliev said he would not go into the
solitary cell, because he had not done anything wrong; but they used
force. Then he began struggling, and two other prisoners helped him to
free himself from the jailers. All the jailers assembled, and among them
was Petrov, who was distinguished for his strength. The prisoners got
thrown down and pushed into the solitary cells.
The governor was immediately informed that something very like a
rebellion had taken place. And he sent back an order to flog the two
chief offenders, Vasiliev and the tramp, Nepomnishy, giving each thirty
strokes with a birch rod. The flogging was appointed to take place in
the women’s interviewing-room.
All this was known in the prison since the evening, and it was being
talked about with animation in all the cells.
Korableva, Khoroshevka, Theodosia, and Maslova sat together in their
corner, drinking tea, all of them flushed and animated by the vodka they
had drunk, for Maslova, who now had a constant supply of vodka, freely
treated her companions to it.
“He’s not been a-rioting, or anything,” Korableva said, referring to
Vasiliev, as she bit tiny pieces off a lump of sugar with her strong
teeth. “He only stuck up for a chum, because it’s not lawful to strike
prisoners nowadays.”
“And he’s a fine fellow, I’ve heard say,” said Theodosia, who sat
bareheaded, with her long plaits round her head, on a log of wood
opposite the shelf bedstead on which the teapot stood.
“There, now, if you were to ask _him_,” the watchman’s wife said to
Maslova (by him she meant Nekhludoff).
“I shall tell him. He’ll do anything for me,” Maslova said, tossing her
head, and smiling.
“Yes, but when is he coming? and they’ve already gone to fetch them,”
said Theodosia. “It is terrible,” she added, with a sigh.
“I once did see how they flogged a peasant in the village.
Father-in-law, he sent me once to the village elder. Well, I went,
and there . . . “ The watchman’s wife began her long story, which was
interrupted by the sound of voices and steps in the corridor above them.
The women were silent, and sat listening.
“There they are, hauling him along, the devils!” Khoroshavka said.
“They’ll do him to death, they will. The jailers are so enraged with him
because he never would give in to them.”
All was quiet again upstairs, and the watchman’s wife finished her story
of how she was that frightened when she went into the barn and saw
them flogging a peasant, her inside turned at the sight, and so on.
Khoroshevka related how Schegloff had been flogged, and never uttered
a sound. Then Theodosia put away the tea things, and Korableva and the
watchman’s wife took up their sewing. Maslova sat down on the bedstead,
with her arms round her knees, dull and depressed. She was about to lie
down and try to sleep, when the woman warder called her into the office
to see a visitor.
“Now, mind, and don’t forget to tell him about us,” the old woman
(Menshova) said, while Maslova was arranging the kerchief on her head
before the dim looking-glass. “We did not set fire to the house, but he
himself, the fiend, did it; his workman saw him do it, and will not damn
his soul by denying it. You just tell to ask to see my Mitri. Mitri
will tell him all about it, as plain as can be. Just think of our being
locked up in prison when we never dreamt of any ill, while he, the
fiend, is enjoying himself at the pub, with another man’s wife.”
“That’s not the law,” remarked Korableva.
“I’ll tell him--I’ll tell him,” answered Maslova. “Suppose I have
another drop, just to keep up courage,” she added, with a wink; and
Korableva poured out half a cup of vodka, which Maslova drank. Then,
having wiped her mouth and repeating the words “just to keep up
courage,” tossing her head and smiling gaily, she followed the warder
along the corridor.
CHAPTER XLVII.
NEKHLUDOFF AGAIN VISITS MASLOVA.
Nekhludoff had to wait in the hall for a long time. When he had arrived
at the prison and rung at the entrance door, he handed the permission of
the Procureur to the jailer on duty who met him.
“No, no,” the jailer on duty said hurriedly, “the inspector is engaged.”
“In the office?” asked Nekhludoff.
“No, here in the interviewing-room.”.
“Why, is it a visiting day to-day?”
“No; it’s special business.”
“I should like to see him. What am I to do?” said Nekhludoff.
“When the inspector comes out you’ll tell him--wait a bit,” said the
jailer.
At this moment a sergeant-major, with a smooth, shiny face and
moustaches impregnated with tobacco smoke, came out of a side door, with
the gold cords of his uniform glistening, and addressed the jailer in a
severe tone.
“What do you mean by letting any one in here? The office. . . .”
“I was told the inspector was here,” said Nekhludoff, surprised at the
agitation he noticed in the sergeant-major’s manner.
At this moment the inner door opened, and Petrov came out, heated and
perspiring.
“He’ll remember it,” he muttered, turning to the sergeant major. The
latter pointed at Nekhludoff by a look, and Petrov knitted his brows and
went out through a door at the back.
“Who will remember it? Why do they all seem so confused? Why did the
sergeant-major make a sign to him?” Nekhludoff thought.
The sergeant-major, again addressing Nekhludoff, said: “You cannot meet
here; please step across to the office.” And Nekhludoff was about to
comply when the inspector came out of the door at the back, looking even
more confused than his subordinates, and sighing continually. When he
saw Nekhludoff he turned to the jailer.
“Fedotoff, have Maslova, cell 5, women’s ward, taken to the office.”
“Will you come this way, please,” he said, turning to Nekhludoff. They
ascended a steep staircase and entered a little room with one window, a
writing-table, and a few chairs in it. The inspector sat down.
“Mine are heavy, heavy duties,” he remarked, again addressing
Nekhludoff, and took out a cigarette.
“You are tired, evidently,” said Nekhludoff.
“Tired of the whole of the service--the duties are very trying. One
tries to lighten their lot and only makes it worse; my only thought is
how to get away. Heavy, heavy duties!”
Nekhludoff did not know what the inspector’s particular difficulties
were, but he saw that to-day he was in a peculiarly dejected and
hopeless condition, calling for pity.
“Yes, I should think the duties were heavy for a kind-hearted man,” he
said. “Why do you serve in this capacity?”
“I have a family.”
“But, if it is so hard--”
“Well, still you know it is possible to be of use in some measure; I
soften down all I can. Another in my place would conduct the affairs
quite differently. Why, we have more than 2,000 persons here. And what
persons! One must know how to manage them. It is easier said than done,
you know. After all, they are also men; one cannot help pitying them.”
The inspector began telling Nekhludoff of a fight that had lately taken
place among the convicts, which had ended by one man being killed.
The story was interrupted by the entrance of Maslova, who was
accompanied by a jailer.
Nekhludoff saw her through the doorway before she had noticed the
inspector. She was following the warder briskly, smiling and tossing her
head. When she saw the inspector she suddenly changed, and gazed at
him with a frightened look; but, quickly recovering, she addressed
Nekhludoff boldly and gaily.
“How d’you do?” she said, drawling out her words, and smilingly took his
hand and shook it vigorously, not like the first time.
“Here, I’ve brought you a petition to sign,” said Nekhludoff, rather
surprised by the boldness with which she greeted him to-day.
“The advocate has written out a petition which you will have to sign,
and then we shall send it to Petersburg.”
“All right! That can be done. Anything you like,” she said, with a wink
and a smile.
And Nekhludoff drew a folded paper from his pocket and went up to the
table.
“May she sign it here?” asked Nekhludoff, turning to the inspector.
“It’s all right, it’s all right! Sit down. Here’s a pen; you can write?”
said the inspector.
“I could at one time,” she said; and, after arranging her skirt and the
sleeves of her jacket, she sat down at the table, smiled awkwardly, took
the pen with her small, energetic hand, and glanced at Nekhludoff with a
laugh.
Nekhludoff told her what to write and pointed out the place where to
sign.
Sighing deeply as she dipped her pen into the ink, and carefully shaking
some drops off the pen, she wrote her name.
“Is it all?” she asked, looking from Nekhludoff to the inspector, and
putting the pen now on the inkstand, now on the papers.
“I have a few words to tell you,” Nekhludoff said, taking the pen from
her.
“All right; tell me,” she said. And suddenly, as if remembering
something, or feeling sleepy, she grew serious.
The inspector rose and left the room, and Nekhludoff remained with her.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
MASLOVA REFUSES TO MARRY.
The jailer who had brought Maslova in sat on a windowsill at some
distance from them.
The decisive moment had come for Nekhludoff. He had been incessantly