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.