From Maslenikoff, Nekhludoff went directly to the prison and
approached the familiar apartments of the inspector. The sounds of a
tuneless piano again assailed his ears, but this time it was not a
rhapsody that was played, but a study by Clementi, and, as before,
with unusual force, precision and rapidity. The servant with a
handkerchief around one eye said that the captain was in, and showed
Nekhludoff into the small reception-room, in which was a lounge, a
table and a lamp, one side of the rose-colored shade of which was
scorched, standing on a knitted woolen napkin. The inspector appeared
with an expression of sadness and torment on his face.
"Glad to see you. What can I do for you?" he said, buttoning up the
middle button of his uniform.
"I went to the vice-governor, and here is my pass," said Nekhludoff,
handing him the document. "I would like to see Maslova."
"Markova?" asked the inspector, who could not hear him on account of
the music.
"Maslova."
"O, yes! O, yes!"
The inspector rose and approached the door through which Clementi's
roulade was heard.
"Marusia; if you would only stop for a little while," he said in a
voice which showed that this music was the cross of his life; "I
cannot hear anything."
The music ceased; discontented steps were heard, and some one looked
through the door.
The inspector, as if relieved by the cessation of the music, lit a
thick cigarette of light tobacco and offered one to Nekhludoff, which
he refused.
"Can Maslova----"
"It is not convenient to see Maslova to-day," said the inspector.
"Why?"
"It is your own fault," slightly smiling, said the inspector. "Prince,
you must not give her any money. If you wish to give her money, leave
it with me; I will keep it for her. You see, you must have given her
money yesterday, for she bought wine--it is hard to eradicate that
evil--and is intoxicated to-day. In fact, she became unruly."
"Is it possible?"
"Why, I even had to employ strict measures, had her transferred to
another cell. She is very tractable, but, please do not give her
money. That is their failing."
Nekhludoff quickly recalled the incident of yesterday, and he was
seized with fear.
"And may I see Bogodukhovskaia, the political?" Nekhludoff asked,
after some silence.
"Well, yes," said the inspector. "What are you doing here?" he turned
to a five-year-old girl who came into the room, walking toward her
father, her eyes riveted on Nekhludoff. "Look out, or you will fall,"
he said, smiling, as the little girl, walking with her head turned
toward Nekhludoff, tripped on the carpet and ran to her father.
"If she may be seen, I would go now."
"Oh yes; she may be seen, of course," said the inspector, embracing
the little girl, who was still looking at Nekhludoff. "All right----"
The inspector rose and gently turning the girl aside, walked into the
vestibule.
He had scarcely donned the overcoat handed him by the girl with the
bandaged eye and crossed the threshold when the distinct sounds of
Clementi's roulade broke out.
"She was at the Conservatory, but there is disorder in that
institution. But she is very gifted," said the inspector, walking down
the stairs. "She intends to appear at concerts."
The inspector and Nekhludoff neared the prison. The wicket immediately
opened at the approach of the inspector. The wardens standing to
attention followed him with their eyes. Four men with heads half
shaved, carrying large vessels, met him in the vestibule, and as they
spied him slunk back. One of them, in a particularly gloomy way, knit
his brow, his black eyes flashing fire.
"Of course, her talent must be perfected; it cannot be neglected. But
in a small apartment it is hard, you know," the inspector continued
the conversation without paying any attention to the prisoners, and
dragging his tired legs passed into the meeting-room, followed by
Nekhludoff.
"Whom do you wish to see?" asked the inspector.
"Bogodukhovskaia."
"That is from the tower. You will have to wait a little," he turned to
Nekhludoff.
"Couldn't you let me see, meantime, the prisoners Menshov--mother and
son--who are charged with incendiarism?"
"That is from cell 21. Why, yes; they may be called out."
"Would you allow me to see the son in his cell?"
"It is quieter in the meeting-room."
"But it is interesting to see him there."
"Interesting!"
At that moment a dashing officer, the inspector's assistant, appeared
at a side door.
"Conduct the Prince to Menshov's cell--No. 21," said the inspector to
his assistant. "Then show him to the office. And I will call--what is
her name?"
"Vera Bogodukhovskaia," said Nekhludoff.
The inspector's assistant was a light-haired young officer with dyed
mustache, who spread around him the odor of perfume.
"Follow me, please." He turned to Nekhludoff with a pleasant smile.
"Does our institution interest you?"
"Yes. And I am also interested in that man who, I was told, is
innocent." The assistant shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes, that may be," he said calmly, courteously admitting the guest
into the ill-smelling corridor. "But they also lie often. Walk in,
please."
The doors of the cells were open, and some prisoners stood in the
corridor. Slightly nodding to the wardens and looking askance at the
prisoners, who either pressed against the walls, entered their cells,
or, stopping at the doors, stood erect like soldiers, the assistant
escorted Nekhludoff through one corridor into another, on the left,
which was iron-bolted.
This corridor was darker and more ill-smelling than the first. There
was a row of cells on each side, the doors of which were locked. There
was a hole in each door--eyelet, so called--of about an inch in
diameter. There was no one in this corridor except an old warden with
a wrinkled, sad face.
"Where is Menshov's cell?" asked the assistant.
"The eighth one on the left."
"Are these occupied?" asked Nekhludoff.
"All but one."