Resurrection
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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.”
“You are tired, evidently,” said Nekhludoff.
“Yes, I should think the duties were heavy for a kind-hearted man,” he said. “Why do you serve in this capacity?”
“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.
“Why, is it a visiting day to-day?”
“Who will remember it? Why do they all seem so confused? Why did the sergeant-major make a sign to him?” Nekhludoff thought.
“When the inspector comes out you’ll tell him—wait a bit,” said the jailer.
“What do you mean by letting any one in here? The office. . . .”
“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.
“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!”
“The advocate has written out a petition which you will have to sign, and then we shall send it to Petersburg.”
“No; it’s special business.”
“No, here in the interviewing-room.”.
“Mine are heavy, heavy duties,” he remarked, again addressing Nekhludoff, and took out a cigarette.
“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.
“Is it all?” she asked, looking from Nekhludoff to the inspector, and putting the pen now on the inkstand, now on the papers.
“In the office?” asked Nekhludoff.
“I was told the inspector was here,” said Nekhludoff, surprised at the agitation he noticed in the sergeant-major’s manner.
“I should like to see him. What am I to do?” said Nekhludoff.
“I have a few words to tell you,” Nekhludoff said, taking the pen from her.
“I have a family.”
“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.
“How d’you do?” she said, drawling out her words, and smilingly took his hand and shook it vigorously, not like the first time.
“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.
“Here, I’ve brought you a petition to sign,” said Nekhludoff, rather surprised by the boldness with which she greeted him to-day.
“Fedotoff, have Maslova, cell 5, women’s ward, taken to the office.”
“But, if it is so hard—”
“All right; tell me,” she said. And suddenly, as if remembering something, or feeling sleepy, she grew serious.
“All right! That can be done. Anything you like,” she said, with a wink and a smile.
The story was interrupted by the entrance of Maslova, who was accompanied by a jailer.
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.
Sighing deeply as she dipped her pen into the ink, and carefully shaking some drops off the pen, she wrote her name.
Nekhludoff told her what to write and pointed out the place where to sign.
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.
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.
At this moment the inner door opened, and Petrov came out, heated and perspiring.
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.
And Nekhludoff drew a folded paper from his pocket and went up to the table.
The inspector rose and left the room, and Nekhludoff remained with her.