47

NEKHLYUDOV had been waiting in the hall for some time.

When he arrived at the prison he rang at the main door and handed the warder on duty the pass he had received from the public prosecutor.

‘Who do you want to see?’

‘The prisoner Maslova.’

‘You can’t now: the superintendent’s busy.’

‘Is he in his office?’ asked Nekhlyudov.

‘No, he’s here in the visiting-room,’ the warder replied, and Nekhlyudov thought he seemed embarrassed,

‘Why, this isn’t a visiting day, is it?’

‘No, it’s special business.’

‘When can I see him then?’

‘When he comes out, you can speak to him then. Wait a bit.’

At this point a sergeant-major with a smooth shiny face, and moustaches impregnated with tobacco smoke, came in through a side door, the gold stripes on his uniform glistening, and sharply addressed the warder.

‘What do you mean by letting anyone in here?… The office –’

‘I was told the superintendent was here,’ said Nekhlyudov, wondering at the signs of uneasiness noticeable in the sergeant-major too.

Just then the inner door opened and Petrov came out, hot and perspiring.

‘He’ll not forget that in a hurry,’ he said to the sergeant-major.

The sergeant-major indicated Nekhlyudov with a glance, and Petrov said no more but frowned and went out through a door at the back.

‘Who will not forget in a hurry? Why are you all so embarrassed? Why did the sergeant-major make that sign to him?’ wondered Nekhlyudov.

‘You cannot wait here. Please step across to the office,’ said the sergeant-major, addressing Nekhlyudov again, and Nekhlyudov was about to go when the superintendent came through the door at the back, looking even more agitated than his subordinates. He was sighing all the time. When he saw Nekhlyudov he turned to the gaoler.

‘Fedotov, have Maslova, cell 5, Women’s Section, brought to the office.’

‘Will you come this way, please,’ he said to Nekhlyudov. They climbed up a steep staircase into a small room with one window, a writing-table and a few chairs. The superintendent sat down.

‘Mine is a heavy responsibility, very heavy,’ he remarked, taking out a fat cigarette and turning to Nekhlyudov.

‘I can see you are tired,’ said Nekhlyudov.

‘Tired of the whole business – my duties are very trying. You endeavour to alleviate their lot and only make it worse. My one thought now is how to get away. The responsibilities are very, very heavy.’

Nekhlyudov did not know what the superintendent’s particular difficulty was, but he saw that today he was in a singularly dejected, hopeless mood, which evoked his sympathy.

‘Yes, I should think they are very heavy,’ he said, ‘but why do you stay here?’

‘I have a family, and no other means.’

‘But if you find it so painful…’

‘Well, still, you know – in a way I do some good. I make things easier whenever I can. Another man in my place would do quite differently. Why, we have over two thousand people here. And what people! One has to know how to deal with them. It is easier said than done, you know. And after all, they’re human beings, you can’t help feeling sorry for them. And yet you can’t be too lenient.’

The superintendent began telling Nekhlyudov about a recent brawl among the prisoners, which had ended in one man being killed.

His story was interrupted by the arrival of Maslova preceded by a warden.

Nekhlyudov saw her in the doorway before she noticed the superintendent. Her face was flushed and she walked briskly behind the warder, smiling and tossing her head. When she saw the superintendent she gazed at him with a frightened face, but immediately recovered herself and addressed Nekhlyudov boldly and gaily.

‘How d’you do?’ she said in a drawling voice, smiling as she spoke, and grasped his hand firmly, not like the first time.

‘I have brought you a petition to sign,’ said Nekhlyudov, somewhat surprised at the bolder mariner with which she greeted him today. ‘The lawyer has drawn up this petition which you must sign, and then we will send it to Petersburg.’

‘All right, I don’t mind signing. Anything you like,’ she said, screwing up one eye and smiling.

Nekhlyudov drew a folded paper from his pocket and went up to the table.

‘May she sign it here?’ asked Nekhlyudov, turning to the superintendent. ‘Here’s a pen for you. Can you write?’

‘Come here and sit down,’ said the superintendent.

‘I could once upon a time,’ she said, and smiling and arranging her skirt and the sleeves of her jacket she sat down at the table, took the pen awkwardly in her small energetic hand, and glanced up at Nekhlyudov with a laugh.

He showed her where and what to write.

Carefully dipping her pen into the ink and shaking off a drop or two, she signed her name.

‘Is that all you want?’ she asked, looking from Nekhlyudov to the superintendent and putting the pen first into the inkwell, then on to some sheets of paper.

‘I have something to say to you,’ said Nekhlyudov, taking the pen from her hand.

‘All right, tell me,’ she said; and suddenly, as if remembering something or feeling sleepy, she began to look serious.

The superintendent rose and went out of the room, and Nekhlyudov was left face to face with her.