51

NEKHLYUDOV drove straight from Maslennikov’s to the prison and went to the superintendent’s apartments which were now familiar to him. Again, as on the previous occasion, he heard sounds coming from an inferior piano but this time it was not a rhapsody that was being played but exercises by Clementi, with the same unusual vigour, distinctness and rapidity. The servant with the bandaged eye, who opened the door, said that the superintendent was in, and showed Nekhlyudov into a small drawing-room, where there was a sofa and, on the table in front of it, a large lamp with a pink paper shade scorched on one side, standing on a crochet mat of wool The superintendent entered with a careworn gloomy face.

‘Please take a seat. What can I do for you?’ he said, buttoning the middle button of his uniform.

‘I have just come from the deputy-governor, and have this order from him,’ said Nekhlyudov, handing him the paper. ‘I should like to see the prisoner Maslova.’

‘Markova?’ queried the superintendent, not catching what he said because of the music.

‘Maslova.’

‘Ohyes! Oh yes!’

The superintendent got up and went to the door whence proceeded Clementi’s roulades.

‘Marusya, can’t you stop just a minute?’ he said, in a voice that showed that her music was the bane of his life. ‘We can’t hear ourselves speak.’

The piano was silenced; peevish steps were heard and someone looked in at the door.

The superintendent, apparently relieved now that the music had stopped, lit a fat cigarette of mild tobacco and offered one to Nekhlyudov. Nekhlyudov declined it.

‘So, as I say, I should like to see Maslova.’

‘It is not convenient for you to see Maslova today,’ said the superintendent.

‘How’s that?’

‘Well, I’m afraid it’s your own fault,’ said the superintendent with a slight smile. ‘Prince, don’t give her money. If you wish, give it to me. I will keep it for her. But no doubt you gave her money yesterday, and she got hold of some vodka (it is an evil we cannot manage to root out) and today she is quite tipsy, even violent.’

‘Is it possible?’

‘Indeed it is. I was even obliged to use severe measures, and transfer her to another cell. In the ordinary way she’s a quiet woman, but I beg you, don’t give her money. These people are like that…’

Nekhlyudov instantly recalled what had happened the day before, and again a feeling of horror came over him.

‘What about Bogodoukhovskaya, a political prisoner – may I see her?’ he asked after a moment’s pause.

‘Certainly. That’s all right,’ said the superintendent. ‘Well, what do you want here?’ he added, turning to a little girl, five or six years old, who had come into the room and was walking towards her father, twisting her head round so as to keep her eyes fixed on Nekhlyudov. ‘Mind, you’ll fall,’ cried the superintendent, smiling as the little girl, not looking where she was going, caught her foot in a rug and ran up to him.

‘Well, then, if I may, I should like to go straightaway.’

‘Oh yes,’ said the superintendent, putting his arms round the child, who was still gazing at Nekhlyudov. Then he got up, gently removed the little girl, and went into the anteroom.

The superintendent had hardly got into his overcoat, which the servant with the bandaged eye handed to him, and gone through the door before Clementi’s precise roulades began again.

‘She was at the Conservatoire, but it’s such a muddle there. She has great talent, though,’ said the superintendent, as they went down the stairs. ‘She hopes to be a concert pianist.’

The superintendent and Nekhlyudov walked over to the prison. The wicket gate flew open at the superintendent’s approach. The warders, their fingers lifted to their caps, followed him with their eyes. In the corridor four men, with half-shaven heads, who were carrying tubs filled with something, shrank back when they saw him. One of them crouched down in a peculiar way and scowled darkly, his black eyes glaring.

‘Of course, talent like that must be developed, it would be wrong to bury it, but in a small house, you know, it can be pretty hard,’ the superintendent continued the conversation, taking no notice of the prisoners, and, dragging weary feet, accompanied by Nekhlyudov, he walked into the assembly hall.

‘Who is it you want to see?’

‘Bogodoukhovskaya.’

‘Oh, she’s in the tower. You’ll have to wait a little,’ he turned to Nekhlyudov.

‘Then in the meantime couldn’t I see the Menshovs, mother and son, who are accused of arson?’

‘That’s cell twenty-one. Yes, they can be sent for.’

‘But mayn’t I see Menshov in his cell?’

‘Oh, it’ll be pleasanter for you in the visiting-room.’

‘No, I should be interested to see the cell.’

‘Well, you have found something to be interested in!’

Just then a foppish young officer, the assistant superintendent, came in from a side-door.

‘Here, escort the prince to Menshov’s cell. Number twenty-one,’ the superintendent said to his assistant, ‘And then take him to the office. While I summon the woman – what’s her name?’

‘Vera Bogodoukhovskaya,’ said Nekhlyudov.

The superintendent’s assistant was a fair-haired young man with dyed moustaches, who diffused the scent of eau-de-cologne.

‘This way, sir,’ he said to Nekhlyudov with a pleasant smile. ‘Our establishment interests you?’

‘Yes, and I am interested in this man, who, I am told, is here through no fault of his own.’

The assistant shrugged his shoulders.

‘Yes, that does happen,’ he said quietly, politely allowing the visitor to pass before him into the foul-smelling corridor. ‘But you can’t believe all they say, either. This way, please.’

The cell doors were open and some of the prisoners were in the corridor. With a slight nod to the warders, and a rapid side-glance at the prisoners, who went back, to their cells, keeping close to the wall, or else, with hands pressed to their sides like soldiers, stood gazing after them, the assistant guided Nekhlyudov along the corridor into another on the left, separated from the first by an iron door.

This corridor was narrower, darker and smelt even worse than the first. On both sides were padlocked doors, each having a little hole in it about an inch in diameter, called a peep-hole. There was no one in this corridor except an old gaoler with a melancholy wrinkled face.

‘Which is Menshov’s cell?’ asked the superintendent’s assistant.

‘The eighth on the left.’