16

COMMANDING voices were heard from the next cell, then silence, and immediately afterwards the sergeant entered with two convoy soldiers. It was the roll-call. The sergeant counted everyone, pointing his finger at each in turn. When he came to Nekhlyudov he said with good-natured familiarity:

‘Now, prince, you can’t stay after roll-call. It’s time for you to go.’

Knowing what this meant, Nekhlyudov went up to him and slipped a three-rouble note, which he had ready, into his hand.

‘Ah, well, what can I do with you? Stay a bit longer if you like.’

As he was going out another sergeant came in, followed by a tall thin convict with a bruise under his eye and a scant beard.

‘I’ve come to see about the little girl,’ he said.

‘There’s Daddy!’ cried a clear small voice, and a flaxen head appeared from behind Rantseva, who, with Katusha’s and Marya Pavlovna’s help was making a new frock for the child out of a skirt Rantseva had provided.

‘Yes, little one, here I am,’ said Buzovkin tenderly.

‘She is quite happy here,’ said Marya Pavlovna, looking with pity at Buzovkin’s bruised face. ‘Let her stay with us.’

‘The ladies are making me new clothes,’ said the child, pointing to Rantseva’s sewing. ‘A fine wed fwock,’ she lisped.

‘Would you like to sleep here with us tonight?’ Rantseva asked, caressing the little girl.

‘Yes, I would. And Daddy, too.’

A smile lit up Rantseva’s face.

‘No, Daddy can’t. We’ll keep her, then,’ she said, turning to the father.

‘All right, you may leave her,’ said the sergeant, pausing in the doorway before he went out with the other sergeant.

As soon as the guards had gone Nabatov went up to Buzovkin and tapping him on the shoulder asked:

‘I say, old man, is it true that Karmanov wants to change places?’

Buzovkin’s kindly gentle face suddenly grew sad and his eyes clouded.

‘We have not heard. I should hardly think so,’ he said, and, his eyes still dim, added: ‘Well, Aksyutka, it seems you’re to hold court with the ladies,’ and hurriedly went out.

‘He knows quite well it’s true about the exchange,’ said Nabatov. ‘What will you do about it?’

‘I will inform the commanding officer in the next town. I know both prisoners by sight,’ said Nekhlyudov.

No one spoke, afraid apparently that the controversy might flare up again.

Simonson, who had remained silent all the evening, lying in a corner with his hands behind his head, rose with a look of determination and, carefully walking round the others who were sitting on the benches, went up to Nekhlyudov.

‘May I have a talk with you now?’

‘Certainly,’ said Nekhlyudov, and rose to follow him.

Looking at Nekhlyudov as he was getting up, and her eyes meeting his, Katusha blushed and shook her head as though at a loss.

‘What I want to speak to you about is this,’ Simonson began when they were outside in the passage, where the drone of voices and sudden shouts among the criminal prisoners were particularly audible. Nekhlyudov frowned, but the noise did not seem to disturb Simonson. ‘Knowing of your friendship with Katusha Maslova,’ he went on in an earnest straightforward way, his kind eyes looking directly into Nekhlyudov’s, ‘I consider it my duty –’ he continued, but had to stop because two voices were heard quarrelling and shouting, both at once, at the other side of the door.

‘I tell you, you fool, they’re not mine!’ shouted one voice.

‘I hope you choke, you devil!’ the other wheezed back.

At this point Marya Pavlovna came out into the passage.

‘You can’t talk here,’ she said. ‘Go in there. There’s no one but Vera there.’ And she led the way through a nearby door into a tiny room, evidently meant for a solitary cell and now set aside for the women political prisoners. Vera Bogodou-khovskaya was lying on a bunk, a blanket drawn over her head.

‘She’s got a sick headache, and is asleep, so she can’t hear you; and I’ll go away,’ said Marya Pavlovna.

‘On the contrary, please stay,’ said Simonson. ‘I have no secrets from anyone, and least of all from you.’

‘Very well,’ said Marya Pavlovna, and moving her whole body from side to side, the way a child does, to get farther back on the bunk, she settled down to listen, her beautiful lamb-like eyes gazing in front of her.

‘Well, then, this is what I have to say,’ Simonson repeated. ‘Knowing your friendship with Katusha Maslova, I consider it my duty to inform you of my own relationship with her.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Nekhlyudov, who could not help admiring the simple frankness with which Simonson spoke to him.

‘I mean that I should like to marry Katusha Maslova – ’

‘Amazing!’ said Marya Pavlovna, fixing her eyes on Simonson.

‘… and I have made up my mind to ask her to be my wife,’ Simonson continued.

‘But what can I do? It depends on her,’ said Nekhlyudov.

‘Yes, but she will not come to any decision without you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because so long as the question of your relations with her is not finally settled she cannot make up her mind on anything.’

‘It is definitely settled so far as I am concerned. I wanted to do what I regarded as my duty, and I also wanted to make life easier for her. But I would not, on any account, stand in her way.’

‘That may be, but she does not want your sacrifice.’

‘It is no sacrifice.’

‘That decision of hers is final, I know.’

‘Well, then, what is it you are talking to me about?’ said Nekhlyudov.

‘She must be sure that you feel as she does.’

‘But how can I say that I ought not to perform a duty when I know I ought to? All I can say is that I am not a free agent but she is.’

Simonson was silent, plunged in thought.

‘Very well, I’ll tell her. Don’t imagine that I am infatuated with her,’ he continued. ‘I respect and admire her as a splendid unique human being who has suffered much. I need nothing from her, but I long with all my heart to help her, to lighten her bur –’

Nekhlyudov was surprised to hear the tremor in Simonson’s voice.

‘To lighten her burden,’ Simonson went on. ‘If she is unwilling to accept your help, let her accept mine. If she agreed, I would petition to be exiled to the same place with her. Four years are not an eternity. I would stay near her and perhaps I could make her lot easier.…’ Again he stopped, too agitated to continue.

‘What can I say?’ said Nekhlyudov. ‘I am glad she has found someone like you to protect her…’

‘That is exactly what I wanted to know,’ interrupted Simonson. ‘I was anxious to know whether, loving her as you do and wanting her happiness, you would consider our marriage a good thing?’

‘Oh yes,’ Nekhlyudov replied emphatically.

‘I am concerned only about her. I only long to give her rest from her sufferings,’ said Simonson, gazing at Nekhlyudov with an expression of childlike tenderness, totally unexpected in a man who looked so morose.

Simonson got to his feet, took Nekhlyudov’s hand, put his face close to him and, with a shy smile, embraced him.

‘I shall tell her,’ he said, and went away.