23

‘BY the way, where are you staying?’ asked the general, seeing Nekhlyudov off. ‘At Dukov’s? It’s just as bad there as anywhere else. Come and dine with us. We dine at five. Do you speak English?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Splendid. We have an English traveller here, don’t you see. He is making a study of the exile system and prison in Siberia. We are expecting him to dinner this evening, and you must come, too. Don’t forget, we dine at five and my wife insists on punctuality. By that time I shall be able to give you an answer about the woman and also about the man who is ill. Maybe it will be possible to let someone stay behind with him.’

After taking leave of the general, Nekhlyudov, feeling exhilarated and full of energy, went to the post-office.

The post-office was a low vaulted room. Clerks seated at desks were serving a crowd of people. One official, with his head on one side, was stamping letters, slipping the envelopes quickly and dexterously under the die. Nekhlyudov did not have to wait long: as soon as they heard his name quite a large bundle of correspondence was handed over to him – money, letters, books and the latest number of the European Messenger. Having received his post, Nekhlyudov went over to a wooden bench, where a soldier was sitting with a book in his hand waiting for something, and sat down by his side to look through his letters. Among them was one registered letter in a stout envelope with a clean impression on the bright red sealing-wax. He broke the seal and seeing a letter from Selyenin enclosing an official communication he felt the blood rush to his face and his heart stood still. It was the decision in Katusha’s case. What would the answer be? Surely not a rejection? Nekhlyudov glanced hurriedly through the letter, written in an illegibly small, firm, cramped hand, and breathed a sigh of relief. The answer was a favourable one.

‘My dear friend,’ wrote Selyenin,

Our last conversation made a deep impression on me. You were right about Maslova. I went over the case carefully and saw that a shocking injustice had been done her. It could be remedied only by the Appeals’ Committee where you entered an appeal. I succeeded in influencing the decision and am now sending you a copy of the mitigation of sentence to the address given me by your aunt, Countess Katerina Ivanovna. The original document has been dispatched to the place of Maslova’s confinement during the trial, and, no doubt, will be forwarded at once to the Siberian Central Office. I hasten to communicate this glad news to you.

Yours ever,

Selyenin.      

The contents of the document itself ran as follows:

His Imperial Majesty’s Office for the Reception of Appeals addressed to the Sovereign. Case No. So-and-so. Division No. Such and such. Reference No. — Such and such a date and year. By order of the Chief of His Majesty’s Office for the Reception of Appeals addressed to His Imperial Majesty – Citizen Katerina Maslova is hereby informed that in consequence of the most humble report made to him, His Imperial Majesty deigns to grant the request of the said Maslova and graciously commands that her sentence to hard labour be commuted to one of exile to some less remote region of Siberia.

It was indeed joyful and important news: everything that Nekhlyudov could have hoped for for Katusha, and for himself as well, had come to pass. True, the change in her circumstances brought new complications to his relations with her. While she was a convict the marriage he offered her could be one in name only and would have had no meaning except that he would be in a position to alleviate her condition. But now there was nothing to prevent their living together. And for this Nekhlyudov was unprepared. Besides, what about her relations with Simonson? What did those words she had spoken yesterday really mean? And supposing she were to consent to marry Simonson, would that be a good thing or a bad thing? He was completely unable to unravel all these conundrums, so he gave up thinking about them. ‘It will all clear itself up later on,’ he said to himself. ‘Now I must try and see her as soon as possible and tell her the glad news and have her set free.’ He imagined that the copy he had in his hands would suffice for that. And leaving the post-office he told the cabby to drive him to the prison.

Although he had received no permit from the general to visit the prison that morning, Nekhlyudov knew by experience that what the higher authorities categorically refuse can often be obtained very easily from their subordinates, so he decided that he would at all events make an attempt to get into the prison to give Katusha the joyful news, and perhaps have her set free. At the same time he could find out how Kryltsov was and tell him and Marya Pavlovna what the general had said.

The superintendent of the prison was a very tall stout imposing-looking man with moustaches and side-whiskers that curved round towards the corners of his mouth. His manner was stern in the extreme, and he at once informed Nekhlyudov flatly that he could not grant an outsider permission to interview the prisoners without a special order from his chief. To Nekhlyudov’s remark that he had been allowed to even in the capitals he answered:

‘Very likely, but I do not allow it,’ and his tone implied,

‘You city gentlemen think you can awe and disconcert us; but even if we do live in Eastern Siberia we know the rules and regulations and can teach you a thing or two!’

Nor did the copy of a document straight from the Private Chancery of His Imperial Majesty have any effect on the superintendent. He categorically refused to allow Nekhlyudov inside the prison walls. And to Nekhlyudov’s naïve supposition that Maslova might be liberated upon presentation of the said copy he merely smiled contemptuously, remarking that a direct order from his immediate superior would be needed before anyone could be set free. All that he would promise was to inform Maslova of the mitigation of her sentence, and not detain her for a single hour after the order for her release was received.

He likewise refused to give any information concerning Kryltsov’s condition, declaring that he could not even say whether there was a convict of that name in the prison. And so, with nothing accomplished, Nekhlyudov returned to his cabby and drove back to the hotel.

The severity of the superintendent was mainly due to the fact that an epidemic of typhus had broken out in the prison, which was overcrowded to double its normal capacity. The cabby told Nekhlyudov as they drove along that ‘people were dying like flies in the prison. Some sort of sickness it was. Burying up to twenty or more a day, they were.’