Resurrection - Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (interesting novels in english .TXT) 📗

the overcoat which the maid helped him to put on, and before

he had reached the door, the distinct sounds of Clementi’s

roulades again began.

 

“She entered the Conservatoire, but there is such disorder there.

She has a great gift,” said the inspector, as they went down the

stairs. “She means to play at concerts.”

 

The inspector and Nekhludoff arrived at the prison. The gates

were instantly opened as they appeared. The jailers, with their

fingers lifted to their caps, followed the inspector with their

eyes. Four men, with their heads half shaved, who were carrying

tubs filled with something, cringed when they saw the inspector.

One of them frowned angrily, his black eyes glaring.

 

“Of course a talent like that must be developed; it would not do

to bury it, but in a small lodging, you know, it is rather hard.”

The inspector went on with the conversation, taking no notice of

the prisoners.

 

“Who is it you want to see?”

 

“Doukhova.”

 

“Oh, she’s in the tower. You’ll have to wait a little,” he said.

 

“Might I not meanwhile see the prisoners Menshoff, mother and

son, who are accused of incendiarism?”

 

“Oh, yes. Cell No. 21. Yes, they can be sent for.”

 

“But might I not see Menshoff in his cell?”

 

“Oh, you’ll find the waiting-room more pleasant.”

 

“No. I should prefer the cell. It is more interesting.”

 

“Well, you have found something to be interested in!”

 

Here the assistant, a smartly-dressed officer, entered the side

door.

 

“Here, see the Prince into Menshoff’s cell, No. 21,” said the

inspector to his assistant, “and then take him to the office. And

I’ll go and call—What’s her name? Vera Doukhova.”

 

The inspector’s assistant was young, with dyed moustaches, and

diffusing the smell of eau-de-cologne. “This way, please,” he

said to Nekhludoff, with a pleasant smile. “Our establishment

interests you?”

 

“Yes, it does interest me; and, besides, I look upon it as a duty

to help a man who I heard was confined here, though innocent.”

 

The assistant shrugged his shoulders.

 

“Yes, that may happen,” he said quietly, politely stepping aside

to let the visitor enter, the stinking corridor first. “But it

also happens that they lie. Here we are.”

 

The doors of the cells were open, and some of the prisoners were

in the corridor. The assistant nodded slightly to the jailers,

and cast a side glance at the prisoners, who, keeping close to

the wall, crept back to their cells, or stood like soldiers, with

their arms at their sides, following the official with their

eyes. After passing through one corridor, the assistant showed

Nekhludoff into another to the left, separated from the first by

an iron door. This corridor was darker, and smelt even worse than

the first. The corridor had doors on both sides, with little

holes in them about an inch in diameter. There was only an old

jailer, with an unpleasant face, in this corridor.

 

“Where is Menshoff?” asked the inspector’s assistant.

 

“The eighth cell to the left.”

 

“And these? Are they occupied?” asked Nekhludoff.

 

“Yes, all but one.”

 

CHAPTER LII.

 

NO. 21.

 

“May I look in?” asked Nekhludoff.

 

“Oh, certainly,” answered the assistant, smiling, and turned to

the jailer with some question.

 

Nekhludoff looked into one of the little holes, and saw a tall

young man pacing up and down the cell. When the man heard some

one at the door he looked up with a frown, but continued walking

up and down.

 

Nekhludoff looked into another hole. His eye met another large

eye looking out of the hole at him, and he quickly stepped aside.

In the third cell he saw a very small man asleep on the bed,

covered, head and all, with his prison cloak. In the fourth a

broad-faced man was sitting with his elbows on his knees and his

head low down. At the sound of footsteps this man raised his head

and looked up. His face, especially his large eyes, bore the

expression of hopeless dejection. One could see that it did not

even interest him to know who was looking into his cell. Whoever

it might be, he evidently hoped for nothing good from him.

Nekhludoff was seized with dread, and went to Menshoff’s cell,

No. 21, without stopping to look through any more holes. The

jailer unlocked the door and opened it. A young man, with long

neck, well-developed muscles, a small head, and kind, round eyes,

stood by the bed, hastily putting on his cloak, and looking at

the newcomers with a frightened face. Nekhludoff was specially

struck by the kind, round eyes that were throwing frightened and

inquiring glances in turns at him, at the jailer, and at the

assistant, and back again.

 

“Here’s a gentleman wants to inquire into your affair.”

 

“Thank you kindly.”

 

“Yes, I was told about you,” Nekhludoff said, going through the

cell up to the dirty grated window, “and I should like to hear

all about it from yourself.”

 

Menshoff also came up to the window, and at once started telling

his story, at first looking shyly at the inspector’s assistant,

but growing gradually bolder. When the assistant left the cell

and went into the corridor to give some order the man grew quite

bold. The story was told with the accent and in the manner common

to a most ordinary good peasant lad. To hear it told by a

prisoner dressed in this degrading clothing, and inside a prison,

seemed very strange to Nekhludoff. Nekhludoff listened, and at

the same time kept looking around him—at the low bedstead with

its straw mattress, the window and the dirty, damp wall, and the

piteous face and form of this unfortunate, disfigured peasant in

his prison cloak and shoes, and he felt sadder and sadder, and

would have liked not to believe what this good-natured fellow was

saying. It seemed too dreadful to think that men could do such a

thing as to take a man, dress him in convict clothes, and put him

in this horrible place without any reason only because he himself

had been injured. And yet the thought that this seemingly true

story, told with such a good-natured expression on the face,

might be an invention and a lie was still more dreadful. This was

the story: The village public-house keeper had enticed the young

fellow’s wife. He tried to get justice by all sorts of means. But

everywhere the public-house keeper managed to bribe the

officials, and was acquitted. Once, he took his wife back by

force, but she ran away next day. Then he came to demand her

back, but, though he saw her when he came in, the public-house

keeper told him she was not there, and ordered him to go away. He

would not go, so the public-house keeper and his servant beat him

so that they drew blood. The next day a fire broke out in the

public-house, and the young man and his mother were accused of

having set the house on fire. He had not set it on fire, but was

visiting a friend at the time.

 

“And it is true that you did not set it on fire?”

 

“It never entered my head to do it, sir. It must be my enemy that

did it himself. They say he had only just insured it. Then they

said it was mother and I that did it, and that we had threatened

him. It is true I once did go for him, my heart couldn’t stand it

any longer.”

 

“Can this be true?”

 

“God is my witness it is true. Oh, sir, be so good—” and

Nekhludoff had some difficulty to prevent him from bowing down to

the ground. “You see I am perishing without any reason.” His face

quivered and he turned up the sleeve of his cloak and began to

cry, wiping the tears with the sleeve of his dirty shirt.

 

“Are you ready?” asked the assistant.

 

“Yes. Well, cheer up. We will consult a good lawyer, and will do

what we can,” said Nekhludoff, and went out. Menshoff stood close

to the door, so that the jailer knocked him in shutting it, and

while the jailer was locking it he remained looking out through

the little hole.

 

CHAPTER LIII.

 

VICTIMS OF GOVERNMENT.

 

Passing back along the broad corridor (it was dinner time, and

the cell doors were open), among the men dressed in their light

yellow cloaks, short, wide trousers, and prison shoes, who were

looking eagerly at him, Nekhludoff felt a strange mixture of

sympathy for them, and horror and perplexity at the conduct of

those who put and kept them here, and, besides, he felt, he knew

not why, ashamed of himself calmly examining it all.

 

In one of the corridors, some one ran, clattering with his shoes,

in at the door of a cell. Several men came out from here, and

stood in Nekhludoff’s way, bowing to him.

 

“Please, your honour (we don’t know what to call you), get our

affair settled somehow.”

 

“I am not an official. I know nothing about it.”

 

“Well, anyhow, you come from outside; tell somebody—one of the

authorities, if need be,” said an indignant voice. “Show some

pity on us, as a human being. Here we are suffering the second

month for nothing.”

 

“What do you mean? Why?” said Nekhludoff.

 

“Why? We ourselves don’t know why, but are sitting here the

second month.”

 

“Yes, it’s quite true, and it is owing to an accident,” said the

inspector. “These people were taken up because they had no

passports, and ought to have been sent back to their native

government; but the prison there is burnt, and the local

authorities have written, asking us not to send them on. So we

have sent all the other passportless people to their different

governments, but are keeping these.”

 

“What! For no other reason than that?” Nekhludoff exclaimed,

stopping at the door.

 

A crowd of about forty men, all dressed in prison clothes,

surrounded him and the assistant, and several began talking at

once. The assistant stopped them.

 

“Let some one of you speak.”

 

A tall, good-looking peasant, a stone-mason, of about fifty,

stepped out from the rest. He told Nekhludoff that all of them

had been ordered back to their homes and were now being kept in

prison because they had no passports, yet they had passports

which were only a fortnight overdue. The same thing had happened

every year; they had many times omitted to renew their passports

till they were overdue, and nobody had ever said anything; but

this year they had been taken up and were being kept in prison

the second month, as if they were criminals.

 

“We are all masons, and belong to the same artel. We are told

that the prison in our government is burnt, but this is not our

fault. Do help us.”

 

Nekhludoff listened, but hardly understood what the good-looking

old man was saying, because his attention was riveted to a large,

dark-grey, many-legged louse that was creeping along the

good-looking man’s cheek.

 

“How’s that? Is it possible for such a reason?” Nekhludoff said,

turning to the assistant.

 

“Yes, they should have been sent off and taken back to their

homes,” calmly said the assistant, “but they seem to have been

forgotten or something.”

 

Before the assistant had finished, a small, nervous man, also in

prison dress, came out of the crowd, and, strangely contorting

his mouth, began to say that they were being illused for

nothing.

 

“Worse than dogs,” he began.

 

“Now, now; not too much of this. Hold your tongue, or you know—”