Resurrection by Leo Tolstoy (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕

“It’s not very convenient to see Máslova today,” said the inspector.

“How’s that?”

“Well, you know, it’s all your own fault,” said the inspector, with a slight smile. “Prince, give her no money into her hands. If you like, give it me. I will keep it for her. You see, you gave her some money yesterday; she got some spirits (it’s an evil we cannot manage to root out), and today she is quite tipsy, even violent.”

“Can this be true?”

“Oh, yes, it is. I have even been obliged to have recourse to severe measures, and to put her into a separate cell. She is a quiet woman in an ordinary way. But please do not give her any money. These people are so⁠—” What had happened the day before came vividly back to Nekhlúdoff’s mind, and again he was seized with fear.

“And Doúkhova, a political prisoner; might I see her?”

“Yes, if you like,” said the inspector. He embraced the little girl, who was still looking at Nekhlúdoff, got up, and, tenderly motioning her aside, went into the anteroom. Hardly had he got into 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 Nekhlúdoff 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?”

“Doúkhova.”

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

“Might I not meanwhile see the prisoners Menshóff, mother and son, who are accused of incendiarism?”

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

“But might I not see Menshóff 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 Menshóff’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? Véra Doúkhova.”

The inspector’s assistant was young, with dyed moustaches, and diffusing the smell of eau-de-cologne. “This way, please,” he said to Nekhlúdoff, 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 Nekhlúdoff 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 Menshóff?” asked the inspector’s assistant.

“The eighth cell to the left.”

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

“Yes, all but one.”

“May I look in?” asked Nekhlúdoff.

“Oh, certainly,” answered the assistant, smiling, and turned to the jailer with some question.

Nekhlúdoff looked into one of the little holes, and saw a tall young man pacing up and down the cell. When the man heard someone at the door he looked up with a frown, but continued walking up and down.

Nekhlúdoff 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. Nekhlúdoff was seized with dread, and went to Menshóff’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. Nekhlúdoff 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,” Nekhlúdoff said, going through the cell up to the dirty grated window, “and I should like to hear all about it from yourself.”

Menshóff also came up to the window, and at once started telling his story, at first looking shyly at the inspector’s assistant, but growing