XI

The political prisoners were kept in two small rooms, the doors of which opened into a part of the passage partitioned off from the rest. The first person Nekhlúdoff saw on entering into this part of the passage was Símonson in his rubber jacket and with a log of pine wood in his hands, crouching in front of a stove, the door of which trembled, drawn in by the heat inside.

When he saw Nekhlúdoff he looked up at him from under his protruding brow, and gave him his hand without rising.

“I am glad you have come; I want to speak to you,” he said, looking Nekhlúdoff straight in the eyes with an expression of importance.

“Yes; what is it?” Nekhlúdoff asked.

“It will do later on; I am busy just now,” and Símonson turned again towards the stove, which he was heating according to a theory of his own, so as to lose as little heat energy as possible.

Nekhlúdoff was going to enter in at the first door, when Máslova, stooping and pushing a large heap of rubbish and dust towards the stove with a handleless birch broom, came out of the other. She had a white jacket on, her skirt was tucked up, and a kerchief, drawn down to her eyebrows, protected her hair from the dust. When she saw Nekhlúdoff, she drew herself up, flushing and animated, put down the broom, wiped her hands on her skirt, and stopped right in front of him. “You are tidying up the apartments, I see,” said Nekhlúdoff, shaking hands.

“Yes; my old occupation,” and she smiled. “But the dirt! You can’t imagine what it is. We have been cleaning and cleaning. Well, is the plaid dry?” she asked, turning to Símonson.

“Almost,” Símonson answered, giving her a strange look, which struck Nekhlúdoff.

“All right, I’ll come for it, and will bring the cloaks to dry. Our people are all in here,” she said to Nekhlúdoff, pointing to the first door as she went out of the second.

Nekhlúdoff opened the door and entered a small room dimly lit by a little metal lamp, which was standing low down on the shelf bedstead. It was cold in the room, and there was a smell of the dust, which had not had time to settle, damp and tobacco smoke.

Only those who were close to the lamp were clearly visible, the bedsteads were in the shade and wavering shadows glided over the walls. Two men, appointed as caterers, who had gone to fetch boiling water and provisions, were away; most of the political prisoners were gathered together in the small room. There was Nekhlúdoff’s old acquaintance, Véra Doúkhova, with her large, frightened eyes, and the swollen vein on her forehead, in a grey jacket with short hair, and thinner and yellower than ever. She had a newspaper spread out in front of her, and sat rolling cigarettes with a jerky movement of her hands.

Emily Rántzeva, whom Nekhlúdoff considered to be the pleasantest of the political prisoners, was also here. She looked after the housekeeping, and managed to spread a feeling of home comfort even in the midst of the most trying surroundings. She sat beside the lamp, with her sleeves rolled up, wiping cups and mugs, and placing them, with her deft, red and sunburnt hands, on a cloth that was spread on the bedstead. Rántzeva was a plain-looking young woman, with a clever and mild expression of face, which, when she smiled, had a way of suddenly becoming merry, animated and captivating. It was with such a smile that she now welcomed Nekhlúdoff.

“Why, we thought you had gone back to Russia,” she said.

Here in a dark corner was also Mary Pávlovna, busy with a little, fair-haired girl, who kept prattling in her sweet, childish accents.

“How nice that you have come,” she said to Nekhlúdoff.

“Have you seen Katúsha? And we have a visitor here,” and she pointed to the little girl.

Here was also Anatole Kryltzóff with felt boots on, sitting in a far corner with his feet under him, doubled up and shivering, his arms folded in the sleeves of his cloak, and looking at Nekhlúdoff with feverish eyes. Nekhlúdoff was going up to him, but to the right of the door a man with spectacles and reddish curls, dressed in a rubber jacket, sat talking to the pretty, smiling Grábetz. This was the celebrated revolutionist Novódvoroff. Nekhlúdoff hastened to greet him. He was in a particular hurry about it, because this man was the only one among all the political prisoners whom he disliked. Novódvoroff’s eyes glistened through his spectacles as he looked at Nekhlúdoff and held his narrow hand out to him.

“Well, are you having a pleasant journey?” he asked, with apparent irony.

“Yes, there is much that is interesting,” Nekhlúdoff answered, as if he did not notice the irony, but took the question for politeness, and passed on to Kryltzóff.

Though Nekhlúdoff appeared indifferent, he was really far from indifferent, and these words of Novódvoroff, showing his evident desire to say or do something unpleasant, interfered with the state of kindness in which Nekhlúdoff found himself, and he felt depressed and sad.

“Well, how are you?” he asked, pressing Kryltzóff’s cold and trembling hand.

“Pretty well, only I cannot get warm; I got wet through,” Kryltzóff answered, quickly replacing his hands into the sleeves of his cloak. “And here it is also beastly cold. There, look, the windowpanes are broken,” and he pointed to the broken panes behind the iron bars. “And how are you? Why did you not come?”

“I was not allowed to, the authorities were so strict, but today the officer is lenient.”

“Lenient indeed!” Kryltzóff remarked. “Ask Mary what she did this morning.”

Mary Pávlovna from her place in the corner related what had happened about the little girl that morning when they left the halting station.

“I think it is absolutely necessary to make a collective protest,” said Véra Doúkhova, in a determined tone, and yet looking now at one, now at another, with a frightened, undecided look. “Vóldemar Símonson did protest, but that is not sufficient.”

“What protest!” muttered Kryltzóff, cross and frowning. Her want of simplicity, artificial tone and nervousness had evidently been irritating him for a long time.

“Are you looking for Katúsha?” he asked, addressing Nekhlúdoff. “She is working all the time. She has cleaned this, the men’s room, and now she has gone to clean the women’s! Only it is not possible to clean away the fleas. And what is Mary doing there?” he asked, nodding towards the corner where Mary Pávlovna sat.

“She is combing out her adopted daughter’s hair,” replied Rántzeva.

“But won’t she let the insects loose on us?” asked Kryltzóff.

“No, no; I am very careful. She is a clean little girl now. You take her,” said Mary, turning to Rántzeva, “while I go and help Katúsha, and I will also bring him his plaid.”

Rántzeva took the little girl on her lap, pressing her plump, bare, little arms to her bosom with a mother’s tenderness, and gave her a bit of sugar. As Mary Pávlovna left the room, two men came in with boiling water and provisions.