to your places and be quiet.'
But quiet was not soon re-established. For a long time the women went on disputing and explaining to one another whose fault it all was. At last the warder and the jailer left the cell, the women grew quieter and began going to bed, and the old woman went to the icon and commenced praying.
'The two jailbirds have met,' the red-haired woman suddenly called out in a hoarse voice from the other end of the shelf beds, accompanying every word with frightfully vile abuse.
'Mind you don't get it again,' Korableva replied, also adding words of abuse, and both were quiet again.
'Had I not been stopped I'd have pulled your damned eyes out,' again began the red-haired one, and an answer of the same kind followed from Korableva. Then again a short interval and more abuse. But the intervals became longer and longer, as when a thunder-cloud is passing, and at last all was quiet.
All were in bed, some began to snore; and only the old woman, who always prayed a long time, went on bowing before the icon and the deacon's daughter, who had got up after the warder left, was pacing up and down the room again. Maslova kept thinking that she was now a convict condemned to hard labour, and had twice been reminded of this—once by Botchkova and once by the red-haired woman—and she could not reconcile herself to the thought. Korableva, who lay next to her, turned over in her bed.
'There now,' said Maslova in a low voice; 'who would have thought it? See what others do and get nothing for it.'
'Never mind, girl. People manage to live in Siberia. As for you, you'll not be lost there either,' Korableva said, trying to comfort her.
'I know I'll not be lost; still it is hard. It's not such a fate
I want—I, who am used to a comfortable life.'
'Ah, one can't go against God,' said Korableva, with a sigh.
'One can't, my dear.'
'I know, granny. Still, it's hard.'
They were silent for a while.
'Do you hear that baggage?' whispered Korableva, drawing Maslova's attention to a strange sound proceeding from the other end of the room.
This sound was the smothered sobbing of the red-haired woman. The red-haired woman was crying because she had been abused and had not got any of the vodka she wanted so badly; also because she remembered how all her life she had been abused, mocked at, offended, beaten. Remembering this, she pitied herself, and, thinking no one heard her, began crying as children cry, sniffing with her nose and swallowing the salt tears.
'I'm sorry for her,' said Maslova.
'Of course one is sorry,' said Korableva, 'but she shouldn't come bothering.'
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE LEAVEN AT WORK—NEKHLUDOFF'S DOMESTIC CHANGES.
The next morning Nekhludoff awoke, conscious that something had happened to him, and even before he had remembered what it was he knew it to be something important and good.
'Katusha—the trial!' Yes, he must stop lying and tell the whole truth.
By a strange coincidence on that very morning he received the long-expected letter from Mary Vasilievna, the wife of the Marechal de Noblesse, the very letter he particularly needed. She gave him full freedom, and wished him happiness in his intended marriage.
'Marriage!' he repeated with irony. 'How far I am from all that at present.'
And he remembered the plans he had formed the day before, to tell the husband everything, to make a clean breast of it, and express his readiness to give him any kind of satisfaction. But this morning this did not seem so easy as the day before. And, then, also, why make a man unhappy by telling him what he does not know? Yes, if he came and asked, he would tell him all, but to go purposely and tell—no! that was unnecessary.
And telling the whole truth to Missy seemed just as difficult this morning. Again, he could not begin to speak without offence. As in many worldly affairs, something had to remain unexpressed. Only one thing he decided on, i.e., not to visit there, and to tell the truth if asked.
But in connection with Katusha, nothing was to remain unspoken. 'I shall go to the prison and shall tell her every thing, and ask her to forgive me. And if need be—yes, if need be, I shall marry her,' he thought.
This idea, that he was ready to sacrifice all on moral grounds, and marry her, again made him feel very tender towards himself. Concerning money matters he resolved this morning to arrange them in accord with his conviction, that the holding of landed property was unlawful. Even if he should not be strong enough to give up everything, he would still do what he could, not deceiving himself or others.
It was long since he had met the coming day with so much energy. When Agraphena Petrovna came in, he told her, with more firmness than he thought himself capable of, that he no longer needed this lodging nor her services. There had been a tacit understanding that he was keeping up so large and expensive an establishment because he was thinking of getting married. The giving up of the house had, therefore, a special meaning. Agraphena Petrovna looked at him in surprise.
'I thank you very much, Agraphena Petrovna, for all your care for me, but I no longer require so large a house nor so many servants. If you wish to help me, be so good as to settle about the things, put them away as it used to be done during mamma's life, and when Natasha comes she will see to everything.' Natasha was Nekhludoff's sister.
Agraphena Petrovna shook her head. 'See about the things? Why, they'll be required again,' she said.
'No, they won't, Agraphena Petrovna; I assure you they won't be required,' said Nekhludoff, in answer to what the shaking of her head had expressed. 'Please tell Corney also that I shall pay him two months' wages, but shall have no further need of him.'
'It is a pity, Dmitri Ivanovitch, that you should think of doing this,' she said. 'Well, supposing you go abroad, still you'll require a place of residence again.'
'You are mistaken in your thoughts, Agraphena Petrovna; I am not going abroad. If I go on a journey, it will be to quite a different place.' He suddenly blushed very red. 'Yes, I must tell her,' he thought; 'no hiding; everybody must be told.'
'A very strange and important thing happened to me yesterday. Do you remember my Aunt Mary Ivanovna's Katusha?'
'Oh, yes. Why, I taught her how to sew.'
'Well, this Katusha was tried in the Court and I was on the jury.'
'Oh, Lord! What a pity!' cried Agraphena Petrovna. 'What was she being tried for?'
'Murder; and it is I have done it all.'
'Well, now this is very strange; how could you do it all?'
'Yes, I am the cause of it all; and it is this that has altered all my plans.'
'What difference can it make to you?'
'This difference: that I, being the cause of her getting on to that path, must do all I can to help her.'
'That is just according to your own good pleasure; you are not particularly in fault there. It happens to every one, and if one's reasonable, it all gets smoothed over and forgotten,' she said, seriously and severely. 'Why should you place it to your account? There's no need. I had already heard before that she had strayed from the right path. Well, whose fault is it?'
'Mine! that's why I want to put it right.'
'It is hard to put right.'
'That is my business. But if you are thinking about yourself, then I will tell you that, as mamma expressed the wish—'
'I am not thinking about myself. I have been so bountifully treated by the dear defunct, that I desire nothing.
