“It’s about the girl I have come,” said the convict.
“Here’s daddy come,” came the ringing accents of a child’s voice, and a flaxen head appeared from behind Rántzeva, who, with Katúsha’s and Mary Pávlovna’s help, was making a new garment for the child out of one of Rántzeva’s own petticoats.
“Yes, daughter, it’s me,” Bousóvkin, the prisoner, said softly.
“She is quite comfortable here,” said Mary Pávlovna, looking with pity at Bousóvkin’s bruised face. “Leave her with us.”
“The ladies are making me new clothes,” said the girl, pointing to Rántzeva’s sewing—“nice red ones,” she went on, prattling.
“Do you wish to sleep with us?” asked Rántzeva, caressing the child.
“Yes, I wish. And daddy, too.”
“No, daddy can’t. Well, leave her then,” she said, turning to the father.
“Yes, you may leave her,” said the first sergeant, and went out with the other.
As soon as they were out of the room Nabátoff went up to Bousóvkin, slapped him on the shoulder, and said: “I say, old fellow, is it true that Karmánoff wishes to exchange?”
Bousóvkin’s kindly, gentle face turned suddenly sad and a veil seemed to dim his eyes.
“We have heard nothing—hardly,” he said, and with the same dimness still over his eyes he turned to the child.
“Well, Aksútka, it seems you’re to make yourself comfortable with the ladies,” and he hurried away.
“It’s true about the exchange, and he knows it very well,” said Nabátoff.
“What are you going to do?”
“I shall tell the authorities in the next town. I know both prisoners by sight,” said Nekhlúdoff.
All were silent, fearing a recommencement of the dispute.
Símonson, who had been lying with his arms thrown back behind his head, and not speaking, rose, and determinately walked up to Nekhlúdoff, carefully passing round those who were sitting.
“Could you listen to me now?”
“Of course,” and Nekhlúdoff rose and followed him.
Katúsha looked up with an expression of suspense, and meeting Nekhlúdoff’s eyes, she blushed and shook her head.
“What I want to speak to you about is this,” Símonson began, when they had come out into the passage. In the passage the din of the criminal’s voices and shouts sounded louder. Nekhlúdoff made a face, but Símonson did not seem to take any notice.
“Knowing of your relations to Katerína Máslova,” he began seriously and frankly, with his kind eyes looking straight into Nekhlúdoff’s face, “I consider it my duty”—He was obliged to stop because two voices were heard disputing and shouting, both at once, close to the door.
“I tell you, blockhead, they are not mine,” one voice shouted.
“May you choke, you devil,” snorted the other.
At this moment Mary Pávlovna came out into the passage.
“How can one talk here?” she said; “go in, Véra is alone there,” and she went in at the second door, and entered a tiny room, evidently meant for a solitary cell, which was now placed at the disposal of the political women prisoners, Véra Doúkhova lay covered up, head and all, on the bed.
“She has got a headache, and is asleep, so she cannot hear you, and I will go away,” said Mary Pávlovna.
“On the contrary, stay here,” said Símonson; “I have no secrets from anyone, certainly none from you.”
“All right,” said Mary Pávlovna, and moving her whole body from side to side, like a child, so as to get farther back on to the bed, she settled down to listen, her beautiful hazel eyes seeming to look somewhere far away.
“Well, then, this is my business,” Símonson repeated. “Knowing of your relations to Katerína Máslova, I consider myself bound to explain to you my relations to her.”
Nekhlúdoff could not help admiring the simplicity and truthfulness with which Símonson spoke to him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I should like to marry Katerína Máslova—”
“How strange!” said Mary Pávlovna, fixing her eyes on Símonson.
“—And so I made up my mind to ask her to be my wife,” Símonson continued.
“What can I do? It depends on her,” said Nekhlúdoff.
“Yes; but she will not come to any decision without you.”
“Why?”
“Because as long as your relations with her are unsettled she cannot make up her mind.”
“As far as I am concerned, it is finally settled. I should like to do what I consider to be my duty and also to lighten her fate, but on no account would I wish to put any restraint on her.”
“Yes, but she does not wish to accept your sacrifice.”
“It is no sacrifice.”
“And I know that this decision of hers is final.”
“Well, then, there is no need to speak to me,” said Nekhlúdoff.
“She wants you to acknowledge that you think as she does.”
“How can I acknowledge that I must not do what I consider to be my duty? All I can say is that I am not free, but she is.”
Símonson was silent; then, after thinking a little, he said: “Very well, then, I’ll tell her. You must not think I am in love with her,” he continued; “I love her as a splendid, unique, human being who has suffered much. I want nothing from her. I have only an awful longing to help her, to lighten her posi—”
Nekhlúdoff was surprised to hear the trembling in Símonson’s voice.
“—To lighten her position,” Símonson continued. “If she does not wish to accept your help, let her accept mine. If she consents, I shall ask to be sent to the place where she will be imprisoned. Four years are not an eternity. I would live near her, and perhaps might lighten her fate—” and he again stopped, too agitated to continue.
“What am I to say?” said Nekhlúdoff. “I am very glad she has found such a protector as you—”
“That’s what I wanted to know,” Símonson interrupted.
“I wanted to know if, loving her and wishing her happiness, you would consider it good for her to marry me?”
“Oh, yes,” said Nekhlúdoff decidedly.
“It all depends on her; I only wish that this suffering soul should find rest,” said Símonson,
