He was stricken with consumption while in prison, and under the present circumstances had but a few months to live, and he knew it.

CHAPTER V.

At last Nekhludoff succeeded in obtaining permission to visit Maslova in her cell among the politicals.

While passing the dimly-lighted court-yard from the officers’ headquarters to “No. 5,” escorted by a messenger, he heard a stir and buzzing of voices coming from the one-story dwelling occupied by the prisoners.  And when he came nearer and the door was opened, the buzzing increased and turned into a Babel of shouting, cursing and laughing.  A rattling of chains was heard, and a familiar noisome air was wafted from the doorway.  The din of voices with the rattle of chains, and the dreadful odor always produced in Nekhludoff the tormenting feeling of some moral nausea, turning into physical nausea.  These two impressions, mingling, strengthened each other.

The apartment occupied by the political prisoners consisted of two small cells, the doors of which opened into the corridor, partitioned off from the rest.  As Nekhludoff got beyond the partition he noticed Simonson feeding a billet of pine wood into the oven.

Spying Nekhludoff he looked up without rising and extended his hand.

“I am glad you came; I want to see you!” he said, with a significant glance, looking Nekhludoff straight in the eyes.

“What is it?” asked Nekhludoff.

“I will tell you later; I am busy now.”

And Simonson again occupied himself with making the fire, which he did according to his special theory of the greatest conservation of heat energy.

Nekhludoff was about to enter the first door when Maslova, broom in hand, and sweeping a heap of dirt and dust toward the oven, emerged from the second door.  She wore a white waist and white stockings and her skirt was tucked up under the waist.  A white ’kerchief covered her head to her very eyebrows.  Seeing Nekhludoff, she unbent herself and, all red and animated, put aside the broom, and wiping her hands on her skirt, she stood still.

“You are putting things in order?” asked Nekhludoff, extending his hand.

“Yes, my old occupation,” she answered and smiled.  “There is such dirt here; there is no end to our cleaning.”

“Well, is the plaid dry?” she turned to Simonson.

“Almost,” said Simonson, glancing at her in a manner which struck Nekhludoff as very peculiar.

“Then I will fetch the furs to dry.  All our people are there,” she said to Nekhludoff, going to the further room and pointing to the nearest door.

Nekhludoff opened the door and walked into a small cell, dimly lighted by a little metallic lamp standing on a low bunk.  The cell was cold and there was an odor of dust, dampness and tobacco.  The tin lamp threw a bright light on those around it, but the bunks were in the shade and vacillating shadows moved along the walls.  In the small room were all the prisoners, except two men who had gone for boiling water and provisions.  There was an old acquaintance of Nekhludoff, the yellow-faced and thin Vera Efremovna, with her large, frightened eyes and a big vein on her forehead.  She was sitting nervously rolling cigarettes from a heap of tobacco lying on a newspaper in front of her.