“It’s a woman?”

“Yes.”

“What is she there for?”

“Poisoning, but she has been unjustly condemned.”

“Yes, there you have it, your justice administered by jury, ils n’en font point d’autres,” he said, for some unknown reason, in French.  “I know you do not agree with me, but it can’t be helped, c’est mon opinion bien arretee,” he added, giving utterance to an opinion he had for the last twelve months been reading in the retrograde Conservative paper.  “I know you are a Liberal.”

“I don’t know whether I am a Liberal or something else,” Nekhludoff said, smiling; it always surprised him to find himself ranked with a political party and called a Liberal, when he maintained that a man should be heard before he was judged, that before being tried all men were equal, that nobody at all ought to be ill-treated and beaten, but especially those who had not yet been condemned by law.  “I don’t know whether I am a Liberal or not; but I do know that however had the present way of conducting a trial is, it is better than the old.”

“And whom have you for an advocate?”

“I have spoken to Fanarin.”

“Dear me, Fanarin!” said Meslennikoff, with a grimace, recollecting how this Fanarin had examined him as a witness at a trial the year before and had, in the politest manner, held him up to ridicule for half an hour.

“I should not advise you to have anything to do with him. Fanarin est un homme tare.”

“I have one more request to make,” said Nekhludoff, without answering him.  “There’s a girl whom I knew long ago, a teacher; she is a very pitiable little thing, and is now also imprisoned, and would like to see me.  Could you give me a permission to visit her?”

Meslennikoff bent his head on one side and considered.

“She’s a political one?”

“Yes, I have been told so.”

“Well, you see, only relatives get permission to visit political prisoners.  Still, I’ll give you an open order. Je sais que vous n’abuserez pas.  What’s the name of your protegee?  Doukhova? Elle est jolie?”

“Hideuse.”

Maslennikoff shook his head disapprovingly, went up to the table, and wrote on a sheet of paper, with a printed heading:  “The bearer, Prince Dmitri Ivanovitch Nekhludoff, is to be allowed to interview in the prison office the meschanka Maslova, and also the medical assistant, Doukhova,” and he finished with an elaborate flourish.

“Now you’ll be able to see what order we have got there.  And it is very difficult to keep order, it is so crowded, especially with people condemned to exile; but I watch strictly, and love the work.  You will see they are very comfortable and contented.  But one must know how to deal with them.  Only a few days ago we had a little trouble—­insubordination; another would have called it mutiny, and would have made many miserable, but with us it all passed quietly.  We must have solicitude on one hand, firmness and power on the other,” and he clenched the fat, white, turquoise-ringed fist, which issued out of the starched cuff of his shirt sleeve, fastened with a gold stud.  “Solicitude and firm power.”