“Why, I served with your father.  We were friends—­comrades.  And you; are you also in the Service?”

“No, I am not.”

The General bent his head disapprovingly.

“I have a request to make, General.”

“Very pleased.  In what way can I be of service to you?  If my request is out of place pray pardon me.  But I am obliged to make it.”

“What is it?”

“There is a certain Gourkevitch imprisoned in the fortress; his mother asks for an interview with him, or at least to be allowed to send him some books.”

The General expressed neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction at Nekhludoff’s request, but bending his head on one side he closed his eyes as if considering.  In reality he was not considering anything, and was not even interested in Nekhludoff’s questions, well knowing that he would answer them according to the law.  He was simply resting mentally and not thinking at all.

“You see,” he said at last, “this does not depend on me.  There is a regulation, confirmed by His Majesty, concerning interviews; and as to books, we have a library, and they may have what is permitted.”

“Yes, but he wants scientific books; he wishes to study.”

“Don’t you believe it,” growled the General.  “It’s not study he wants; it is just only restlessness.”

“But what is to be done?  They must occupy their time somehow in their hard condition,” said Nekhludoff.

“They are always complaining,” said the General.  “We know them.”

He spoke of them in a general way, as if they were all a specially bad race of men.  “They have conveniences here which can be found in few places of confinement,” said the General, and he began to enumerate the comforts the prisoners enjoyed, as if the aim of the institution was to give the people imprisoned there a comfortable home.

“It is true it used to be rather rough, but now they are very well kept here,” he continued.  “They have three courses for dinner—­and one of them meat—­cutlets, or rissoles; and on Sundays they get a fourth—­a sweet dish.  God grant every Russian may eat as well as they do.”

Like all old people, the General, having once got on to a familiar topic, enumerated the various proofs he had often given before of the prisoners being exacting and ungrateful.

“They get books on spiritual subjects and old journals.  We have a library.  Only they rarely read.  At first they seem interested, later on the new books remain uncut, and the old ones with their leaves unturned.  We tried them,” said the old General, with the dim likeness of a smile.  “We put bits of paper in on purpose, which remained just as they had been placed.  Writing is also not forbidden,” he continued.  “A slate is provided, and a slate pencil, so that they can write as a pastime.  They can wipe the slate and write again.  But they don’t write, either.  Oh, they very soon get quite tranquil.  At first they seem restless, but later on they even grow fat and become very quiet.”  Thus spoke the General, never suspecting the terrible meaning of his words.