Maslova was awake and incessantly thinking of herself as a convict, the word which had been twice applied to her—­once by Bochkova, and again by the red-haired woman.  She could not be reconciled to the thought.  Korableva, who was lying with her back turned toward Maslova, turned around.

“I never dreamed of such a thing,” she said, in a low voice.  “Others commit heaven knows what crimes, and they go scot free, while I must suffer for nothing.”

“Don’t worry, girl.  People live also in Siberia.  You will not be lost even there,” Korableva consoled her.

“I know that I will not be lost, but it is painful to be treated that way.  I deserved a better fate.  I am used to a comfortable life.”

“You can do nothing against God’s will,” Korableva said, with a sigh.  “You can do nothing against His will.”

“I know, auntie, but it is hard, nevertheless.”

They became silent.

“Listen to that wanton,” said Korableva, calling Maslova’s attention to the strange sounds that came from the other end of the cell.

These sounds were the suppressed sobbing of the red-haired woman.  She wept because she had just been abused, beaten, and got no wine, for which she so yearned.  She also wept because her whole life was one round of abuse, scorn, insults and blows.  She meant to draw some consolation from the recollection of her first love for the factory hand, Fedka Molodenkoff, but, recalling this first love, she also recalled the manner of its ending.  The end of it was that this Molodenkoff, while in his cups, by way of jest, smeared her face with vitriol, and afterward laughed with his comrades as he watched her writhing in pain.  She remembered this, and she pitied herself; and, thinking that no one heard her, she began to weep, and wept like a child—­moaning, snuffling and swallowing salty tears.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

Nekhludoff rose the following morning with a consciousness that some change had taken place within him, and before he could recall what it was he already knew that it was good and important.

“Katiousha—­the trial.  Yes, and I must stop lying, and tell all the truth.”  And what a remarkable coincidence!  That very morning finally came the long-expected letter of Maria Vasilievna, the wife of the marshal of the nobility—­that same letter that he wanted so badly now.  She gave him his liberty and wished him happiness in his proposed marriage.

“Marriage!” he repeated ironically.  “How far I am from it!”

And his determination of the day before to tell everything to her husband, to confess his sin before him, and to hold himself ready for any satisfaction he might demand, came to his mind.  But this morning it did not seem to him so easy as it had yesterday.  “And then, what is the good of making a man miserable?  If he asks me, I will tell him; but to call on him specially for that purpose——­ No, it is not necessary.”