The cell in which Maslova was imprisoned was a large room 21 feet
long and 10 feet broad; it had two windows and a large stove.
Two-thirds of the space were taken up by shelves used as beds.
The planks they were made of had warped and shrunk. Opposite the
door hung a dark-coloured icon with a wax candle sticking to it
and a bunch of everlastings hanging down from it. By the door to
the right there was a dark spot on the floor on which stood a
stinking tub. The inspection had taken place and the women were
locked up for the night.
The occupants of this room were 15 persons, including three
children. It was still quite light. Only two of the women were
lying down: a consumptive woman imprisoned for theft, and an
idiot who spent most of her time in sleep and who was arrested
because she had no passport. The consumptive woman was not
asleep, but lay with wide open eyes, her cloak folded under her
head, trying to keep back the phlegm that irritated her throat,
and not to cough.
Some of the other women, most of whom had nothing on but coarse
brown holland chemises, stood looking out of the window at the
convicts down in the yard, and some sat sewing. Among the latter
was the old woman, Korableva, who had seen Maslova off in the
morning. She was a tall, strong, gloomy-looking woman; her fair
hair, which had begun to turn grey on the temples, hung down in a
short plait. She was sentenced to hard labour in Siberia because
she had killed her husband with an axe for making up to their
daughter. She was at the head of the women in the cell, and found
means of carrying on a trade in spirits with them. Beside her sat
another woman sewing a coarse canvas sack. This was the wife of a
railway watchman, [There are small watchmen's cottages at
distances of about one mile from each other along the Russian
railways, and the watchmen or their wives have to meet every
train.] imprisoned for three months because she did not come out
with the flags to meet a train that was passing, and an accident
had occurred. She was a short, snub-nosed woman, with small,
black eyes; kind and talkative. The third of the women who were
sewing was Theodosia, a quiet young girl, white and rosy, very
pretty, with bright child's eyes, and long fair plaits which she
wore twisted round her head. She was in prison for attempting to
poison her husband. She had done this immediately after her
wedding (she had been given in marriage without her consent at
the age of 16) because her husband would give her no peace. But
in the eight months during which she had been let out on bail,
she had not only made it up with her husband, but come to love
him, so that when her trial came they were heart and soul to one
another. Although her husband, her father-in-law, but especially
her mother-in-law, who had grown very fond of her, did all they
could to get her acquitted, she was sentenced to hard labour in
Siberia. The kind, merry, ever-smiling Theodosia had a place next
Maslova's on the shelf bed, and had grown so fond of her that she
took it upon herself as a duty to attend and wait on her. Two
other women were sitting without any work at the other end of the
shelf bedstead. One was a woman of about 40, with a pale, thin
face, who once probably had been very handsome. She sat with her
baby at her thin, white breast. The crime she had committed was
that when a recruit was, according to the peasants' view,
unlawfully taken from their village, and the people stopped the
police officer and took the recruit away from him, she (an aunt
of the lad unlawfully taken) was the first to catch hold of the
bridle of the horse on which he was being carried off. The other,
who sat doing nothing, was a kindly, grey-haired old woman,
hunchbacked and with a flat bosom. She sat behind the stove on
the bedshelf, and pretended to catch a fat four-year-old boy, who
ran backwards and forwards in front of her, laughing gaily. This
boy had only a little shirt on and his hair was cut short. As he
ran past the old woman he kept repeating, "There, haven't caught
me!" This old woman and her son were accused of incendiarism.
She bore her imprisonment with perfect cheerfulness, but was
concerned about her son, and chiefly about her "old man," who she
feared would get into a terrible state with no one to wash for
him. Besides these seven women, there were four standing at one
of the open windows, holding on to the iron bars. They were
making signs and shouting to the convicts whom Maslova had met
when returning to prison, and who were now passing through the
yard. One of these women was big and heavy, with a flabby body,
red hair, and freckled on her pale yellow face, her hands, and
her fat neck. She shouted something in a loud, raucous voice, and
laughed hoarsely. This woman was serving her term for theft.
Beside her stood an awkward, dark little woman, no bigger than a
child of ten, with a long waist and very short legs, a red,
blotchy face, thick lips which did not hide her long teeth, and
eyes too far apart. She broke by fits and starts into screeching
laughter at what was going on in the yard. She was to be tried
for stealing and incendiarism. They called her Khoroshavka.
Behind her, in a very dirty grey chemise, stood a thin,
miserable-looking pregnant woman, who was to be tried for
concealment of theft. This woman stood silent, but kept smiling
with pleasure and approval at what was going on below. With these
stood a peasant woman of medium height, the mother of the boy who
was playing with the old woman and of a seven-year-old girl.
These were in prison with her because she had no one to leave
them with. She was serving her term of imprisonment for illicit
sale of spirits. She stood a little further from the window
knitting a stocking, and though she listened to the other
prisoners' words she shook her head disapprovingly, frowned, and
closed her eyes. But her seven-year-old daughter stood in her
little chemise, her flaxen hair done up in a little pigtail, her
blue eyes fixed, and, holding the red-haired woman by the skirt,
attentively listened to the words of abuse that the women and the
convicts flung at each other, and repeated them softly, as if
learning them by heart. The twelfth prisoner, who paid no
attention to what was going on, was a very tall, stately girl,
the daughter of a deacon, who had drowned her baby in a well. She
went about with bare feet, wearing only a dirty chemise. The
thick, short plait of her fair hair had come undone and hung down
dishevelled, and she paced up and down the free space of the
cell, not looking at any one, turning abruptly every time she
came up to the wall.