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Updated: May 5, 2025
"Then thank God for that," rejoined the gentleman. "Why?" asked Chichikov with no little curiosity, and still holding his cap over his head. "Because of THIS. Cast off the net, Thoma Menshov, and pick up that sturgeon for the gentleman to see. Go and help him, Telepen Kuzma." With that the peasants indicated picked up by the head what was a veritable monster of a fish.
Kosma, take the end of the rope from Denis! Don't bear so hard on it, Thoma Bolshoy ! Go where Thoma Menshov is! Damn it, bring the net to land, will you!" From this it became clear that it was not on his own account that the stout man was worrying. Indeed, he had no need to do so, since his fat would in any case have prevented him from sinking.
While the warden was locking the door, Menshov looked through the hole. It was dinner time when Nekhludoff retraced his steps through the wide corridor, and the cells were open. The prisoners, in light yellow coats, short, wide trousers and prison shoes, eyed him greedily.
His face suddenly began to twitch; tears welled up in his eyes, and, rolling up the sleeve of his coat, he began to wipe his eyes with the dirty sleeve of his shirt. "Have you finished?" asked the warden. "Yes. Cheer up; I will do what I can for you," Nekhludoff said, and walked out. Menshov stood in the door, so that when the warden closed it he pushed him in.
Nekhludoff, however, looked at her pitiful neck, her thin, tangled hair, and wondered why she was telling him all that. He pitied her, but not as he pitied the peasant Menshov with his hands and face white as potato sprouts, and innocently languishing in an ill-smelling prison. He pitied her on account of the evident confusion that reigned in her head.
The first class consisted of people entirely innocent, victims of judicial mistakes, such as that would-be incendiary, Menshov, or Maslova, and others. There were comparatively few people of this class, according to the observations of the chaplain about seven per cent. but their condition attracted particular attention.
"Yes, I was told about your case," said Nekhludoff, going into the depth of the cell and stopping at the barred, dirty window, "and would like to hear it from yourself." Menshov also drew near the window and immediately began to relate the particulars of his case at first timidly, from time to time glancing at the warden, then growing bolder and bolder.
"Whom do you wish to see?" asked the inspector. "Bogodukhovskaia." "That is from the tower. You will have to wait a little," he turned to Nekhludoff. "Couldn't you let me see, meantime, the prisoners Menshov mother and son who are charged with incendiarism?" "That is from cell 21. Why, yes; they may be called out." "Would you allow me to see the son in his cell?"
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