rison
office opposite Pavel and looking through a mist in her eyes at his
bearded, swarthy face. She was watching for a chance to deliver to him
the note she held tightly in her hand.

"I am well and all are well," said Pavel in a moderated voice. "And how
are you?"

"So so. Yegor Ivanovich died," she said mechanically.

"Yes?" exclaimed Pavel, and dropped his head.

"At the funeral the police got up a fight and arrested one man," the
mother continued in her simple-hearted way.

The thin-lipped assistant overseer of the prison jumped from his chair
and mumbled quickly:

"Cut that out; it's forbidden! Why don't you understand? You know
politics are prohibited."

The mother also rose from her chair, and as if failing to comprehend
him, she said guiltily:

"I wasn't discussing politics. I was telling about a fight--and they
did fight; that's true. They even broke one fellow's head."

"All the same, please keep quiet--that is to say, keep quiet about
everything that doesn't concern you personally--your family; in
general, your home."

Aware that his speech was confused, he sat down in his chair and
arranged papers.

"I'm responsible for what you say," he said sadly and wearily.

The mother looked around and quickly thrust the note into Pavel's hand.
She breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"I don't know what to speak about."

Pavel smiled:

"I don't know either."

"Then why pay visits?" said the overseer excitedly. "They have nothing
to say, but they come here anyhow and bother me."

"Will the trial take place soon?" asked the mother after a pause.

"The procurator was here the other day, and he said it will come off
soon."

"You've been in prison half a year already!"

They spoke to each other about matters of no significance to either.
The mother saw Pavel's eyes look into her face softly and lovingly.
Even and calm as before, he had not changed, save that his wrists were
whiter, and his beard, grown long, made him look older. The mother
experienced a strong desire to do something pleasant for him--tell him
about Vyesovshchikov, for instance. So, without changing her tone, she
continued in the same voice in which she spoke of the needless and
uninteresting things.

"I saw your godchild." Pavel fixed a silent questioning look on her
eyes. She tapped her fingers on her cheeks to picture to him the
pockmarked face of Vyesovshchikov.

"He's all right! The boy is alive and well. He'll so