the tender mercies of the lord.
nekhludoff kept up with the quick pace of the convicts. though lightly clothed he felt dreadfully hot, and it was hard to breathe in the stifling, motionless, burning air filled with dust.
when he had walked about a quarter of a mile he again got into the trap, but it felt still hotter in the middle of the street. he tried to recall last night's conversation with his brother-in-law, but the recollections no longer excited him as they had done in the morning. they were dulled by the impressions made by the starting and procession of the gang, and chiefly by the intolerable heat.
on the pavement, in the shade of some trees overhanging a fence, he saw two schoolboys standing over a kneeling man who sold ices. one of the boys was already sucking a pink spoon and enjoying his ices, the other was waiting for a glass that was being filled with something yellowish.
"where could i get a drink?" nekhludoff asked his isvostchik, feeling an insurmountable desire for some refreshment.
"there is a good eating-house close by," the isvostchik answered, and turning a corner, drove up to a door with a large signboard. the plump clerk in a russian shirt, who stood behind the counter, and the waiters in their once white clothing who sat at the tables (there being hardly any customers) looked with curiosity at the unusual visitor and offered him their services. nekhludoff asked for a bottle of seltzer water and sat down some way from the window at a small table covered with a dirty cloth. two men sat at another table with tea-things and a white bottle in front of them, mopping their foreheads, and calculating something in a friendly manner. one of them was dark and bald, and had just such a border of hair at the back as rogozhinsky. this sight again reminded nekhludoff of yesterday's talk with his brother-in-law and his wish to see him and nathalie.
"i shall hardly be able to do it before the train starts," he thought; "i'd better write." he asked for paper, an envelope, and a stamp, and as he was sipping the cool, effervescent water he considered what he should say. but his thoughts wandered, and he could not manage to compose a letter.
"my dear nathalie,--i cannot go away with the heavy impression that yesterday's talk with your husband has left," he began. "what next? shall i ask him to forgive me what i said yesterday? but i only said what i felt, and he will think that i am taking it back. besides, this interference of his in my private matters. . . . no, i cannot," and again he felt hatred rising in his heart towards that man so foreign to him. he folded the unfinished letter and put it in his pocket, paid, went out, and again got into the trap to catch up the gang. it had grown still hotter. the stones and the walls seemed to be breathing out hot air. the pavement seemed to scorch the feet, and nekhludoff felt a burning sensation in his hand when he touched the lacquered splashguard of his trap.
the horse was jogging along at a weary trot, beating the uneven, dusty road monotonously with its hoofs, the isvostchik kept falling into a doze, nekhludoff sat without thinking of anything.
at the bottom of a street, in front of a large house, a group of people had collected, and a convoy soldier stood by.
"what has happened?" nekhludoff asked of a porter.
"something the matter with a convict."
nekhludoff got down and came up to the group. on the rough stones, where the pavement slanted down to the gutter, lay a broadly-built, red-bearded, elderly convict, with his head lower than his feet, and very red in the face. he had a grey cloak and grey trousers on, and lay on his back with the palms of his freckled hands downwards, and at long intervals his broad, high chest heaved, and he groaned, while his bloodshot eyes were fixed on the sky. by him stood a cross-looking policeman, a pedlar, a postman, a clerk, an old woman with a parasol, and a short-haired boy with an empty basket.
"they are weak. having been locked up in prison they've got weak, and then they lead them through the most broiling heat," said the clerk, addressing nekhludoff, who had just come up.
"he'll die, most likely," said the woman with the parasol, in a doleful tone.
"his shirt should be untied," said the postman.
the policeman began, with his thick, trembling fingers, clumsily to untie the tapes that fastened the shirt round the red, sinewy neck. he was evidently excited and confused, but still thought it necessary to address the crowd.
"what have you collected here for? it is hot enough without your keeping the wind off."
"they should have been examined by a doctor, and the weak ones left behind," said the clerk, showing off his knowledge of the law.
the policeman, having undone the tapes of the shirt, rose and looked round.
"move on, i tell you. it is not your business, is it? what's there to stare at?" he said, and turned to nekhludoff for sympathy, but not finding any in his face he turned to the convoy soldier.
but the soldier stood aside, examining the trodden-down heel of his boot, and was quite indifferent to the policeman's perplexity.
"those whose business it is don't care. is it right to do men to death like this? a convict is a convict, but still he is a man," different voices were heard saying in the crowd.
"put his head up higher, and give him some water," said nekhludoff.
"water has been sent for," said the policeman, and taking the prisoner under the arms he with difficulty pulled his body a little higher up.
"what's this gathering here?" said a decided, authoritative voice, and a police officer, with a wonderfully clean, shiny blouse, and still more shiny top-boots, came up to the assembled crowd.
"move on. no standing about here," he shouted to the crowd, before he knew what had attracted it.
when he came near and saw the dying convict, he made a sign of approval with his head, just as if he had quite expected it, and, turning to the policeman, said, "how is this?"
the policeman said that, as a gang of prisoners was passing, one of the convicts had fallen down, and the convoy officer had ordered him to be left behind.
"well, that's all right. he must be taken to the police station. call an isvostchik."
"a porter has gone for one," said the policeman, with his fingers raised to his cap.
the shopman began something about the heat.
"is it your business, eh? move on," said the police officer, and looked so severely at him that the clerk was silenced.
"he ought to have a little water," said nekhludoff. the police officer looked severely at nekhludoff also, but said nothing. when the porter brought a mug full of water, he told the policeman to offer some to the convict. the policeman raised the drooping head, and tried to pour a little water down the mouth; but the prisoner could not swallow it, and it ran down his beard, wetting his jacket and his coarse, dirty linen shirt.
"pour it on his head," ordered the officer; and the policeman took off the pancake-shaped cap and poured the water over the red curls and bald part of the prisoner's head. his eyes opened wide as if in fear, but his position remained unchanged.
streams of dirt trickled down his dusty face, but the mouth continued to gasp in the same regular way, and his whole body shook.
"and what's this? take this one," said the police officer, pointing to nekhludoff's isvostchik. "you, there, drive up."
"i am engaged," said the isvostchik, dismally, and without looking up.
"it is my isvostchik; but take him. i will pay you," said nekhludoff, turning to the isvostchik.
"well, what are you waiting for?" shouted the officer. "catch hold."
the policeman, the porter, and the convoy soldier lifted the dying man and carried him to the trap, and put him on the seat. but he could not sit up; his head fell back, and the whole of his body glided off the seat.
"make him lie down," ordered the officer.
"it's all right, your honour; i'll manage him like this," said the policeman, sitting down by the dying man, and clasping his strong, right arm round the body under the arms. the convoy soldier lifted the stockingless feet, in prison shoes, and put them into the trap.
the police officer looked around, and noticing the pancake-shaped hat of the convict lifted it up and put it on the wet, drooping head.
"go on," he ordered.
the isvostchik looked angrily round, shook his head, and, accompanied by the convoy soldier, drove back to the police station. the policeman, sitting beside the convict, kept dragging up the body that was continually sliding down from the seat, while the head swung from side to side.
the convoy soldier, who was walking by the side of the trap, kept putting the legs in their place. nekhludoff followed the trap.
聂赫留朵夫象犯人们一样快步向前走去。他只穿一件薄大衣，但还是热得受不了，主要是因为街上灰尘飞扬，空气炎热，停滞不动，使人闷得喘不过气来。他走了半里路光景，就坐上马车往前走，可是坐马车走在街心，他觉得更热。他竭力回想昨天同姐夫的谈话，但这事此刻已不象早晨那样使他不安了。这事已被囚犯们走出监狱和列队出发的景象所冲淡。主要是天气实在热得厉害。在矮墙旁边的树荫下，有个卖冰淇淋小贩蹲在地上，他的面前站着两个实科中学学生。其中一个孩子正舔着牛角小匙，吃得津津有味；另一个孩子则等待小贩把黄糊糊的东西盛满玻璃杯。
“这儿什么地方可以喝点东西解解渴？”聂赫留朵夫感到口渴得厉害，很想喝点什么，就问车夫。
“这儿有一家好饭店，”车夫说，赶着马车拐过街角，把聂赫留朵夫送到一家挂有大招牌的饭店门口。
肥头胖耳的掌柜只穿一件衬衫，坐在柜台里。几个堂倌穿着脏得发黑的白工作服，因为没有顾客，都散坐在桌子旁。这当儿看到这位不寻常的客人，都露出好奇的神色，赶紧迎上前来伺候。聂赫留朵夫要了一瓶矿泉水，在离窗较远的地方挨着一张铺有肮脏桌布的小桌坐下。
另一张桌旁坐着两个人，桌上放着茶具和一个白色玻璃瓶。他们擦着额上的汗，和颜悦色地算着帐。其中一个皮肤很黑，头顶光秃，后脑壳上留着一圈黑发，跟拉戈任斯基一样。这个景象使聂赫留朵夫又想起昨天跟姐夫的谈话，他很想在动身之前跟姐夫和姐姐再见一面。“恐怕来不及了，”他想。“还是写一封信吧。”他问堂倌要来了信纸、信封和邮票，一面喝着泡沫翻滚的清凉矿泉水，一面考虑该写些什么。可是他脑子里千头万绪，信怎么也写不好。
“亲爱的娜塔丽雅！昨天跟姐夫的谈话给我留下痛苦的印象，我不能一走了事……”他开了个头。“接下去写些什么？要求他原谅我昨天的话吗？可我说的都是心里话呀。他全以为我放弃原来的看法了。再说他这是在干涉我的私事……不，我不能这样写，”聂赫留朵夫又感到对这个同他格格不入、自以为是的人的满腔憎恨，把那封没有写成的信放进口袋里，付清帐，来到街上，坐车去追赶那批犯人。
天气更热了。墙壁和石头仿佛都在冒热气。光脚走在滚烫的石子路上一定象火烧火燎。聂赫留朵夫的光手接触到马车上过漆的挡泥板，就象被火烫着似的。
马没精打采地在街上跑着，蹄子在尘土飞扬的坎坷的路上发出均匀的得得声。车夫不住地打着盹儿。聂赫留朵夫坐在车上，眼睛冷冷地瞧着前方，脑子里什么也不想。在一条倾斜的街上，一座大厦的门口聚集着一群人，还站着一个持枪的押解兵。聂赫留朵夫吩咐马车停下来。
“什么事啊？”他问扫院子人。
“有个犯人出了事。”
聂赫留朵夫跳下马车，走到人群跟前。在靠近人行道的坎坷倾斜的路面上，头朝坡下躺着一个上了年纪的男犯。这犯人肩膀宽阔，蓄看棕红色大胡子，红脸膛，扁鼻子，穿着灰色囚袍和灰色囚裤。他仰天躺着，伸开两只雀斑累累的手，手心朝下。他睁着两只呆滞的充血眼睛，望着天空，嘴里发出哼哼唧唧的声音，隔很长一会儿他那高大的胸脯均匀地起伏一下。他的旁边站着一个皱眉头的警察、一个叫卖的小贩，一个邮差、一个店员、一个打阳伞的老太婆、一个手提空篮的男孩。
“他们的身体在牢里关得虚了，虚透了，如今又把他们带到这么毒的日头底下来，”店员对走近来的聂赫留朵夫说，显然在责备什么人。
“他恐怕就要死了，”打阳伞的女人哭丧着脸说。
“得把他的衬衫解开，”邮差说。
警察用哆嗦的粗手指笨拙地解开犯人青筋毕露的红脖子上的带子。他显然又激动又紧张，但仍然认为必须把群众呵斥一番。
“你们围着干什么？天气这么热，还要把风挡住。”
“应该先请个医生来检查检查。把身体虚弱的都留下。要不然把半死不活的都拉了来，”店员说，有意显示他通情达理，懂得规矩。
警察解开犯人衬衣上的带子，挺直腰板，向四下里扫视了一下。
“对你们说，走开！不关你们的事，有什么好看的？”他说，转过脸来对着聂赫留朵夫，希望得到他的支持，可是他在聂赫留朵夫眼神里看不到同情，就瞅了一眼押解兵。
可是押解兵站在一旁，只顾瞧着自己踩歪了的靴后跟，对警察的困难处境不闻不问。
“该管的人都不管。活活把人折磨死，天下有这样的规矩吗？”
“囚犯是囚犯，可到底也是人哪！”人群中有人说。
“把他的头枕得高些，给他点水喝，”聂赫留朵夫说。
“已经有人去拿水了，”警察回答，把手伸到犯人的胳肢窝下，好不容易才把他的身体拖到高一点的地方。
“这么多人围着干什么？”忽然传出一个威风凛凛的声音。
警官穿一身白得耀眼的制服和一双亮得更加耀眼的高统皮靴，快步向人群走来。“都走开！站在这儿干什么？”他还没有看清楚人群围着干什么，就大声吆喝道。
他走到紧跟前，看到奄奄一息的囚犯，肯定地点点头，仿佛早就料到是这么一回事。接着对警察说：
“这是怎么搞的？”
警察报告说，有一批犯人押过，其中一个倒在地上，押解兵吩咐把他留下来。
“有什么大不了的？把他送到局里去。叫一辆马车来。”
“扫院子的去叫了，”警察把手举到帽沿上敬了个礼，说。
店员刚说了一句天气太热，警官就狠狠地瞪了他一眼，说：“这事轮得到你管吗？呃？走你的路！”店员就不作声了。
“得给他喝点水，”聂赫留朵夫说。
警官对聂赫留朵夫也狠狠地瞧了一眼，但没有说什么。扫院子的端来一杯水，警官吩咐警察端给犯人喝。警察托起犯人的脑袋，想把水灌到他嘴里，可是犯人没有咽下去，水顺着胡子流下来，把上衣前襟和满是尘土的麻布衬衫都弄湿了。
“在他脑袋上泼点水！”警官命令道。警察脱下犯人头上薄饼般的帽子，对准他红棕色的鬈发和秃顶泼了水。
犯人仿佛害怕似的把眼睛睁得更大，不过没有改变姿势。他脸上流着沾有尘土的污水，嘴里仍旧均匀地呻吟着，整个身子不住地哆嗦。
“这不是马车吗？就用这辆车好了，”警官指着聂赫留朵夫的马车对警察说。“过来！喂，叫你过来！”
“有客人了，”马车夫没有抬起眼睛，阴沉沉地说。
“这是我雇的车，”聂赫留朵夫说，“不过你们用好了。钱我来付，”他对马车夫补了一句。
“喂，你们都站着干什么？”警官嚷道。“快动手！”
警察、扫院子的和押解兵把奄奄一息的犯人抬起来，送上马车，放在座位上。可是那犯人自己坐不住，头老是往后倒，整个身子从座位上滑下来。
“让他躺平！”警官命令道。
“不要紧，长官，我就这样把他送去，”警察说，稳稳当当地坐在垂死的人旁边，用有力的右胳膊插到他的胳肢窝下，搂住他的身体。
押解兵托起犯人没有裹包脚布而只穿囚鞋的脚，放到驭座底下，让两条腿伸直。
警官环顾了一下，瞧见犯人那顶薄饼般的帽子掉在马路上，就把它捡起来，戴在犯人向后倒的湿淋淋的脑袋上。
“走！”他命令道。
马车夫怒气冲冲地回头看了看，摇摇头，在押解兵的监督下向警察分局慢吞吞地走去。警察跟犯人坐在一起，不断把犯人滑下去的身体拖起来。犯人的脑袋一直前后左右晃动着。押解兵走在马车旁边，不时把犯人的腿放放好。聂赫留朵夫跟在他们后面。
