The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
has committed, whatever it may be. They forgive him in consideration of
the sentence passed upon him.
Is it not known that the common people throughout Russia call crime a
“misfortune,” and the criminal an “unfortunate”? This definition is
expressive, profound, and, moreover, unconscious, instinctive. To the
doctor the convicts have naturally recourse, above all when they are to
undergo corporal punishment. The prisoner who has been before a
court-martial knows pretty well at what moment his sentence will be
executed. To escape it he gets himself sent to the hospital, in order to
postpone for some days the terrible moment. When he is declared restored
to health, he knows that the day after he leaves the hospital this
moment will arrive. Accordingly, on quitting the hospital the convict is
always in a state of agitation. Some of them may endeavour from vanity
to conceal their anxiety, but no one is taken in by that; every one
understands the cruelty of such a moment, and is silent from humane
motives.
I knew one young convict, an ex-soldier, sentenced for murder, who was
to receive the maximum of rods. The eve of the day on which he was to be
flogged, he had resolved to drink a bottle of vodka in which he had
infused a quantity of snuff.
The prisoner condemned to the rods always drinks, before the critical
moment arrives, a certain amount of spirits which he has procured long
beforehand, and often at a fabulous price. He would deprive himself of
the necessaries of life for six months rather than not be in a position
to swallow half a pint of vodka before the flogging. The convicts are
convinced that a drunken man suffers less from the sticks or whip than
one who is in cold blood.
I will return to my narrative. The poor devil felt ill a few moments
after he had swallowed his bottle of vodka. He vomited blood, and was
carried in a state of unconsciousness to the hospital. His lungs were so
much injured by this accident that phthisis declared itself, and carried
off the soldier in a few months. The doctors who had attended him never
knew the origin of his illness.
If examples of cowardice are not rare among the prisoners, it must be
added that there are some whose intrepidity is quite astounding. I
remember many instances of courage pushed to the extreme. The arrival in
the hospital of a terrible bandit remains fixed in my memory.
One fine summer day the report was spread in the infirmary that the
famous prisoner, Orloff, was to be flogged the same evening, and that he
would be brought afterwards to the hospital. The prisoners who were
already there said that the punishment would be a cruel one, and every
one--including myself I must admit--was awaiting with curiosity the
arrival of this brigand, about whom the most unheard-of things were
told. He was a malefactor of a rare kind, capable of assassinating in
cold blood old men and children. He possessed an indomitable force of
will, and was fully conscious of his power. As he had been guilty of
several crimes, they had condemned him to be flogged through the ranks.
He was brought, or, rather carried, in towards evening. The place was
already dark. Candles were lighted. Orloff was excessively pale, almost
unconscious, with his thick curly hair of dull black without the least
brilliancy. His back was skinned and swollen, blue, and stained with
blood. The prisoners nursed him throughout the night; they changed his
poultices, placed him on his side, prepared for him the lotion ordered
by the doctor; in a word, showed as much solicitude for him as for a
relation or benefactor.
Next day he had fully recovered his faculties, and took one or two turns
round the room. I was much astonished, for he was broken down and
powerless when he was brought in. He had received half the number of
blows ordered by the sentence. The doctor had stopped the punishment,
convinced that if it were continued Orloff’s death would inevitably
ensue.
This criminal was of a feeble constitution, weakened by long
imprisonment. Whoever has seen prisoners after having been flogged, will
remember their thin, drawn-out features and their feverish looks. Orloff
soon recovered his powerful energy, which enabled him to get over his
physical weakness. He was no ordinary man. From curiosity I made his
acquaintance, and was able to study him at leisure for an entire week.
Never in my life did I meet a man whose will was more firm or
inflexible.
I had seen at Tobolsk a celebrity of the same kind--a former chief of
brigands. This man was a veritable wild beast; by being near him,
without even knowing him, it was impossible not to recognise in him a
dangerous creature. What above all frightened me was his stupidity.
Matter, in this man, had taken such an ascendant over mind, that one
could see at a glance that he cared for nothing in the world but the
brutal satisfaction of his physical wants. I was certain, however, that
Kareneff--that was his name--would have fainted on being condemned to
such rigorous corporal punishment as Orloff had undergone; and that he
would have murdered the first man near him without blinking.
Orloff, on the contrary, was a brilliant example of the victory of
spirit over matter. He had a perfect command over himself. He despised
punishment, and feared nothing in the world. His dominant characteristic
was boundless energy, a thirst for vengeance, and an immovable will when
he had some object to attain.
I was not astonished at his haughty air. He looked down upon all around
him from the height of his grandeur. Not that he took the trouble to
pose; his pride was an innate quality. I don’t think that anything had
the least influence over him. He looked upon everything with the calmest
eye, as if nothing in the world could astonish him. He knew well that
the other prisoners respected him; but he never took advantage of it to
give himself airs.
Nevertheless, vanity and conceit are defects from which scarcely any
convict is exempt. He was intelligent and strangely frank in talking too
much about himself. He replied point-blank to all the questions I put to
him, and confessed to me that he was waiting impatiently for his return
to health in order to take the remainder of the punishment he was to
undergo.
“Now,” he said to me with a wink, “it is all over. I shall have the
remainder, and shall be sent to Nertchinsk with a convoy of prisoners. I
shall profit by it to escape. I shall get away beyond doubt. If only my
back would heal a little quicker!”
For five days he was burning with impatience to be in a condition for
leaving the hospital At times he was gay and in the best of humours. I
profited by these rare occasions to question him about his adventures.
Then he would contract his eyebrows a little; but he always answered my
questions in a straightforward manner. When he understood that I was
endeavouring to see through him, and to discover in him some trace of
repentance, he looked at me with a haughty and contemptuous air, as if I
were a foolish little boy, to whom he did too much honour by conversing
with him.
I detected in his countenance a sort of compassion for me. After a
moment’s pause he laughed out loud, but without the least irony. I fancy
he must, more than once, have laughed in the same manner, when my words
returned to his memory. At last he wrote down his name as cured,
although his back was not yet entirely healed. As I also was almost
well, we left the infirmary together and returned to the convict prison,
while he was shut up in the guard-room, where he had been imprisoned
before. When he left me he shook me by the hand, which in his eyes was a
great mark of confidence. I fancy he did so, because at that moment he
was in a good humour. But in reality he must have despised me, for I was
a feeble being, contemptible in all respects, and guilty above all of
resignation. The next day he underwent the second half of his
punishment.
When the gates of the barracks had been closed, it assumed, in less than
no time, quite another aspect--that of a private house, of quite a home.
Then only did I see my convict comrades at their ease. During the day
the under officers, or some of the other authorities, might suddenly
arrive, so that the prisoners were then always on the look-out. They
were only half at their ease. As soon, however, as the bolts had been
pushed and the gates padlocked, every one sat down in his place and
began to work. The barrack was lighted up in an unexpected manner. Each
convict had his candle and his wooden candlestick. Some of them stitched
boots, others sewed different kinds of garments. The air, already
mephitic, became more and more impure.
Some of the prisoners, huddled together in a corner, played at cards on
a piece of carpet. In each barrack there was a prisoner who possessed a
small piece of carpet, a candle, and a pack of horribly greasy cards.
The owner of the cards received from the players fifteen kopecks [about
sixpence] a night. They generally played at the “three leaves”--Gorka,
that is to say: a game of chance. Each player placed before him a pile
of copper money--all that he possessed--and did not get up until he had
lost it or had broken the bank.
Playing was continued until late at night; sometimes the dawn found the
gamblers still at their game. Often, indeed, it did not cease until a
few minutes before the opening of the gates. In our room--as in all the
others--there were beggars ruined by drink and play, or rather beggars
innate--I say innate, and maintain my expression. Indeed, in our
country, and in all classes, there are, and always will be, strange
easy-going people whose destiny it is to remain always beggars. They are
poor devils all their lives; quite broken down, they remain under the
domination or guardianship of some one, generally a prodigal, or a man
who has suddenly made his fortune. All initiative is for them an
insupportable burden. They only exist on condition of undertaking
nothing for themselves, and by serving, always living under the will of
another. They are destined to act by and through others. Under no
circumstances, even of the most unexpected kind, can they get rich; they
are always beggars. I have met these persons in all classes of society,
in all coteries, in all associations, including the literary world.
As soon as a party was made up, one of these beggars, quite
indispensable to the game, was summoned. He received five kopecks for a
whole night’s employment; and what employment it was! His duty was to
keep guard in the vestibule, with thirty degrees (Réaumur) of frost, in
total darkness, for six or seven hours. The man on watch had to listen
for the slightest noise, for the Major or one of the other officers of
the guard would sometimes make a round rather late in the night. They
arrived secretly, and sometimes discovered the players and the watchers
in the act--thanks to the light of the candles, which could be seen from
the court-yard.
When the key was heard grinding in the padlock which closed the gate, it
was too late to put the lights out and lie down on the plank bedsteads.
Such surprises were, however, rare. Five kopecks was a ridiculous
payment even in our convict prison, and the exigency and hardness of the
gamblers astonished me in this as in many cases: “You are paid, you must
do what you are told.” This was the argument, and it admitted of no
reply. To have paid a few kopecks to any one gave the right to turn him
to the best possible account, and even to claim his gratitude. More than
once it happened to me to see the convicts spend their money
extravagantly, throwing it away on all sides, and, at the same time,
cheat the man employed to watch. I have seen this in several barracks on
many occasions.