The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
I have already said that, with the exception of the gamblers, every one
worked. Five only of the convicts remained completely idle, and went to
bed on the first opportunity. My sleeping place was near the door. Next
to me was Akim Akimitch, and when we were lying down our heads touched.
He used to work until ten or eleven at making, by pasting together
pieces of paper, multicolour lanterns, which some one living in the town
had ordered from him, and for which he used to be well paid. He excelled
in this kind of work, and did it methodically and regularly. When he had
finished he put away carefully his tools, unfolded his mattress, said
his prayers, and went to sleep with the sleep of the just. He carried
his love of order even to pedantry, and must have thought himself in his
inner heart a man of brains, as is generally the case with narrow,
mediocre persons. I did not like him the first day, although he gave me
much to think of. I was astonished that such a man could be found in a
convict prison. I shall speak of Akimitch further on in the course of
this book.
But I must now continue to describe the persons with whom I was to live
a number of years. Those who surrounded me were to be my companions
every minute, and it will be understood that I looked upon them with
anxious curiosity.
On my left slept a band of mountaineers from the Caucasus, nearly all
exiled for brigandage, but condemned to different punishments. There
were two Lesghians, a Circassian, and three Tartars from Daghestan. The
Circassian was a morose and sombre person. He scarcely ever spoke, and
looked at you sideways with a sly, sulky, wild-beast-like expression.
One of the Lesghians, an old man with an aquiline nose, tall and thin,
seemed to be a true brigand; but the other Lesghian, Nourra by name,
made a most favourable impression upon me. Of middle height, still
young, built like a Hercules, with fair hair and violet eyes; he had a
slightly turned up nose, while his features were somewhat of a Finnish
cast. Like all horsemen, he walked with his toes in. His body was
striped with scars, ploughed by bayonet wounds and bullets. Although he
belonged to the conquered part of the Caucasus, he had joined the
rebels, with whom he used to make continual incursions into our
territory. Every one liked him in the prison by reason of his gaiety and
affability. He worked without murmuring, always calm and peaceful.
Thieving, cheating, and drunkenness filled him with disgust, or put him
in a rage--not that he wished to quarrel with any one; he simply turned
away with indignation. During his confinement he committed no breach of
the rules. Fervently pious, he said his prayers religiously every
evening, observed all the Mohammedan fasts like a true fanatic, and
passed whole nights in prayer. Every one liked him, and looked upon him
as a thoroughly honest man. “Nourra is a lion,” said the convicts; and
the name of “Lion” stuck to him. He was quite convinced that as soon as
he had finished his sentence he would be sent to the Caucasus. Indeed,
he only lived by this hope, and I believe he would have died had he been
deprived of it. I noticed it the very day of my arrival. How was it
possible not to distinguish this calm, honest face in the midst of so
many sombre, sardonic, repulsive countenances!
Before I had been half-an-hour in the prison, he passed by my side and
touched me gently on the shoulder, smiling at the same time with an
innocent air. I did not at first understand what he meant, for he spoke
Russian very badly; but soon afterwards he passed again, and, with a
friendly smile, again touched me on the shoulder. For three days running
he repeated this strange proceeding. As I soon found out, he wanted to
show me that he pitied me, and that he felt how painful the first moment
of imprisonment must be. He wanted to testify his sympathy, to keep up
my spirits, and to assure me of his good-will. Kind and innocent Nourra!
Of the three Tartars from Daghestan, all brothers, the two eldest were
well-developed men, while the youngest, Ali, was not more than
twenty-two, and looked younger. He slept by my side, and when I observed
his frank, intelligent countenance, thoroughly natural, I was at once
attracted to him, and thanked my fate that I had him for a neighbour in
place of some other prisoner. His whole soul could be read in his
beaming countenance. His confident smile had a certain childish
simplicity; his large black eyes expressed such friendliness, such
tender feeling, that I always took a pleasure in looking at him. It was
a relief to me in moments of sadness and anguish. One day his eldest
brother--he had five, of whom two were working in the mines of
Siberia--had ordered him to take his yataghan, to get on horseback, and
follow him. The respect of the mountaineers for their elders is so great
that young Ali did not dare to ask the object of the expedition. He
probably knew nothing about it, nor did his brothers consider it
necessary to tell him. They were going to plunder the caravan of a rich
Armenian merchant, and they succeeded in their enterprise. They
assassinated the merchant and stole his goods. Unhappily for them, their
act of brigandage was discovered. They were tried, flogged, and then
sent to hard labour in Siberia. The Court admitted no extenuating
circumstances, except in the case of Ali. He was condemned to the
minimum punishment--four years’ confinement. These brothers loved him,
their affection being paternal rather than fraternal. He was the only
consolation of their exile. Dull and sad as a rule, they had always a
smile for him when they spoke to him, which they rarely did--for they
looked upon him as a child to whom it would be useless to speak
seriously--their forbidding countenances lightened up. I fancied they
always spoke to him in a jocular tone, as to an infant. When he replied,
the brothers exchanged glances, and smiled good-naturedly.
He would not have dared to speak to them first by reason of his respect
for them. How this young man preserved his tender heart, his native
honesty, his frank cordiality without getting perverted and corrupted
during his period of hard labour, is quite inexplicable. In spite of his
gentleness, he had a strong stoical nature, as I afterwards saw. Chaste
as a young girl, everything that was foul, cynical, shameful, or unjust
filled his fine black eyes with indignation, and made them finer than
ever. Without being a coward, he would allow himself to be insulted with
impunity. He avoided quarrels and insults, and preserved all his
dignity. With whom, indeed, was he to quarrel? Every one loved him,
caressed him.
At first he was only polite to me; but little by little we got into the
habit of talking together in the evening, and in a few months he had
learnt to speak Russian perfectly, whereas his brothers never gained a
correct knowledge of the language. He was intelligent, and at the same
time modest and full of delicate feeling.
Ali was an exceptional being, and I always think of my meeting him as
one of the lucky things in my life. There are some natures so
spontaneously good and endowed by God with such great qualities that the
idea of their getting perverted seems absurd. One is always at ease
about them. Accordingly I had never any fears about Ali. Where is he
now?
One day, a considerable time after my arrival at the convict prison, I
was stretched out on my camp-bedstead agitated by painful thoughts. Ali,
always industrious, was not working at this moment. His time for going
to bed had not arrived. The brothers were celebrating some Mussulman
festival, and were not working. Ali was lying down with his head between
his hands in a state of reverie. Suddenly he said to me:
“Well, you are very sad!”
I looked at him with curiosity. Such a remark from Ali, always so
delicate, so full of tact, seemed strange. But I looked at him more
attentively, and saw so much grief, so much repressed suffering in his
countenance--of suffering caused no doubt by sudden recollections--that
I understood in what pain he must be, and said so to him. He uttered a
deep sigh, and smiled with a melancholy air. I always liked his
graceful, agreeable smile. When he laughed, he showed two rows of teeth
which the first beauty in the world would have envied him.
“You were probably thinking, Ali, how this festival is celebrated in
Daghestan. Ah, you were happy there!”
“Yes,” he replied with enthusiasm, and his eyes sparkled. “How did you
know I was thinking of such things?”
“How was I not to know? You were much better off than you are here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“What beautiful flowers there are in your country! Is it not so? It is a
true paradise.”
“Be silent, please.”
He was much agitated.
“Listen, Ali. Had you a sister?”
“Yes; why do you ask me?”
“She must have been very beautiful if she is like you?”
“Oh, there is no comparison to make between us. In all Daghestan no such
beautiful girl is to be seen. My sister is, indeed, charming. I am sure
that you have never seen any one like her. My mother also is very
handsome.”
“And your mother was fond of you?”
“What are you saying? Certainly she was. I am sure that she has died of
grief, she was so fond of me. I was her favourite child. Yes, she loved
me more than my sister, more than all the others. This very night she
has appeared to me in a dream, she shed tears for me.”
He was silent, and throughout the rest of the night did not open his
mouth; but from this very moment he sought my company and my
conversation; although very respectful, he never allowed himself to
address me first. On the other hand he was happy when I entered into
conversation with him. He spoke often of the Caucasus, and of his past
life. His brothers did not forbid him to converse with me; I think even
that they encouraged him to do so. When they saw that I had formed an
attachment to him, they became more affable towards me.
Ali often helped me in my work. In the barrack he did whatever he
thought would be agreeable to me, and would save me trouble. In his
attentions to me there was neither servility nor the hope of any
advantage, but only a warm, cordial feeling, which he did not try to
hide. He had an extraordinary aptitude for the mechanical arts. He had
learnt to sew very tolerably, and to mend boots; he even understood a
little carpentering--everything in short that could be learnt at the
convict prison. His brothers were proud of him.
“Listen, Ali,” I said to him one day, “why don’t you learn to read and
write the Russian language, it might be very useful to you here in
Siberia?”
“I should like to do so, but who would teach me?”
“There are plenty of people here who can read and write. I myself will
teach you if you like.”
“Oh, do teach me, I beg of you,” said Ali, raising himself up in bed; he
joined his hands and looked at me with a suppliant air.
We went to work the very next evening. I had with me a Russian
translation of the New Testament, the only book that was not forbidden
in the prison. With this book alone, without an alphabet, Ali learnt to
read in a few weeks, and after a few months he could read perfectly. He
brought to his studies extraordinary zeal and warmth.
One day we were reading together the Sermon on the Mount. I noticed that
he read certain passages with much feeling; and I asked him if he was
pleased with what he read. He glanced at me, and his face suddenly
lighted up.
“Yes, yes, Jesus is a holy prophet. He speaks the language of God. How
beautiful it is!”
“But tell me what it is that particularly pleases you.”
“The passage in which it is said, ‘Forgive those that hate you!’ Ah! how
divinely He speaks!”
He turned towards his brothers, who were listening to our conversation,