The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
matter was, that during all this time I scarcely exchanged two words
with him. I tried many times to make him talk, but he was incapable of
keeping up a conversation. He would only smile and answer my questions
by “yes” or “no.” He was a Hercules, but he had no more intelligence
than a child of seven.
Suchiloff was also one of those who helped me. I had never asked him to
do so, he attached himself to me on his own account, and I scarcely
remember when he began to do so. His principal duty consisted in washing
my linen. For this purpose there was a basin in the middle of the
court-yard, round which the convicts washed their clothes in prison
buckets.
Suchiloff had found means for rendering me a number of little services.
He boiled my tea-urn, ran right and left to perform various commissions
for me, got me all kinds of things, mended my clothes, and greased my
boots four times a month. He did all this in a zealous manner, with a
business-like air, as if he felt all the weight of the duties he was
performing. He seemed quite to have joined his fate to mine, and
occupied himself with all my affairs. He never said: “You have so many
shirts, or your waistcoat is torn;” but, “We have so many shirts, and
our waistcoat is torn.” I had somehow inspired him with admiration, and
I really believe that I had become his sole care in life. As he knew no
trade whatever his only source of income was from me, and it must be
understood that I paid him very little; but he was always pleased,
whatever he might receive. He would have been without means had he not
been a servant of mine, and he gave me the preference because I was more
affable than the others, and, above all, more equitable in money
matters. He was one of those beings who never get rich, and never know
how to manage their affairs; one of those in the prison who were hired
by the gamblers to watch all night in the ante-chamber, listening for
the least noise that might announce the arrival of the Major. If there
was a night visit they received nothing, indeed their back paid for
their want of attention. One thing which marks this kind of men is their
entire absence of individuality, which they seem entirely to have lost.
Suchiloff was a poor, meek fellow; all the courage seemed to have been
beaten out of him, although he had in reality been born meek. For
nothing in the world would he have raised his hand against any one in
the prison. I always pitied him without knowing why. I could not look at
him without feeling the deepest compassion for him. If asked to explain
this, I should find it impossible to do so. I could never get him to
talk, and he never became animated, except when, to put an end to all
attempts at conversation, I gave him something to do, or told him to go
somewhere for me. I soon found that he loved to be ordered about.
Neither tall nor short, neither ugly nor handsome, neither stupid nor
intelligent, neither old nor young, it would be difficult to describe in
any definite manner this man, except that his face was slightly pitted
with the small-pox, and that he had fair hair. He belonged, as far as I
could make out, to the same company as Sirotkin. The prisoners sometimes
laughed at him because he had “exchanged.” During the march to Siberia
he had exchanged for a red shirt and a silver rouble. It was thought
comical that he should have sold himself for such a small sum, to take
the name of another prisoner in place of his own, and consequently to
accept the other’s sentence. Strange as it may appear it was
nevertheless true. This custom, which had become traditional, and still
existed at the time I was sent to Siberia, I, at first, refused to
believe, but found afterwards that it really existed. This is how the
exchange was effected:
A company of prisoners started for Siberia. Among them there are exiles
of all kinds, some condemned to hard labour, others to labour in the
mines, others to simple colonisation. On the way out, no matter at what
stage of the journey, in the Government of Perm, for instance, a
prisoner wishes to exchange with another man, who--we will say he is
named Mikhailoff--has been condemned to hard labour for a capital
offence, and does not like the prospect of passing long years without
his liberty. He knows, in his cunning, what to do. He looks among his
comrades for some simple, weak-minded fellow, whose punishment is less
severe, who has been condemned to a few years in the mines, or to hard
labour, or has perhaps been simply exiled. At last he finds such a man
as Suchiloff, a former serf, sentenced only to become a colonist. The
man has made fifteen hundred versts [about one thousand miles] without a
kopeck, for the good reason that a Suchiloff is always without money;
fatigued, exhausted, he can get nothing to eat beyond the fixed rations,
nothing to wear in addition to the convict uniform.
Mikhailoff gets into conversation with Suchiloff, they suit one another,
and they strike up a friendship. At last at some station Mikhailoff
makes his comrade drunk, then he will ask him if he will “exchange.”
“My name is Mikhailoff,” he says to him, “condemned to what is called
hard labour, but which, in my own case, will be nothing of the kind, as
I am to enter a particular special section. I am classed with the
hard-labour men, but in my special division the labour is not so
severe.”
Before the special section was abolished, many persons in the official
world, even at St. Petersburg, were unaware even of its existence. It
was in such a retired corner of one of the most distant regions of
Siberia, that it was difficult to know anything about it. It was
insignificant, moreover, from the number of persons belonging to it. In
my time they numbered altogether only seventy. I have since met men who
have served in Siberia, and know the country well, and yet have never
heard of the “special section.” In the rules and regulations there are
only six lines about this institution. Attached to the convict prison of
---- is a special section reserved for the most dangerous criminals,
while the severest labours are being prepared for them. The prisoners
themselves knew nothing of this special section. Did it exist
temporarily or constantly? Neither Suchiloff nor any of the prisoners
being sent out, not Mikhailoff himself could guess the significance of
those two words. Mikhailoff, however, had his suspicion as to the true
character of this section. He formed his opinion from the gravity of the
crime for which he was made to march three or four thousand versts on
foot. It was certain that he was not being sent to a place where he
would be at his ease. Suchiloff was to be a colonist. What could
Mikhailoff desire better than that?
“Won’t you change?” he asks. Suchiloff is a little drunk, he is a
simple-minded man, full of gratitude to the comrade who entertains him,
and dare not refuse; he has heard, moreover, from other prisoners, that
these exchanges are made, and understands, therefore, that there is
nothing extraordinary, unheard-of, in the proposition made to him. An
agreement is come to, the cunning Mikhailoff, profiting by Suchiloff’s
simplicity, buys his name for a red shirt, and a silver rouble, which
are given before witnesses. The next day Suchiloff is sober; but more
liquor is given to him. Then he drinks up his own rouble, and after a
while the red shirt has the same fate.
“If you don’t like the bargain we made, give me back my money,” says
Mikhailoff. But where is Suchiloff to get a rouble? If he does not give
it back, the “artel” [_i.e._, the association--in this case of convicts]
will force him to keep his promise. The prisoners are very sensitive on
such points: he must keep his promise. The “artel” requires it, and, in
case of disobedience, woe to the offender! He will be killed, or at
least seriously intimidated. If indeed the “artel” once showed mercy to
the men who had broken their word, there would be an end to its
existence. If the given word can be recalled, and the bargain put an end
to after the stipulated sum has been paid, who would be bound by such an
agreement? It is a question of life or death for the “artel.”
Accordingly the prisoners are very severe on the point.
Suchiloff then finds that it is impossible to go back, that nothing can
save him, and he accordingly agrees to all that is demanded of him. The
bargain is then made known to all the convoy, and if denunciations are
feared, the men looked upon as suspicious are entertained. What,
moreover, does it matter to the others whether Mikhailoff or Suchiloff
goes to the devil? They have had gratuitous drinks, they have been
feasted for nothing, and the secret is kept by all.
At the next station the names are called. When Mikhailoff’s turn
arrives, Suchiloff answers “present,” Mikhailoff replies “present” for
Suchiloff, and the journey is continued. The matter is not now even
talked about. At Tobolsk the prisoners are told off. Mikhailoff will
become a colonist, while Suchiloff is sent to the special section under
a double escort. It would be useless now to cry out, to protest, for
what proof could be given? How many years would it take to decide the
affair, what benefit would the complainant derive? Where, moreover, are
the witnesses? They would deny everything, even if they could be found.
That is how Suchiloff, for a silver rouble and a red shirt, came to be
sent to the special section. The prisoners laughed at him, not because
he had exchanged--though in general they despised those who had been
foolish enough to exchange a work that was easy for a work that was
hard--but simply because he had received nothing for the bargain except
a red shirt and a rouble--certainly a ridiculous compensation.
Generally speaking, the exchanges are made for relatively large sums;
several ten-rouble notes sometimes change hands. But Suchiloff was so
characterless, so insignificant, so null, that he could scarcely even be
laughed at. We lived a considerable time together, he and I; I had got
accustomed to him, and he had formed an attachment for me. One day,
however--I can never forgive myself for what I did--he had not executed
my orders, and when he came to ask me for his money I had the cruelty to
say to him, “You don’t forget to ask for your money, but you don’t do
what you are told.” Suchiloff remained silent and hastened to do as he
was ordered, but he suddenly became very sad. Two days passed. I could
not believe that what I had said to him could affect him so much. I knew
that a person named Vassilieff was claiming from him in a morose manner
payment of a small debt. Suchiloff was probably short of money, and did
not dare to ask me for any.
“Suchiloff, you wish, I think, to ask me for some money to pay
Vassilieff; take this.”
I was seated on my camp-bedstead. Suchiloff remained standing up before
me, much astonished that I myself should propose to give him money, and
that I remembered his difficult position; the more so as latterly he had
asked me several times for money in advance, and could scarcely hope
that I should give him any more. He looked at the paper I held out to
him, then looked at me, turned sharply on his heel and went out. I was
as astonished as I could be. I went out after him, and found him at the
back of the barracks. He was standing up with his face against the
palisade and his arms resting on the stakes.
“What is the matter, Suchiloff?” I asked him.
He made no reply, and to my stupefaction I saw that he was on the point
of bursting into tears.
“You think, Alexander Petrovitch,” he said, in a trembling voice, in
endeavouring not to look at me, “that I care only for your money, but
I----”
He turned away from me, and struck the palisade with his forehead and