The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
But how can this be managed?
CHAPTER VII.
THE FIRST MONTH (_continued_)
When I entered the convict prison I possessed a small sum of money; but
I carried very little of it about with me, lest it should be
confiscated. I had gummed some banknotes into the binding of my New
Testament--the only book authorised in the convict prison. This New
Testament had been given to me at Tobolsk, by a person who had been
exiled some dozens of years, and who had got accustomed to see in other
“unfortunates” a brother.
There are in Siberia people who pass their lives in giving brotherly
assistance to the “unfortunates.” They feel the same sympathy for them
that they would have for their own children. Their compassion is
something sacred and quite disinterested. I cannot help here relating in
some words a meeting which I had at this time.
In the town where we were then imprisoned lived a widow, Nastasia
Ivanovna. Naturally, none of us were in direct relations with this
woman. She had made it the object of her life to come to the assistance
of all the exiles; but, above all, of us convicts. Had there been some
misfortune in her family? Had some person dear to her undergone a
punishment similar to ours? I do not know. In any case, she did for us
whatever she could. It is true she could do very little, for she was
very poor. But we felt when we were shut up in the convict prison that,
outside, we had a devoted friend. She often brought us news, which we
were very glad to hear, for nothing of the kind reached us.
When I left the prison to be taken to another town, I had the
opportunity of calling upon her and making her acquaintance. She lived
in one of the suburbs, at the house of a near relation.
Nastasia Ivanovna was neither old nor young, neither pretty nor ugly. It
was difficult, impossible even, to know whether she was intelligent and
well-bred. But in her actions could be seen infinite compassion, an
irresistible desire to please, to solace, to be in some way agreeable.
All this could be read in the sweetness of her smile.
I passed an entire evening at her house, with other companions of my
imprisonment. She looked us straight in the face, laughed when we
laughed, did everything we asked her, in conversation was always of our
opinion, and did her best in every way to entertain us. She gave us tea
and various little delicacies. If she had been rich we felt sure she
would have been pleased, if only to be able to entertain us better and
offer for us some solid consolation.
When we wished her “good-bye,” she gave us each a present of a cardboard
cigar-case as a souvenir. She had made them herself--Heaven knows
how--with coloured paper, the paper with which school-boys’ copy-books
are covered. All round this cardboard cigar-case she had gummed, by way
of ornamentation, a thin edge of gilt paper.
“As you smoke, these cigar-cases will perhaps be of use to you,” she
said, as if excusing herself for making such a present.
There are people who say, as I have read and heard, that a great love
for one’s neighbour is only a form of selfishness. What selfishness
could there be in this? That I could never understand.
Although I had not much money when I entered the convict prison, I could
not nevertheless feel seriously annoyed with convicts who, immediately
on my arrival, after having deceived me once, came to borrow of me a
second, a third time, and even oftener. But I admitted frankly that what
did annoy me was the thought that all these people, with their smiling
knavery, must take me for a fool, and laugh at me just because I lent
the money for the fifth time. It must have seemed to them that I was the
dupe of their tricks and their deceit. If, on the contrary, I had
refused them and sent them away, I am certain that they would have had
much more respect for me. Still, though it vexed me very much, I could
not refuse them.
I was rather anxious during the first days to know what footing I should
hold in the convict prison, and what rule of conduct I should follow
with my companions. I felt and perfectly understood that the place being
in every way new to me, I was walking in darkness, and it would be
impossible for me to live for ten years in darkness. I decided to act
frankly, according to the dictates of my conscience and my personal
feeling. But I also knew that this decision might be very well in
theory, and that I should, in practice, be governed by unforeseen
events. Accordingly, in addition to all the petty annoyances caused to
me by my confinement in the convict prison, one terrible anguish laid
hold of me and tormented me more and more.
“The dead-house!” I said to myself when night fell, and I looked from
the threshold of our barracks at the prisoners just returned from their
labours and walking about in the court-yard, from the kitchen to the
barracks, and _vice versâ_. As I examined their movements and their
physiognomies I endeavoured to guess what sort of men they were, and
what their disposition might be.
They lounged about in front of me, some with lowered brows, others full
of gaiety--one of these expressions was seen on every convict’s
face--exchanged insults or talked on indifferent matters. Sometimes,
too, they wandered about in solitude, occupied apparently with their own
reflections; some of them with a worn-out, pathetic look, others with a
conceited air of superiority. Yes, here, even here!--their cap balanced
on the side of their head, their sheepskin coat picturesquely over the
shoulder, insolence in their eyes and mockery on their lips.
“Here is the world to which I am condemned, in which, in spite of
myself, I must somehow live,” I said to myself.
I endeavoured to question Akim Akimitch, with whom I liked to take my
tea, in order not to be alone, for I wanted to know something about the
different convicts. In parenthesis I must say that the tea, at the
beginning of my imprisonment, was almost my only food. Akim Akimitch
never refused to take tea with me, and he himself heated our tin
tea-urns, made in the convict prison and let out to me by M----.
Akim Akimitch generally drank a glass of tea (he had glasses of his own)
calmly and silently, then thanked me when he had finished, and at once
went to work on my blanket; but he had not been able to tell me what I
wanted to know, and did not even understand my desire to know the
dispositions of the people surrounding me. He listened to me with a
cunning smile which I have still before my eyes. No, I thought, I must
find out for myself; it is useless to interrogate others.
The fourth day, the convicts were drawn up in two ranks, early in the
morning, in the court-yard before the guard-house, close to the prison
gates. Before and behind them were soldiers with loaded muskets and
fixed bayonets.
The soldier has the right to fire on the convict if he tries to escape.
But, on the other hand, he is answerable for his shot, if there was no
absolute necessity for him to fire. The same thing applies to revolts.
But who would think of openly taking to flight?
The Engineer officer arrived accompanied by the so-called “conductor”
and by some non-commissioned officers of the Line, together with sappers
and soldiers told off to superintend the labours of the convicts.
The roll was called. Then the convicts who were going to the tailors’
workshop started first. These men worked inside the prison, and made
clothes for all the inmates. The other exiles went into the outer
workshops, until at last arrived the turn of the prisoners destined for
field labour. I was of this number--there were altogether twenty of us.
Behind the fortress on the frozen river were two barges belonging to the
Government, which were not worth anything, but which had to be taken to
pieces in order that the wood might not be lost. The wood was in itself
all but valueless, for firewood can be bought in the town at a nominal
price. The whole country is covered with forests.
This work was given to us in order that we might not remain with our
arms crossed. This was understood on both sides. Accordingly, we went to
it apathetically; though just the contrary happened when work had to be
done, which would be profitable, or when a fixed task was assigned to
us. In this latter case, although prisoners were to derive no profit
from their work, they tried to get it over as soon as possible, and took
a pride in doing it quickly. When such work as I am speaking of had to
be done as a matter of form, rather than because it was necessary, task
work could not be asked for. We had to go on until the beating of the
drum at eleven o’clock called back the convicts.
The day was warm and foggy, the snow was on the point of melting. Our
entire band walked towards the bank behind the fortress, shaking lightly
their chains hid beneath their garments: the sound came forth clear and
ringing. Two or three convicts went to get their tools from the dépôt.
I walked on with the others. I had become a little animated, for I
wanted to see and know in what this field labour consisted, to what sort
of work I was condemned, and how I should do it for the first time in my
life.
I remember the smallest particulars. We met, as we were walking along, a
townsman with a long beard, who stopped and slipped his hand into his
pocket. A prisoner left our party, took off his cap and received
alms--to the extent of five kopecks--then came back hurriedly towards
us. The townsman made the sign of the cross and went his way. The five
kopecks were spent the same morning in buying cakes of white bread
which were shared equally among us. In my squad some were gloomy and
taciturn, others indifferent and indolent. There were some who talked in
an idle manner. One of these men was extremely gay, heaven knows why. He
sang and danced as we went along, shaking and ringing his chains at each
step. This fat and corpulent convict was the very one who, on the very
day of my arrival during the general washing, had a quarrel with one of
his companions about the water, and had ventured to compare him to some
sort of bird. His name was Scuratoff. He finished by shouting out a
lively song of which I remember the burden:
They married me without my consent,
When I was at the mill.
Nothing was wanting but a balalaika [the Russian banjo].
His extraordinary good-humour was justly reproved by several of the
prisoners, who were offended by it.
“Listen to his hallooing,” said one of the convicts, “though it doesn’t
become him.”
“The wolf has but one song; this Tuliak [inhabitant of Tula] is stealing
it from him,” said another, who could be recognised by his accent as a
Little Russian.
“Of course I am from Tula,” replied Scuratoff; “but we don’t stuff
ourselves to bursting as you do in your Pultava.”
“Liar! what did you eat yourself? Bark shoes and cabbage soup?”
“You talk as if the devil fed you on sweet almonds,” broke in a third.
“I admit, my friend, that I am an effeminate man,” said Scuratoff with a
gentle sigh, as though he were really reproaching himself for his
effeminacy. “From my most tender infancy I was brought up in luxury, fed
on plums and delicate cakes. My brothers even now have a large business
at Moscow. They are wholesale dealers in the wind that blows; immensely
rich men, as you may imagine.”
“And what did you sell?”
“I was very successful, and when I received my first two hundred----”
“Roubles? impossible!” interrupted one of the prisoners, struck with
amazement at hearing of so large a sum.
“No, my good fellow, not two hundred roubles, two hundred blows of the
stick. Luka; I say Luka!”
“Some have the right to call me Luka, but for you I am Luka Kouzmitch,”
replied rather ill-temperedly a small, feeble convict with a pointed
nose.