The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
barracks. He was from the South. He had been a serf, one of those not
attached to the soil, but who serve their masters as domestics. There
was something cutting and haughty in his demeanour. He was a little
bird, but had a beak and nails. The convicts sum up a man instinctively.
They thought nothing of this one, he was too susceptible and too full of
conceit.
That evening he was stitching a shirt, seated on his camp-bedstead.
Close to him was a narrow-minded, stupid, but good-natured and obliging
fellow, a sort of Colossus, Kobylin by name. Luka often quarrelled with
him in a neighbourly way, and treated him with a haughtiness which,
thanks to his good-nature, Kobylin did not notice in the least. He was
knitting a stocking, and listening to Luka with an indifferent air. Luka
spoke in a loud voice and very distinctly. He wished every one to hear
him, though he was apparently speaking only to Kobylin.
“I was sent away,” said Luka, sticking his needle in the shirt, “as a
brigand.”
“How long ago?” asked Kobylin.
“When the peas are ripe it will be just a year. Well, we got to K----v,
and I was put into the convict prison. Around me there were a dozen men
from Little Russia, well-built, solid, robust fellows, like oxen, and
how quiet! The food was bad, the Major of the prison did what he liked.
One day passed, then another, and I soon saw that all these fellows were
cowards.
“‘You are afraid of such an idiot?’ I said to them.
“‘Go and talk to him yourself,’ and they burst out laughing like brutes
that they were. I held my tongue.
“There was one fellow so droll, so droll,” added the narrator, now
leaving Kobylin to address all who chose to listen.
“This droll fellow was telling them how he had been tried, what he had
said, and how he had wept with hot tears.
“‘There was a dog of a clerk there,’ he said, ‘who did nothing but write
and take down every word I said. I told him I wished him at the devil,
and he actually wrote that down. He troubled me so, that I quite lost my
head.’”
“Give me some thread, Vasili; the house thread is bad, rotten.”
“There is some from the tailor’s shop,” replied Vasili, handing it over
to him.
“Well, but about this Major?” said Kobylin, who had been quite
forgotten.
Luka was only waiting for that. He did not go on at once with his story,
as though Kobylin were not worth such a mark of attention. He threaded
his needle quietly, bent his legs lazily beneath him, and at last
continued as follows:
“I excited the fellows to such an extent that they all called out
against the Major. That same morning I had borrowed the ‘rascal’ [prison
slang for knife] from my neighbour, and had hid it, so as to be ready
for anything. When the Major arrived, he was as furious as a madman.
‘Come now, you Little Russians,’ I whispered to them, ‘this is not the
time for fear.’ But, dear me, all their courage had slipped down to the
soles of their feet, they trembled! The Major came in, he was quite
drunk.
“‘What is this, how do you dare? I am your Tzar, your God,’ he cried.
“When he said that he was the Tzar and God, I went up to him with my
knife in my sleeve.
“‘No,’ I said to him, ‘your high nobility,’ and I got nearer and nearer
to him, ‘that cannot be. Your “high nobility” cannot be our Tzar and our
God.’
“‘Ah, you are the man, it is you,’ cried the Major; ‘you are the leader
of them.’
“‘No,’ I answered, and I got still nearer to him; ‘no, your “high
nobility,” as every one knows, and as you yourself know, the
all-powerful God present everywhere is alone in heaven. And we have only
one Tzar placed above every one else by God himself. He is our monarch,
your “high nobility.” And, your “high nobility,” you are as yet only
Major, and you are our chief only by the grace of the Tzar, and by your
merits.’
“‘How? how? how?’ stammered the Major. He could not speak, so astounded
was he.
“This is how I answered, and I threw myself upon him and thrust my knife
into his belly up to the hilt. It had been done very quickly; the Major
tottered, turned, and fell.
“I had thrown my life away.
“‘Now, you fellows,’ I cried, ‘it is for you to pick him up.’”
I will here make a digression from my narrative. The expression, “I am
the Tzar! I am God!” and other similar ones were once, unfortunately,
too often employed in the good old times by many commanders. I must
admit that their number has seriously diminished, and perhaps even the
last has already disappeared. Let me observe that those who spoke in
this way were, above all, men promoted from the ranks. The grade of
officer had turned their brain upside down. After having laboured long
years beneath the knapsack, they suddenly found themselves officers,
commanders, and nobles above all. Thanks to their not being accustomed
to it, and to the first excitement caused by their promotion, they
contracted an exaggerated idea of their power and importance relatively
to their subordinates. Before their superiors such men are revoltingly
servile. The most fawning of them will even say to their superiors that
they have been common soldiers, and that they do not forget their place.
But towards their inferiors they are despots without mercy. Nothing
irritates the convicts so much as such abuses. These overweening
opinions of their own greatness; this exaggerated idea of their
immunity, causes hatred in the hearts of the most submissive men, and
drives the most patient to excesses. Fortunately, all this dates from a
time that is almost forgotten, and even then the superior authorities
used to deal very severely with abuses of power. I know more than one
example of it. What exasperates the convicts above all is disdain or
repugnance manifested by any one in dealing with them. Those who think
that it is only necessary to feed and clothe the prisoner, and to act
towards him in all things according to the law, are much mistaken.
However much debased he may be, a man exacts instinctively respect for
his character as a man. Every prisoner knows perfectly that he is a
convict and a reprobate, and knows the distance which separates him from
his superiors; but neither the branding irons nor chains will make him
forget that he is a man. He must, therefore, be treated with humanity.
Humane treatment may raise up one in whom the divine image has long been
obscured. It is with the “unfortunate,” above all, that humane conduct
is necessary. It is their salvation, their only joy. I have met with
some chiefs of a kind and noble character, and I have seen what a
beneficent influence they exercised over the poor, humiliated men
entrusted to their care. A few affable words have a wonderful moral
effect upon the prisoners. They render them as happy as children, and
make them sincerely grateful towards their chiefs. One other
remark--they do not like their chiefs to be familiar and too much
hail-fellow-well-met with them. They wish to respect them, and
familiarity would prevent this. The prisoners will feel proud, for
instance, if their chief has a number of decorations; if he has good
manners; if he is well-considered by a powerful superior; if he is
severe, but at the same time just, and possesses a consciousness of
dignity. The convicts prefer such a man to all others. He knows what he
is worth, and does not insult others. Everything then is for the best.
“You got well skinned for that, I suppose,” asked Kobylin.
“As for being skinned, indeed, there is no denying it. Ali, give me the
scissors. But, what next; are we not going to play at cards to-night?”
“The cards we drank up long ago,” remarked Vassili. “If we had not sold
them to get drink they would be here now.”
“If!---- Ifs fetch a hundred roubles a piece on the Moscow market.”
“Well, Luka, what did you get for sticking him?” asked Kobylin.
“It brought me five hundred strokes, my friend. It did indeed. They did
all but kill me,” said Luka, once more addressing the assembly and
without heeding his neighbour Kobylin. “When they gave me those five
hundred strokes, I was treated with great ceremony. I had never before
been flogged. What a mass of people came to see me! The whole town had
assembled to see the brigand, the murderer, receive his punishment. How
stupid the populace is!--I cannot tell you to what extent. Timoshka the
executioner undressed me and laid me down and cried out, ‘Look out, I am
going to grill you!’ I waited for the first stroke. I wanted to cry out,
but could not. It was no use opening my mouth, my voice had gone. When
he gave me the second stroke--you need not believe me unless you
please--I did not hear when they counted two. I returned to myself and
heard them count seventeen. Four times they took me down from the board
to let me breathe for half-an-hour, and to souse me with cold water. I
stared at them with my eyes starting from my head, and said to myself,
‘I shall die here.’”
“But you did not die,” remarked Kobylin innocently.
Luka looked at him with disdain, and every one burst out laughing.
“What an idiot! Is he wrong in the upper storey?” said Luka, as if he
regretted that he had condescended to speak to such an idiot.
“He is a little mad,” said Vassili on his side.
Although Luka had killed six persons, no one was ever afraid of him in
the prison. He wished, however, to be looked upon as a terrible person.
CHAPTER X.
ISAIAH FOMITCH--THE BATH--BAKLOUCHIN.
But the Christmas holidays were approaching, and the convicts looked
forward to them with solemnity. From their mere appearance it was easy
to see that something extraordinary was about to arrive. Four days
before the holidays they were to be taken to the bath; every one was
pleased, and was making preparations. We were to go there after dinner.
On this occasion there was no work in the afternoon, and of all the
convicts the one who was most pleased, and showed the greatest activity,
was a certain Isaiah Fomitch Bumstein, a Jew, of whom I spoke in my
fifth chapter. He liked to remain stewing in the bath until he became
unconscious. Whenever I think of the prisoner’s bath, which is a thing
not to be forgotten, the first thought that presents itself to my memory
is of that very glorious and eternally to be remembered, Isaiah Fomitch
Bumstein, my prison companion. Good Lord! what a strange man he was! I
have already said a few words about his face. He was fifty years of age,
his face wrinkled, with frightful scars on his cheeks and on his
forehead, and the thin, weak body of a fowl. His face expressed
perpetual confidence in himself, and, I may almost say, perfect
happiness. I do not think he was at all sorry to be condemned to hard
labour. He was a jeweller by trade, and as there was no other in the
town, he had always plenty of work to do, and was more or less well
paid. He wanted nothing, and lived, so to say, sumptuously, without
spending all that he gained, for he saved money and lent it out to the
other convicts at interest. He possessed a tea-urn, a mattress, a
tea-cup, and a blanket. The Jews of the town did not refuse him their
patronage. Every Saturday he went under escort to the synagogue (which
was authorised by the law); and he lived like a fighting cock.
Nevertheless, he looked forward to the expiration of his term of
imprisonment in order to get married. He was the most comic mixture of
simplicity, stupidity, cunning, timidity, and bashfulness; but the
strangest thing was that the convicts never laughed, or seriously mocked
him--they only teased him for amusement. Isaiah Fomitch was a subject of
distraction and amusement for every one.
“We have only one Isaiah Fomitch, we will take care of him,” the
convicts seemed to say; and as if he understood this, he was proud of
his own importance. From the account given to me it appeared he had