The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
who feasted most preserved a serious air. Laughter seemed to be
forbidden. A sort of intolerant susceptibility reigned throughout the
prison; and if any one interfered with the general repose, even
involuntarily, he was soon put in his proper place, with cries and
oaths. He was condemned as though he had been wanting in respect to the
festival itself.
This disposition of the convicts was remarkable, and even touching.
Besides the innate veneration they have for this great day, they foresee
that in observing the festival they are in communion with the rest of
the world; that they are not altogether reprobates lost and cast off by
society. The usual rejoicings took place in the convict prison as well
as outside. They felt all that. I saw it, and understood it myself.
Akim Akimitch had made great preparations for the festival. He had no
family recollections, being an orphan, born in a strange house, and put
into the army at the age of fifteen. He could never have experienced any
great joys, having always lived regularly and uniformly in the fear of
infringing the rules imposed upon him, nor was he very religious; for
his acquired formality had stifled in him all human feeling, all
passions and likings, good or bad. He accordingly prepared to keep
Christmas without exciting himself about it. He was saddened by no
painful, useless recollection. He did everything with the punctuality
imposed upon him in the execution of his duties, and in order once for
all to get through the ceremony in a becoming manner. Moreover, he did
not care to reflect upon the importance of the day, had never troubled
his brain about it, even while he was executing his prescribed duties
with religious minuteness. If he had been ordered the day following to
do contrary to what he had done the evening before he would have done it
with equal submission. Once in life, once, and once only, he had wished
to act by his own impulse--and he had been sent to hard labour for it.
This lesson had not been lost upon him, although it was written that he
was never to understand his fault. He had yet become impressed with this
salutary moral principle: never to reason in any matter because his mind
was not equal to the task of judging. Blindly devoted to ceremonies, he
looked with respect at the sucking-pig which he had stuffed with
millet-seed, and which he had roasted himself (for he had some culinary
skill), just as if it had not been an ordinary sucking-pig which could
have been bought and roasted at any time, but a particular kind of
animal born specially for Christmas Day. Perhaps he had been accustomed
from his tender infancy to see that day a sucking-pig on the table, and
he may have concluded that a sucking-pig was indispensable for the
proper celebration of the festival. I am certain that if by ill-luck he
had not eaten this particular kind of meat on that day, he would have
been troubled with remorse all his life for not having done his duty.
Until Christmas morning he wore his old vest and his old trousers, which
had long been threadbare. I then learned that he kept carefully in his
box his new clothes which had been given to him four months before, and
that he had not put them on once, in order that he might wear them for
the first time on Christmas Day. He did so. The evening before he took
his new clothes out of his trunk, unfolded, examined them, cleaned them,
blew on them to remove the dust, and when he was convinced that they
were perfect, probably tried them on. The dress became him perfectly;
all the different garments suited one another. The waistcoat buttoned up
to the neck, the collar, straight and stiff like cardboard, kept his
chin in its proper place. There was a military cut about the dress; and
Akim Akimitch, as he wore it, smiled with satisfaction, turning himself
round and round, not without swagger, before a little mirror adorned
with a gilt border.
One of the waistcoat-buttons alone seemed out of place; Akim Akimitch
remarked it, and at once set it right. He tried on the vest again and
found it irreproachable. Then he folded up his things as before, and
with a satisfied mind locked them up in his box until the next day. His
skull was sufficiently shaved; but, after careful examination, Akim
Akimitch came to the conclusion that it was not in good condition, his
hair had imperceptibly sprung up. He accordingly went immediately to the
“Major” to be properly shaved according to the rules. In reality no one
would have dreamed of looking at him next day, but he was acting
conscientiously in order to fulfil all his duties. This care lest the
smallest button, the least thread of an epaulette, the slightest string
of a tassel should go wrong, was engraved in his mind as an imperious
duty, and in his heart as the image of the most perfect order that could
possibly be attained. As one of the “old hands” in the barracks, he saw
that hay was brought and strewed about on the floor; the same thing was
done in the other barracks. I do not know why, but hay was always
strewed on the ground at Christmas time.
As soon as Akim Akimitch had finished his work he said his prayers,
stretched himself on his bed, and went to sleep, with the sleep of a
child, in order to wake up as early as possible the next day. The other
convicts did the same. It must be added that all of them went to bed,
but sooner than usual. They gave up their ordinary evening work that
day. As for playing cards, no one would have dared even to speak of such
a thing; every one was anxiously expecting the next morning.
At last this morning arrived. At an early hour, even before it was
light, the drum was sounded, and the under officer, whose duty it was to
count the convicts, wished them a happy Christmas. The prisoners
answered him in an affable and amiable tone by expressing a like wish.
Akim Akimitch, and many others, who had their geese and their
sucking-pigs, went to the kitchen, after saying their prayers, in a
hurried manner to see where their victuals were and how they were being
cooked.
Through the little windows of our barracks, half hidden by the snow and
the ice, could be seen, flaring in the darkness, the bright fire of the
two kitchens where six stoves had been lighted. In the court-yard, where
it was still dark, the convicts, each with a half pelisse round his
shoulders, or perhaps fully dressed, were hurrying towards the kitchen.
Some of them, meanwhile--a very small number--had already visited the
drink-sellers. They were the impatient ones, but they behaved
becomingly, possibly much better than on ordinary days; neither quarrels
nor insults were heard, every one understood that it was a great day, a
great festival. The convicts went even to visit the other barracks in
order to wish the inmates a happy Christmas; that day a sort of
friendship seemed to exist between them all. I will remark in passing
that the convicts have scarcely ever any intimate friendships. It was
very rare to see a man on confidential terms with any other man, as, in
the outer world. We were generally harsh and abrupt in our mutual
relations. With some rare exceptions this was the general tone adopted
and maintained.
I went out of the barracks like the others. It was beginning to get
late. The stars were paling, a light, icy mist was rising from the
earth, and spirals of smoke were ascending in curls from the chimneys.
Several convicts whom I met wished me, with affability, a happy
Christmas. I thanked them and returned their wishes. Some of them had
never spoken to me before.
Near the kitchen, a convict from the military barracks, with his
sheepskin on his shoulder, came up to me. Recognising me, he called out
from the middle of the court-yard, “Alexander Petrovitch.” He ran
towards me. I waited for him. He was a young fellow, with a round face
and soft eyes, and not at all communicative as a rule. He had not spoken
to me since my arrival, and seemed never to have noticed me. I did not
know on my side what his name was. When he came up, he remained planted
before me, smiling with a vacuous smile, but with a happy expression of
countenance.
“What do you want?” I asked, not without astonishment.
He remained standing before me, still smiling and staring, but without
replying to my question.
“Why, it is Christmas Day,” he muttered.
He understood that he had nothing more to say, and now hastened into the
kitchen.
I must add that, after this we scarcely ever met, and that we never
spoke to one another again.
Round the flaming stoves of the kitchen the convicts were rubbing and
pushing against one another. Every one was watching his own property.
The cooks were preparing the dinner, which was to take place a little
earlier than usual. No one began to eat before the time, though a good
many wished to do so; but it was necessary to be well-behaved before the
others. We were waiting for the priest, and the fast preceding Christmas
would not be at an end until his arrival.
It was not yet perfectly light, when the corporal was already heard
shouting out from behind the principal gate of the prison:
“The kitchen; the kitchen.”
These calls were repeated without interruption for about two hours. The
cooks were wanted in order to receive gifts brought from all parts of
the town in enormous numbers; loaves of white bread, scones, rusks,
pancakes, and pastry of various kinds. I do not think there was a
shop-keeper in the whole town who did not send something to the
“unfortunates.” Amongst these gifts there were some magnificent ones,
including a good many cakes of the finest flour. There were also some
very poor ones, such as rolls worth two kopecks a piece, and a couple of
brown rolls, covered lightly over with sour cream. These were the
offerings of the poor to the poor, on which a last kopeck had often been
spent.
All these gifts were accepted with equal gratitude, without reference to
the value or the giver. The convicts, on receiving the offerings, took
off their caps and thanked the donors with low bows, wishing them a
happy Christmas, and then carried the things to the kitchen.
When a number of loaves and cakes had been collected, the elders of each
barrack were called, and it was for them to divide the whole in equal
portions among all the sections. The division excited neither protest
nor annoyance. It was made honestly, equitably. Akim Akimitch, helped by
another prisoner, divided between the convicts of our barracks the share
assigned to us, and gave to each of us what came to him. Every one was
satisfied. No objection was made by any one. There was not the least
manifestation of envy, and it occurred to no one to deceive another.
When Akim Akimitch had finished at the kitchen, he proceeded religiously
to dress himself, and did so with a solemn air. He buttoned up his
waistcoat button by button, in the most punctilious manner. Then, when
he had got his new clothes on, he went to pray, which occupied him a
considerable time. Numbers of convicts fulfilled their religious duties,
but these were for the most part old men. The young men scarcely ever
prayed. The most they did was to make the sign of the cross when they
rose from table, and that happened only on festival days.
Akim Akimitch came up to me as soon as he had finished his prayer, to
express to me the usual good wishes. I invited him to have some tea, and
he returned my politeness by offering me some of his sucking-pig. After
some time Petroff came up to address to me the usual compliments. I
think he had been already drinking, and although he seemed to have much
to say, he scarcely spoke. He stood up before me for some seconds, and
then went back to the kitchen. The priest was now expected in the
military section of the barracks. This section was not constructed like