The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
Two friends are seated separately on two camp-bedsteads. One is tall,
vigorous, fleshy, with a red face--a regular butcher. He is on the point
of weeping; for he has been much moved. The other is tall, thin,
conceited, with an immense nose, which always seems to have a cold, and
little blue eyes fixed upon the ground. He is a clever, well-bred man,
and was formerly a secretary. He treats his friend with a little
disdain, which the latter cannot stand. They have been drinking together
all day.
“You have taken a liberty with me,” cries the stout one, as with his
left hand he shakes the head of his companion. To take a liberty
signifies, in convict language, to strike. This convict, formerly a
non-commissioned officer, envies in secret the elegance of his
neighbour, and endeavours to make up for his material grossness by
refined conversation.
“I tell you, you are wrong,” says the secretary, in a dogmatic tone,
with his eyes obstinately fixed on the ground, and without looking at
his companion.
“You struck me. Do you hear?” continues the other, still shaking his
dear friend. “You are the only man in the world I care for; but you
shall not take a liberty with me.”
“Confess, my dear fellow,” replies the secretary, “that all this is the
result of too much drink.”
The corpulent friend falls back with a stagger, looks stupidly with his
drunken eyes at the secretary, and suddenly, with all his might, sends
his fist into the secretary’s thin face. Thus terminates the day’s
friendship.
The dear friend disappears beneath the camp-bedstead unconscious.
One of my acquaintances enters the barracks. He is a convict of the
special section, very good-natured, and gay, far from stupid, and
jocular without malice. He is the man who, on my arrival at the convict
prison, was looking out for a rich peasant, who spoke so much of his
self-respect, and ended by drinking my tea. He was forty years old, had
enormous lips, and a fat, fleshy, red nose. He held a balalaika, and
struck negligently its strings. He was followed by a little convict,
with a large head, whom I knew very little, and to whom no one paid any
attention. Now that he was drunk he had attached himself to Vermaloff,
and followed him like his shadow, at the same time gesticulating and
striking with his fist the wall and the camp-bedsteads. He was almost in
tears. Vermaloff did not notice him any more than if he had not existed.
The most curious point was that these two men in no way resembled one
another, neither by their occupations nor by their disposition. They
belonged to different sections, and lived in separate barracks. The
little convict was named Bulkin.
Vermaloff smiled when he saw me seated by the stove. He stopped at some
distance from me, reflected for a moment, tottered, and then came
towards me with an affected swagger. Then he swept the strings of his
instrument, and sung, or recited, tapping at the same time with his boot
on the ground, the following chant:
My darling!
With her full, fair face,
Sings like a nightingale;
In her satin dress,
With its brilliant trimming,
She is very fair.
This song excited Bulkin in an extraordinary manner. He agitated his
arms, and shrieked out to every one: “He lies, my friends; he lies like
a quack doctor. There is not a shadow of truth in what he sings.”
“My respects to the venerable Alexander Petrovitch,” said Vermaloff,
looking at me with a knowing smile. I fancied even he wished to embrace
me. He was drunk. As for the expression, “My respects to the venerable
so-and-so,” it is employed by the common people throughout Siberia, even
when addressed to a young man of twenty. To call a man old is a sign of
respect, and may amount even to flattery.
“Well, Vermaloff, how are you?” I replied.
“So, so. Nothing to boast of. Those who really enjoy the holiday have
been drinking since early morning.”
Vermaloff did not speak very distinctly.
“He lies; he lies again,” said Bulkin, striking the camp-bedsteads with
a sort of despair.
One might have sworn that Vermaloff had given his word of honour not to
pay any attention to him. That was really the most comic thing about it;
for Bulkin had not quitted him for one moment since the morning. Always
with him, he quarrelled with Vermaloff about every word; wringing his
hands, and striking with his fists against the wall and the camp
bedsteads till he made them bleed, he suffered visibly from his
conviction that Vermaloff “lied like a quack doctor.” If Bulkin had had
hair on his head, he would certainly have torn it in his grief, in his
profound mortification. One might have thought that he had made himself
responsible for Vermaloff’s actions, and that all Vermaloff’s faults
troubled his conscience. The amusing part of it was that Vermaloff
continued.
“He lies! He lies! He lies!” cried Bulkin.
“What can it matter to you?” replied the convicts, with a laugh.
“I must tell you, Alexander Petrovitch, that I was very good-looking
when I was a young man, and the young girls were very fond of me,” said
Vermaloff suddenly.
“He lies! He lies!” again interrupted Bulkin, with a groan. The convicts
burst into a laugh.
“And well I got myself up to please them. I had a red shirt, and broad
trousers of cotton velvet. I was happy in those days. I got up when I
liked; did whatever I pleased. In fact----”
“He lies,” declared Bulkin.
“I inherited from my father a stone house, two storeys high. Within two
years I made away with the two storeys; nothing remained to me but the
street door. Well, what of that. Money comes and goes like a bird.”
“He lies!” declared Bulkin, more resolutely than before.
“Then when I had spent all, I sent a letter to my relations, that they
might send me some money. They said that I had set their will at naught,
that I was disrespectful. It is now seven years since I sent off my
letter.”
“And any answer?” I asked, with a smile.
“No,” he replied, also laughing, and almost putting his nose in my face.
He then informed me that he had a sweetheart.
“You a sweetheart?”
“Onufriel said to me the other day: ‘My young woman is marked with
small-pox, and as ugly as you like; but she has plenty of dresses, while
yours, though she may be pretty, is a beggar.’”
“Is that true?”
“Certainly, she is a beggar,” he answered.
He burst into a laugh, and the others laughed with him. Every one indeed
knew that he had a _liaison_ with a beggar woman, to whom he gave ten
kopecks every six months.
“Well, what do you want with me?” I said to him, wishing at last to get
rid of him.
He remained silent, and then, looking at me in the most insinuating
manner, said:
“Could not you let me have enough money to buy half-a-pint? I have drunk
nothing but tea the whole day,” he added, as he took from me the money I
offered him; “and tea affects me in such a manner that I am afraid of
becoming asthmatic. It gives me the wind.”
When he took the money I offered him, the despair of Bulkin went beyond
all bounds. He gesticulated like a man possessed.
“Good people all,” he cried, “the man lies. Everything he
says--everything is a lie.”
“What can it matter to you?” cried the convicts, astonished at his
goings on. “You are possessed.”
“I will not allow him to lie,” continued Bulkin, rolling his eyes, and
striking his fist with energy on the boards. “He shall not lie.”
Every one laughed. Vermaloff bowed to me after receiving the money, and
hastened, with many grimaces, to go to the drink-seller. Then only he
noticed Bulkin.
“Come!” he said to him, as if the latter were indispensable for the
execution of some design. “Idiot!” he added, with contempt, as Bulkin
passed before him.
But enough about this tumultuous scene, which, at last, came to an end.
The convicts went to sleep heavily on their camp-bedsteads. They spoke
and raged during their sleep more than on the other nights. Here and
there they still continued to play at cards. The festival looked forward
to with such impatience was now over, and to-morrow the daily work, the
hard labour, will begin again.
CHAPTER XII.
THE PERFORMANCE.
On the evening of the third day of the holidays took place our first
theatrical performance. There had been much trouble about organising it.
But those who were to act had taken everything upon themselves, and the
other convicts knew nothing about the representation except that it was
to take place. We did not even know what was to be played. The actors,
while they were at work, were always thinking how they could get
together the greatest number of costumes. Whenever I met Baklouchin he
snapped his fingers with satisfaction, but told me nothing. I think the
Major was in a good humour; but we did not know for certain whether he
knew what was going on or not, whether he had authorised it, or whether
he had determined to shut his eyes and be silent, after assuring himself
that everything would take place quietly. He had heard, I fancy, of the
meditated representation, and said nothing about it, lest he should
spoil everything. The soldiers would be disorderly, or would get drunk,
unless they had something to divert them. Thus I think the Major must
have reasoned, for it will be only natural to do so. I may add that if
the convicts had not got up a performance during the holidays, or done
something of the kind, the administration would have been obliged to
organise some sort of amusement; but as our Major was distinguished by
ideas directly opposed to those of other people, I take a great
responsibility on myself in saying that he knew of our project and
authorised it. A man like him must always be crushing and stifling some
one, taking something away, depriving some one of a right--in a word,
for establishing order of this character he was known throughout the
town.
It mattered nothing to him that his exactions made the men rebellious.
For such offences there were suitable punishments (there are some people
who reason in this way), and with these rascals of convicts there was
nothing to do but to treat them very severely, deal with them strictly
according to law. These incapable executants of the law did not in the
least understand that to apply the law without understanding its spirit
is to provoke resistance. They are quite astonished that, in addition to
the execution of the law, good sense and a sound head should be expected
from them. The last condition would appear to them quite superfluous; to
require such a thing is vexatious, intolerant.
However this may be, the Sergeant-Major made no objection to the
performance, and that was all the convicts wanted. I may say in all
truth that if throughout the holidays there were no disorders in the
convict prison, no sanguinary quarrels, no robberies, that must be
attributed to the convicts being permitted to organise their
performance. I saw with my own eyes how they got out of the way of those
of their companions who had drunk too much, and how they prevented
quarrels on the ground that the representation would be forbidden. The
non-commissioned officer made the prisoners give their word of honour
that they would behave well, and that all would go off quietly. They
gave it with pleasure, and kept their promise religiously. They were
much flattered at finding their word of honour accepted. Let me add that
the representation cost nothing, absolutely nothing, to the
authorities, who were not called upon to spend a farthing. The theatre
could be put up and taken down within a quarter of an hour; and, in case
an order stopping the performance suddenly arrived, the scenery could
have been put away in a second. The costumes were concealed in the
convicts’ boxes; but first of all let me say how our theatre was