The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
the stage in the other barrack, and who viewed the performance from the
back. I was asked to go forward, and Petroff with me, close to the
benches, whence a good view could be obtained. They looked upon me as a
good judge, a connoisseur, who had seen many other theatres. The
convicts remarked that Baklouchin had often consulted me, and that he
had shown deference to my advice. Consequently they thought that I ought
to be treated with honour, and to have one of the best places. These men
are vain and frivolous, but only on the surface. They laughed at me when
I was at work, because I was a poor workman. Almazoff had a right to
despise us gentlemen, and to boast of his superior skill in pounding the
alabaster. His laughter and raillery were directed against our origin,
for we belonged by birth to the caste of his former masters, of whom he
could not preserve a good recollection; but here at the theatre these
same men made way for me; for they knew that about this matter I knew
more than they did. Those, even, who were not at all well disposed
towards me, were glad to hear me praise the performance, and gave way to
me without the least servility. I judged now by my impressions of that
time. I understood that in this new view of theirs there was no lowering
of themselves; rather a sentiment of their own dignity.
The most striking characteristic of our people is its conscientiousness,
and its love of justice; no false vanity, no sly ambition to reach the
first rank without being entitled to do so; such faults are foreign to
our people. Take it from its rough shell, and you will perceive, if you
study it without prejudice, attentively, and close at hand, qualities
which you would never have suspected. Our sages have very little to
teach our people. I will even say more; they might take lessons from it.
Petroff had told me innocently, on taking me into the theatre, that they
would pass me to the front, because they expected more money from me.
There were no fixed prices for the places. Each one gave what he liked,
and what he could. Nearly every one placed a piece of money in the plate
when it was handed round. Even if they had passed me forward in the hope
that I should give more than others, was there not in that a certain
feeling of personal dignity?
“You are richer than I am. Go to the first row. We are all equal here,
it is true; but you pay more, and the actors prefer a spectator like
you. Occupy the first place then, for we are not here with money, and
must arrange ourselves anyhow.”
What noble pride in this mode of action! In final analysis not love of
money, but self-respect. There was little esteem for money among us. I
do not remember that one of us ever lowered himself to obtain money.
Some men used to make up to me, but from love of cunning and of fun
rather than in the hope of obtaining any benefit. I do not know whether
I explain myself clearly. I am, in any case, forgetting the performance.
Let me return to it.
Before the rise of the curtain, the room presented a strange and
animated look. In the first place, the crowd pressed, crushed, jammed
together on all sides, but impatient, full of expectation, every face
glowing with delight. In the last ranks was the grovelling, confused
mass of convicts. Many of them had brought with them logs of wood, which
they placed against the wall, on which they climbed up. In this
fatiguing position they paused to rest themselves by placing both hands
on the shoulders of their companions, who seemed quite at ease. Others
stood on their toes, with their heels against the stove, and thus
remained throughout the representation, supported by those around them.
Massed against the camp-bedsteads was another compact crowd; for here
were some of the best places of all. Five convicts had hoisted
themselves up to the top of the stove, whence they had a commanding
view. These fortunate ones were extremely happy. Elsewhere swarmed the
late arrivals, unable to find good places.
Every one conducted himself in a becoming manner, without making any
noise. Each one wished to show advantageously before the distinguished
persons who were visiting us. Simple and natural was the expression of
these red faces, damp with perspiration, as the rise of the curtain was
eagerly expected. What a strange look of infinite delight, of unmixed
pleasure, was painted on these scarred faces, these branded foreheads,
so dark and menacing at ordinary times! They were all without their
caps, and as I looked back at them from my place, it seemed to me that
their heads were entirely shaved.
Suddenly the signal is given, and the orchestra begins to play. This
orchestra deserves a special mention. It consisted of eight musicians:
two violins, one of which was the property of a convict, while the other
had been borrowed from outside; three balalaiki, made by the convicts
themselves; two guitars, and a tambourine. The violins sighed and
shrieked, and the guitars were worthless, but the balalaiki were
remarkably good; and the agile fingering of the artists would have done
honour to the cleverest executant.
They played scarcely anything but dance tunes. At the most exciting
passages they struck with their fingers on the body of their
instruments. The tone, the execution of the motive, were always original
and distinctive. One of the guitarists knew his instrument thoroughly.
It was the gentleman who had killed his father. As for the tambourinist,
he really did wonders. Now he whirled round the disk, balanced on one of
his fingers; now he rubbed the parchment with his thumb, and brought
from it a countless multitude of notes, now dull, now brilliant.
At last two harmonigers join the orchestra. I had no idea until then of
all that could be done with these popular and vulgar instruments. I was
astonished. The harmony, but, above all, the expression, the very
conception of the motive, were admirably rendered. I then understood
perfectly, and for the first time, the remarkable boldness, the
striking abandonment, which are expressed in our popular dance tunes,
and our village songs.
At last the curtain rose. Every one made a movement. Those who were at
the back raised themselves upon the point of their feet; some one fell
down from his log. At once there were looks that enjoined silence. The
performance now began.
I was seated not far from Ali, who was in the midst of the group formed
by his brothers and the other Circassians. They had a passionate love of
the theatre, and did not miss one of our evenings. I have remarked that
all the Mohammedans, Circassians, and so on, are fond of all kinds of
representations. Near them was Isaiah Fomitch, quite in a state of
ecstasy. As soon as the curtain rose he was all ears and eyes; his
countenance expressed an expectation of something marvellous. I should
have been grieved had he been disappointed. The charming face of Ali
shone with a childish joy, so pure that I was quite happy to behold it.
Involuntarily, whenever a general laugh echoed an amusing remark, I
turned towards him to see his countenance. He did not notice it, he had
something else to do.
Near him, placed on the left, was a convict, already old, sombre,
discontented, and always grumbling. He also had noticed Ali, and I saw
him cast furtive glances more than once towards him, so charming was the
young Circassian. The prisoners always called him Ali Simeonitch,
without my knowing why.
In the first piece, _Philatka and Miroshka_, Baklouchin, in the part of
Philatka, was really marvellous. He played his rôle to perfection. It
could be seen that he had weighed each speech, each movement. He managed
to give to each word, each gesture, a meaning which responded perfectly
to the character of the personage. Apart from the conscientious study he
had made of the character, he was gay, simple, natural, irresistible. If
you had seen Baklouchin you would certainly have said that he was a
genuine actor, an actor by vocation, and of great talent. I have seen
Philatka several times at the St. Petersburg and Moscow theatres, and I
declare that none of our celebrated actors was equal to Baklouchin in
this part. They were peasants, from no matter what country, and not true
Russian moujiks. Moreover, their desire to be peasant-like was too
apparent. Baklouchin was animated by emulation; for it was known that
the convict Potsiakin was to play the part of Kedril in the second
piece, and it was assumed--I do not know why--that the latter would show
more talent than Baklouchin. The latter was as vexed by this preference
as a child. How many times did he not come to me during the last days to
tell me all he felt! Two hours before the representation he was attacked
by fever. When the audience burst out laughing, and called out “Bravo,
Baklouchin! what a fellow you are!” his figure shone with joy, and true
inspiration could be read in his eyes. The scene of the kisses between
Kiroshka and Philatka, in which the latter calls out to the daughter,
“Wife, your mouth,” and then wipes his own, was wonderfully comic. Every
one burst out laughing.
What interested me was the spectators. They were all at their ease, and
gave themselves up frankly to their mirth. Cries of approbation became
more and more numerous. A convict nudged his companion with his elbow,
and hastily communicated his impressions, without even troubling himself
to know who was by his side. When a comic song began, one man might be
seen agitating his arms violently, as if to engage his companions to
laugh; after which he turned suddenly towards the stage. A third smacked
his tongue against his palate, and could not keep quiet a moment; but as
there was not room for him to change his position, he hopped first on
one leg, then on the other; towards the end of the piece the general
gaiety attained its climax. I exaggerate nothing. Imagine the convict
prison, chains, captivity, long years of confinement, of task-work, of
monotonous life, falling away drop by drop like rain on an autumn day;
imagine all this despair in presence of permission given to the convicts
to amuse themselves, to breathe freely for an hour, to forget their
nightmare, and to organise a play--and what a play! one that excited the
envy and admiration of our town.
“Fancy those convicts!” people said: everything interested them, take
the costumes for instance. It seemed very strange, but then to see,
Nietsvitaeff, or Baklouchin, in a different costume from the one they
had worn for so many years.
He is a convict, a genuine convict, whose chains ring when he walks; and
there he is, out on the stage with a frock-coat, and a round hat, and a
cloak, like any ordinary civilian. He has put on hair, moustaches. He
takes a red handkerchief from his pocket and shakes it, like a real
nobleman. What enthusiasm is created! The “good landlord” arrives in an
aide-de-camp uniform, a very old one, it is true, but with epaulettes,
and a cocked hat. The effect produced was indescribable. There had been
two candidates for this costume, and--will it be believed?--they had
quarrelled like two little schoolboys as to which of them should play
the part. Both wanted to appear in military uniform with epaulettes. The
other actors separated them, and, by a majority of voices, the part was
entrusted to Nietsvitaeff; not because he was more suited to it than the
other, and that he bore a greater resemblance to a nobleman, but only
because he had assured them all that he would have a cane, and that he
would twirl it and rap it out grand, like a true nobleman--a dandy of
the latest fashion--which was more than Vanka and Ospiety could do,
seeing they have never known any noblemen. In fact, when Nietsvitaeff
went to the stage with his wife, he did nothing but draw circles on the