The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
floor with his light bamboo cane, evidently thinking that this was the
sign of the best breeding, of supreme elegance. Probably in his
childhood, when he was still a barefooted child, he had been attracted
by the skill of some proprietor in twirling his cane, and this
impression had remained in his memory, although thirty years afterwards.
Nietsvitaeff was so occupied with his process that he saw no one, he
gave the replies in his dialogue without even raising his eyes. The most
important thing for him was the end of his cane, and the circles he drew
with it. The Lady Bountiful was also very remarkable; she came on in an
old worn-out muslin dress, which looked like a rag. Her arms and neck
were bare. She had a little calico cap on her head, with strings under
her chin, an umbrella in one hand, and in the other a fan of coloured
paper, with which she constantly fanned herself. This great lady was
welcomed with a wild laugh; she herself, too, was unable to restrain
herself, and burst out more than once. The part was filled by the
convict Ivanoff. As for Sirotkin, in his girl’s dress, he looked
exceedingly well. The couplets were all well sung. In a word, the piece
was played to the satisfaction of every one; not the least hostile
criticism was passed--who, indeed, was there to criticise? The air,
“Sieni moi Sieni,” was played again by way of overture, and the curtain
again went up.
_Kedril, the Glutton_, was now to be played. Kedril is a sort of Don
Juan. This comparison may justly be made, for the master and the servant
are both carried away by devils at the end of the piece; and the piece,
as the convicts had it, was played quite correctly; but the beginning
and the end must have been lost, for it had neither head nor tail. The
scene is laid in an inn somewhere in Russia. The innkeeper introduces
into a room a nobleman wearing a cloak and a battered round hat; the
valet, Kedril, follows his master; he carries a valise, and a fowl
rolled up in blue paper; he wears a short pelisse and a footman’s cap.
It is this fellow who is the glutton. The convict Potsiakin, the rival
of Baklouchin, played this part, while the part of the nobleman was
filled by Ivanoff, the same who played the great lady in the first
piece. The innkeeper (Nietsvitaeff) warns the nobleman that the room is
haunted by demons, and goes away; the nobleman is interested and
preoccupied; he murmurs aloud that he has known that for a long time,
and orders Kedril to unpack his things and to get supper ready.
Kedril is a glutton and a coward. When he hears of devils he turns pale
and trembles like a leaf; he would like to run away, but is afraid of
his master; besides, he is hungry, he is voluptuous, he is sensual,
stupid, though cunning in his way, and, as before said, a poltroon; he
cheats his master every moment, though he fears him like fire. This type
of servant is a remarkable one in which may be recognised the principal
features of the character of Leporello, but indistinct and confused. The
part was played in really superior style by Potsiakin, whose talent was
beyond discussion, surpassing as it did in my opinion that of Baklouchin
himself. But when the next day I spoke to Baklouchin I concealed my
impression from him, knowing that it would give him bitter pain.
As for the convict who played the part of the nobleman, it was not bad.
Everything he said was without meaning, incomparable to anything I had
ever heard before; but his enunciation was pure and his gestures
becoming. While Kedril occupies himself with the valise, his master
walks up and down, and announces that from that day forth he means to
lead a quiet life. Kedril listens, makes grimaces, and amuses the
spectators by his reflections “aside.” He has no pity for his master,
but he has heard of devils, would like to know what they are like, and
thereupon questions him. The nobleman replies that some time ago, being
in danger of death, he asked succour from hell. Then the devils aided
and delivered him, but the term of his liberty has expired; and if the
devils come that evening, it will be to exact his soul, as has been
agreed in their compact. Kedril begins to tremble in earnest, but his
master does not lose courage, and orders him to prepare the supper.
Hearing of victuals, Kedril revives. Taking out a bottle of wine, he
taps it on his own account. The audience expands with laughter; but the
door grates on its hinges, the winds shakes the shutters, Kedril
trembles, and hastily, almost without knowing what he is doing, puts
into his mouth an enormous piece of fowl, which he is unable to swallow.
There is another gust of wind.
“Is it ready?” cries the master, still walking backwards and forwards in
his room.
“Directly, sir. I am preparing it,” says Kedril, who sits down, and,
taking care that his master does not see him, begins to eat the supper
himself. The audience is evidently charmed with the cunning of the
servant, who so cleverly makes game of the nobleman; and it must be
admitted that Poseikin, the representative of the part, deserved high
praise. He pronounced admirably the words: “Directly, sir.
I--am--preparing--it.”
Kedril eats gradually, and at each mouthful trembles lest his master
shall see him. Every time that the nobleman turns round Kedril hides
under the table, holding the fowl in his hand. When he has appeased his
hunger, he begins to think of his master.
“Kedril, will it soon be ready?” cries the nobleman.
“It is ready now,” replies Kedril boldly, when all at once he perceives
that there is scarcely anything left. Nothing remains but one leg. The
master, still sombre and pre-occupied, notices nothing, and takes his
seat, while Kedril places himself behind him with a napkin on his arm.
Every word, every gesture, every grimace from the servant, as he turns
towards the audience to laugh at his master’s expense, excites the
greatest mirth among the convicts. Just at the moment when the young
nobleman begins to eat, the devils arrive. They resemble nothing human
or terrestrial. The side-door opens, and the phantom appears dressed
entirely in white, with a lighted lantern in lieu of a head, and with a
scythe in its hand. Why the white dress, scythe, and lantern? No one
could tell me, and the matter did not trouble the convicts. They were
sure that this was the way it ought to be done. The master comes
forward courageously to meet the apparitions, and calls out to them that
he is ready, and that they can take him. But Kedril, as timid as a hare,
hides under the table, not forgetting, in spite of his fright, to take a
bottle with him. The devils disappear, Kedril comes out of his
hiding-place, and the master begins to eat his fowl. Three devils enter
the room, and seize him to take him to hell.
“Save me, Kedril,” he cries. But Kedril has something else to think of.
He has now with him in his hiding-place not only the bottle, but also
the plate of fowl and the bread. He is now alone. The demons are far
away, and his master also. Kedril gets from under the table, looks all
round, and suddenly his face beams with joy. He winks, like the rogue he
is, sits down in his master’s place, and whispers to the audience: “I
have now no master but myself.”
Every one laughs at seeing him masterless; and he says, always in an
under-tone and with a confidential air: “The devils have carried him
off!”
The enthusiasm of the spectators is now without limits. The last phrase
was uttered with such roguery, with such a triumphant grimace, that it
was impossible not to applaud. But Kedril’s happiness does not last
long. Hardly has he taken up the bottle of wine, and poured himself out
a large glass, which he carries to his lips, than the devils return,
slip behind, and seize him. Kedril howls like one possessed, but he dare
not turn round. He wishes to defend himself, but cannot, for in his
hands he holds the bottle and the glass, from which he will not
separate. His eyes starting from his head, his mouth gaping with horror,
he remains for a moment looking at the audience with a comic expression
of cowardice that might have been painted. At last he is dragged,
carried away. His arms and legs are agitated in every direction, but he
still sticks to his bottle. He also shrieks, and his cries are still
heard when he has been carried from the stage.
The curtain falls amid general laughter, and every one is delighted.
The orchestra now attacks the famous dance tune Kamarinskaia. First it
is played softly, pianissimo; but little by little, the motive is
developed and played more lightly. The time is quickened, and the wood,
as well as the strings of the balalaiki, is made to sound. The musicians
enter thoroughly into the spirit of the dance. Glinka [who has arranged
the Kamarinskaia in the most ingenious manner, and with harmonies of his
own devising, for full orchestra] should have heard it as it was
executed in our Convict Prison.
The pantomimic musical accompaniment is begun; and throughout the
Kamarinskaia is played. The stage represents the interior of a hut. A
miller and his wife are sitting down, one mending clothes, the other
spinning flax. Sirotkin plays the part of the wife, and Nietsvitaeff
that of the husband. Our scenery was very poor. In this piece, as in the
preceding ones, imagination had to supply what was wanting in reality.
Instead of a wall at the back of the stage, there was a carpet or a
blanket; on the right, shabby screens; while on the left, where the
stage was not closed, the camp-bedsteads could be seen; but the
spectators were not exacting, and were willing to imagine all that was
wanting. It was an easy task for them; all convicts are great dreamers.
Directly they are told “this is a garden,” it is for them a garden.
Informed that “this is a hut,” they accept the definition without
difficulty. To them it is a hut. Sirotkin was charming in a woman’s
dress. The miller finishes his work, takes his cap and his whip, goes up
to his wife, and gives her to understand by signs, that if during his
absence she makes the mistake of receiving any one, she will have to
deal with him--and he shows her his whip. The wife listens, and nods
affirmatively her head. The whip is evidently known to her; the hussey
has often deserved it. The husband goes out. Hardly has he turned upon
his heel, than his wife shakes her fist at him. There is a knock; the
door opens, and in comes a neighbour, miller also by trade. He wears a
beard, is in a kuftan, and he brings as a present a red handkerchief.
The woman smiles. Another knock is heard at the door. Where shall she
hide him? She conceals him under the table, and takes up her distaff
again. Another admirer now presents himself--a farrier in the uniform of
a non-commissioned officer.
Until now the pantomime had gone on capitally; the gestures of the
actors being irreproachable. It was astounding to see these improvised
players going through their parts in so correct a manner; and
involuntarily one said to oneself:
“What a deal of talent is lost in our Russia, left without use in our
prisons and places of exile!”
The convict who played the part of the farrier had, doubtless, taken
part in a performance at some provincial theatre, or had played with
amateurs. It seemed to me, in any case, that our actors knew nothing of
acting as an art, and bore themselves in the meanest manner. When it was
his turn to appear, he came on like one of the classical heroes of the
old repertory--taking a long stride with one foot before he raised the
other from the ground, throwing back his head on the upper part of his
body and casting proud looks around him. If such a gait was ridiculous
on the part of classical heroes, still more so was it when the actor was
representing a comic character. But the audience thought it quite