The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
natural, and accepted the actor’s triumphant walk as a necessary fact,
without criticising it.
A moment after the entry of the second admirer there is another knock at
the door. The wife loses her head. Where is the farrier to be concealed?
In her big box. It fortunately is open. The farrier disappears within it
and the lid falls upon him.
The new arrival is a Brahmin, in full costume. His entry is hailed by
the spectators with a formidable laugh. This Brahmin is represented by
the convict Cutchin, who plays the part perfectly, thanks, in a great
measure, to a suitable physiognomy. He explains in the pantomime his
love of the miller’s wife, raises his hands to heaven, and then clasps
them on his breast.
There is now another knock at the door--a vigorous one this time. There
could be no mistake about it. It is the master of the house. The
miller’s wife loses her head; the Brahmin runs wildly on all sides,
begging to be concealed. She helps him to slip behind the cupboard, and
begins to spin, and goes on spinning without thinking of opening the
door. In her fright she gets the thread twisted, drops the spindle, and,
in her agitation, makes the gesture of turning it when it is lying on
the ground. Sirotkin represented perfectly this state of alarm.
Then the miller kicks open the door and approaches his wife, whip in
hand. He has seen everything, for he was spying outside; and he
indicates by signs to his wife that she has three lovers concealed in
the house. Then he searches them out.
First, he finds the neighbour, whom he drives out with his fist. The
frightened farrier tries to escape. He raises, with his head, the cover
of the chest, and is at once seen. The miller thrashes him with his
whip, and for once this gallant does not march in the classical style.
The only one now remaining is the Brahmin, whom the husband seeks for
some time without finding him. At last he discovers him in his corner
behind the cupboard, bows to him politely, and then draws him by his
beard into the middle of the stage. The Brahmin tries to defend himself,
and cries out, “Accursed, accursed!”--the only words pronounced
throughout the pantomime. But the husband will not listen to him, and,
after settling accounts with him, turns to his wife. Seeing that her
turn has come, she throws away both wheel and spindle, and runs out,
causing an earthen pot to fall as she shakes the room in her fright. The
convicts burst into a laugh, and Ali, without looking at me, takes my
hand, and calls out, “See, see the Brahmin!” He cannot hold himself
upright, so overpowering is his laugh. The curtain falls, and another
song begins.
There were two or three more, all broadly humorous and very droll. The
convicts had not composed them themselves, but they had contributed
something to them. Every actor improvised to such purpose that the part
was a different one each evening. The pantomime ended with a ballet, in
which there was a burial. The Brahmin went through various incantations
over the corpse, and with effect. The dead man returns to life, and, in
their joy, all present begin to dance. The Brahmin dances in Brahminical
style with the dead man. This was the final scene. The convicts now
separated, happy, delighted, and full of praise for the actors and
gratitude towards the non-commissioned officers. There was not the least
quarrel, and they all went to bed with peaceful hearts, to sleep with a
sleep by no means familiar to them.
This is no fantasy of my imagination, but the truth, the very truth.
These unhappy men had been permitted to live for some moments in their
own way, to amuse themselves in a human manner, to escape for a brief
hour from their sad position as convicts; and a moral change was
effected, at least for a time.
The night is already quite dark. Something makes me shudder, and I
awake. The “old believer” is still on the top of the high porcelain
stove praying, and he will continue to pray until dawn. Ali is sleeping
peacefully by my side. I remember that when he went to bed he was still
laughing and talking about the theatre with his brothers. Little by
little I began to remember everything; the preceding day, the Christmas
holidays, and the whole month. I raised my head in fright and looked at
my companions, who were sleeping by the trembling light of the candle
provided by the authorities. I look at their unhappy countenances, their
miserable beds; I view this nakedness, the wretchedness, and then
convince myself that it is not a frightful night there, but a simple
reality. Yes, it is a reality. I hear a groan. Some one has moved his
arm and made his chains rattle. Another one is agitated in his dreams
and speaks aloud, while the old grandfather is praying for the “Orthodox
Christians.” I listened to his prayer, uttered with regularity, in
soft, rather drawling tones: “Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon us.”
“Well, I am not here for ever, but only for a few years,” I said to
myself, and I again laid my head down on my pillow.
Part II.
CHAPTER I.
THE HOSPITAL
Shortly after the Christmas holidays I felt ill, and had to go to our
military hospital, which stood apart at about half a verst (one-third of
a mile) from the fortress. It was a one-storey building, very long, and
painted yellow. Every summer a great quantity of ochre was expended in
brightening it up. In the immense court-yard stood buildings, including
those where the chief physicians lived, while the principal building
contained only wards intended for the patients. There were a good many
of them, but as only two were reserved for the convicts, these latter
were nearly always full, above all in summer, so that it was often
necessary to bring the beds closer together. These wards were occupied
by “unfortunates” of all kinds: first by our own, then by military
prisoners, previously incarcerated in the guard-houses. There were
others, again, who had not yet been tried, or who were passing through.
In this hospital, too, were invalids from the Disciplinary Company, a
melancholy institution for bringing together soldiers of bad conduct,
with a view to their correction. At the end of a year or two, they come
back the most thorough-going rascals that the earth can endure.
When a convict felt that he was ill, he told the non-commissioned
officer, who wrote the man’s name down on a card, which he then gave to
him and sent him to the hospital under the escort of a soldier. On his
arrival he was examined by a doctor, who authorised the convict to
remain at the hospital if he was really ill. My name was duly written
down, and towards one o’clock, when all my companions had started for
their afternoon work, I went to the hospital. Every prisoner took with
him such money and bread as he could (for food was not to be expected
the first day), a little pipe, and pouch containing tobacco, with flint,
steel, and match-paper. The convicts concealed these objects in their
boots. On entering the hospital I experienced a feeling of curiosity,
for a new aspect of life was now presented.
The day was hot, cloudy, sad--one of those days when places like a
hospital assume a particularly disagreeable and repulsive look. Myself
and the soldier escorting me went into the entrance room, where there
were two copper baths. There were two convicts waiting there with their
warders. An assistant surgeon came in, looked at us with a careless and
patronising air, and went away still more carelessly to announce our
arrival to the physician on duty. Soon the physician arrived. He
examined me, treating me in a very affable manner, and gave me a paper
on which my name was inscribed. The ordinary physician of the wards
reserved for the convicts was to make the diagnosis of my illness, to
prescribe the fitting remedies, together with the necessary diet. I had
already heard the convicts say that their doctors could not be too much
praised. “They are fathers to us,” they would say.
I took my clothes off to put on another costume. Our clothes and linen
were taken away, and we were given hospital linen instead, to which were
added long stockings, slippers, cotton nightcaps, and a dressing-gown of
a very thick brown cloth, which was lined, not with linen, but with
filth. The dressing-gown was indeed very filthy, but I soon understood
its utility. We were afterwards taken to the convict wards, which were
at the head of a long corridor, very high, and very clean. The external
cleanliness was quite satisfactory. Everything that could be seen shone;
so, at least, it seemed to me, after the dirtiness of the convict
prison.
The two prisoners, whom I had found in the entrance hall, went to the
left of the corridor, while I entered a room. Before the padlocked door
walked a sentinel, musket on shoulder; and not far off was the soldier
who was to replace him. The sergeant of the hospital guard ordered him
to let me pass, and suddenly I found myself in the middle of a long
narrow room, with beds to the number of twenty-two arranged against the
walls. Three or four of them were still unoccupied. These wooden beds
were painted green, and, as is notoriously the case with all hospital
beds in Russia, were doubtless inhabited by bugs. I went into a corner
by the side of the windows. There were very few prisoners dangerously
ill and confined to their beds.
The inmates of the hospital were, for the most part, convalescents, or
men who were slightly indisposed. My new companions were stretched out
on their couches, or walking about up and down between the rows of beds.
There was just space enough for them to come and go. The atmosphere of
the ward was stifling with the odour peculiar to hospitals. It was
composed of various emanations, each more disagreeable than the other,
and of the smell of drugs; though the stove was kept well heated all day
long, my bed was covered with a counterpane, which I took off. The bed
itself consisted of a cloth blanket lined with linen, and coarse sheets
of more than doubtful cleanliness. By the side of the bed was a little
table with a pitcher and a pewter mug, together with a diminutive
napkin, which had been given to me. The table could, moreover, hold a
tea-urn for those patients who were rich enough to drink tea. These men
of means, however, were not very numerous. The pipes and the tobacco
pouches--for all the patients smoked, even the consumptive ones--could
be concealed beneath the mattress. The doctors and the other officials
scarcely ever made searches, and when they surprised a patient with a
pipe in his mouth, they pretended not to see. The patients, however,
were very prudent, and smoked always at the back of the stove. They
never smoked in their beds except at night, when no rounds were made by
the officers commanding the hospital.
Until then I had not been in any hospital in the character of patient,
so that everything was quite new to me. I noticed that my entry had
mystified some of the prisoners. They had heard of me, and all the
inmates now looked upon me with that slight shade of superiority which
recognised members of no matter what society show to one newly admitted
among them. On my right was lying down a man committed for trial--an
ex-secretary and the illegitimate son of a retired captain--accused of
having made false money. He had been in the hospital nearly a year. He
was not in the least ill, but he assured the doctors that he had an
aneurism, and he so thoroughly convinced them that he escaped both the
hard labour and the corporal punishment to which he had been sentenced.
He was sent a year later to T----k, where he was attached to an asylum.
He was a vigorous young fellow of eight-and-twenty, cunning, a
self-confessed rogue, and something of a lawyer. He was intelligent, had