The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia

to whom he crooks his own; so they get up an argument and quarrel about their Generals, and rude words fly about, all in honour of these high officers--fights, too, sometimes. What interest can _they_ possibly have in it? When one hears convicts speaking of Generals and high officials one gets a measure of their intelligence as they were while still in the world before the prison days. It cannot be concealed that among our people, even in much higher circles, talk about generals and high officials is looked upon as the most serious and refined conversation. “Well, you see, they _have_ sent our Major to the right about, don’t ye?” observes Kvassoff, a little, rubicund, choleric, small-brained fellow, the same who had announced the supersession of the Major. “We’ll just grease their palm for them,” this, in staccato tones from the morose old fellow in the corner who had finished his sour cabbage soup. “I should think he would grease their palms, by Jove,” says another; “he has stolen money enough, the brigand. And, only think, he was only a regimental Major before he came here. He’s feathered his nest. Why, a little while ago he was engaged to the head priest’s daughter.” “But he didn’t get married; they turned him off, and that shows he’s poor. A pretty sort of fellow to get engaged! He’s got nothing but the coat on his back; last year, Easter time, he lost all he had at cards. Fedka told me so.” “Well, well, pals, I’ve been married myself, but it’s a bad thing for a poor devil; taking a wife is soon done, but the fun of it is more like an inch than a mile,” observes Skouratoff, who had just joined in the general talk. “Do you fancy we’re going to amuse ourselves by discussing _you_?” says the ex-quartermaster in a superior manner. “Kvassoff, I tell you you’re a big idiot! If you fancy that the Major can grease the palm of an Inspector-General you’ve got things finely muddled; d’ye fancy they send a man from Petersburg just to inspect your Major? You’re a precious dolt, my lad; take it from me that it is so.” “And you fancy because he’s a General he doesn’t take what’s offered?” said some one in the crowd in a sceptical tone. “I should think he did indeed, and plenty of it whenever he can.” “A dead sure thing that; gets bigger, and more, and worse, the higher the rank.” “A General _always_ has his palm greased,” says Kvassoff, sententiously. “Did _you_ ever give them money, as you’re so sure of it?” asks Baklouchin, suddenly striking in, in a tone of contempt; “come, now, did you ever see a General in all your life?” “Yes.” “Liar!” “Liar, yourself!” “Well, boys, as he _has_ seen a General, let him say _which_. Come, quick about it; I know ’em all, every man jack.” “I’ve seen General Zibert,” says Kvassoff in tones far from sure. “Zibert! There’s no General of that name. That’s the General, perhaps, who was looking at your back when they gave you the cat. This Zibert was, perhaps, a Lieutenant-Colonel; but you were in such a fright just then, you took him for a General.” “No! Just hear me,” cries Skouratoff, “for I’ve got a wife. There was really a General of that name, a German, but a Russian subject. He confessed to the Pope, every year, all about his peccadilloes with gay women, and drank water like a duck, at least forty glasses of Moskva water one after the other; that was the way he got cured of some disease. I had it from his valet.” “I say! And the carp didn’t swim in his belly?” this from the convict with the balalaïka. “Be quiet, fellows, can’t you--one’s talking seriously, and there they are beginning their nonsense again. Who’s the ’spector that’s coming?” This was put by a convict who always seemed full of business, Martinof, an old man who had been in the Hussars. “Set of lying fellows!” said one of the doubters. “Lord knows where they get it all from; it’s all empty talk.” “It’s nothing of the sort,” observes Koulikoff, majestically silent hitherto, in dogmatic tones. “The man coming is big and fat, about fifty years, with regular features, and proud, contemptuous manners, on which he prides himself.” Koulikoff is a Tsigan, a sort of veterinary surgeon, makes money by treating horses in town, and sells wine in our prison. He’s no fool, plenty of brain, memory well stocked, lets his words fall as carefully as if every one of ’em was worth a rouble. “It’s true,” he went on very calmly, “I heard of it only last week; it’s a General with bigger epaulettes than most, and he’s going to inspect all Siberia. They grease his palm well for him, that’s sure enough; but not our Major with his eight eyes in his head. He won’t dare to creep in about _him_, for you see, pals, there are Generals and Generals, as there are fagots and fagots. It’s just this, and you may take it from me, our Major will remain where he is. _We’re_ fellows with no tongue, we’ve no right to speak; and as to our chiefs here, they’re not going to say a word against him. The ’spector will come into our jail, give a look round, and go off at once; he’ll say it was all right.” “Yes, but the Major’s in a fright; he’s been drunk since morning.” “And this evening he had two van-loads of things taken away; Fedka says so.” “You may scrub a nigger, he’ll never be white. Is it the first time you’ve seen him drunk, hey?” “No! It will be a devil of a shame if the General does nothing to him,” said the convicts, who began to get highly excited. The news of the arrival of the Inspector went through the prison. The prisoners went everywhere about the court-yard retailing the important fact. Some held their tongues and kept cool, trying to look important; some were really indifferent to it. Some of the convicts sat down on the steps of the doors to play the balalaïka, while some went on with their gossip. Some groups were singing in a drawling voice, but the whole court-yard was upset and excited generally. About nine o’clock they counted us, and quartered us in our barracks, which were closed for the night. A short summer night it was, so we were roused up at five o’clock in the morning, yet nobody had managed to sleep before eleven, for up to that hour there was conversation and all sort of movement was going on; sometimes, too, games of cards were made up, as in winter. The heat was intolerable, stifling. True, the open window let in some of the cool night air, but the convicts kept tossing themselves on their wooden beds as if delirious. Fleas countless. There were enough of them in winter; but when spring came they multiplied in proportions so formidable that I couldn’t believe it before I had to endure them. And as the summer went on the worse it was with them. I found out that one _could_ get used to fleas; but for all that, the torment of them is so great that it throws you into a fever; even when you get slumber you quite feel it is not sleep, you are half delirious, and know it. At last, towards morning, when the enemy is tired and you are deliciously asleep in the freshness of the early hours, suddenly sounds the pitiless morning drum-call. How you curse as you hear them, those sharp, quick strokes; you cower in your semi-pelisse, and then--you can’t help it--comes the thought that it will be so to-morrow, the day after, for many, many years, till you are set at liberty. When _will_ it come, this freedom, freedom? Where _is_ it in this world? _Where_ is it hiding? You _have_ to get up, they are walking about you in all directions. The usual noisy row begins. The convicts dress, and hurry to their work. It’s true you have an hour you can spend in sleep at noon. What we had been told about the Inspector was really true. The reports were more confirmed every day; and at last it became certain that a General, high in office, was coming from Petersburg to inspect all Siberia, that he was already at Tobolsk. Every day we learned something fresh about it. These rumours came from the town. They told us that there was alarm in all quarters, and that everybody was making preparations to show himself in as favourable a light as might be. The authorities were organising receptions, balls, fêtes of every kind. Gangs of convicts were sent to level the ways in the fortress, smooth away hummocks in the ground, paint the palings and other wood-work, to plaster, do up, and generally repair everything that was conspicuous. Our prisoners perfectly well understood the object of this labour, and their discussions became all the more animated and excited. Their imaginations passed all bounds. They even set about formulating some demands to be set before the General on his arrival, but that did not prevent their going on with their quarrels and violent speeches. Our Major was on hot coals. He came continually to visit the jail, shouted, and threw himself angrily on the fellows more than usual, sent them to the guard-room and punishment for a mere nothing, and watched very severely over the cleanliness and good order of the barracks. Just then, there occurred a little event which did not at all painfully affect this officer as one might have expected, but, on the contrary, caused him a lively satisfaction. One of the convicts struck another with an awl right in the chest, in a place quite near the heart. The delinquent’s name was Lomof; the name the victim was known by in the jail was Gavrilka. He was one of those seasoned tramps I’ve spoken about earlier. Whether he had any other name, I don’t know; I never heard any attributed to him, except that one, Gavrilka. Lomof had been a peasant comfortably off in the Government of T----, and district of K----. There were five of them living together, two brothers Lomof, and three sons. They were quite rich peasants; the talk throughout the district was that they had more than 300,000 roubles in paper money. They worked at currying and tanning; but their chief business was usury, harbouring tramps, and receiving stolen goods; all sorts of petty irregular doings. Half the peasants of their district owed them money, and so were in their clutches. They passed for being intelligent and full of cunning, and gave themselves very great airs. A great personage of their province had stopped on his way once at the father Lomof’s house, and this official had taken a fancy to him, because of his hardy and unscrupulous talk. Then they took it in their heads they might do exactly as they pleased, and mixed themselves up more and more with illegal doings. Everybody had a grievance against them, and would like to have seen them a hundred feet under the ground; but they got bolder and bolder every day. They were not afraid of the local police or the district tribunals. At last fortune betrayed them; their ruin came, not out of their secret crimes, but from an accusation which was all calumny and falsehood. Ten versts from their hamlet they had a farm where six Kirghiz labourers, long since brought down by them to be no better than slaves, used to pass the autumn. One fine day these Kirghiz were found murdered. An inquiry was set on foot that lasted long, thanks to which no end of atrocious things were brought to light. The Lomofs were accused of having assassinated their workmen. They had themselves told their story to the convicts, all the jail knew it perfectly; they were suspected of owing a great deal of money to the Kirghiz, and, as they were full of greed and avarice in spite of their large fortunes, it was believed they had paid the debt by taking the lives of the poor fellows. While the inquiry and trial went on, their property melted away utterly. The father died, the sons were transported; one of these, with the uncle, was condemned to fifteen years of hard labour. Now, they were perfectly innocent of the crime imputed to them. One fine