The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
months the Siberian had got from him all his town practice, for he cured
in a very short time horses Koulikoff had declared incurable, and which
had been given up by the regular veterinaries. This peasant had been
condemned and sent to hard labour for coining. It is an odd thing he
should ever have been tempted to go into that line of business. He told
us all about it himself, and joked about their wanting three coins of
genuine gold to make one false.
Koulikoff was not a little put out at this peasant’s success, while his
own glory so rapidly declined. There was he who had had a mistress in
the suburbs, who used to wear a plush jacket and top-boots, and here he
was now obliged to turn tavern-keeper; so everybody looked out for a
regular row when the new horse was bought. The thing was very
interesting, each of them had his partisans; the more eager among them
got to angry words about it on the spot. The cunning face of Jolkin was
all wrinkled into a sarcastic smile; but it turned out quite differently
from what was expected. Koulikoff had not the least desire for argument
or dispute, he managed cunningly without that. At first he gave way on
every point, and listened deferentially to his rival’s criticisms, then
he caught him up sharply on some remark or other, and pointed out to him
modestly but firmly that he was all wrong. In a word, Jolkin was utterly
discomfited in a surprisingly clever way, so Koulikoff’s side was quite
well pleased.
“I say, boys, it’s no use talking; you can’t trip _him_ up. He knows
what he is about,” said some.
“Jolkin knows more about the matter than he does,” said others; not
offensively, however. Both sides were ready to make concessions.
“Then, he’s got a lighter hand, besides having more in his head. I tell
you that when it comes to stock, horses, or anything else, Koulikoff
needn’t duck under to anybody.”
“Nor need Jolkin, I tell you.”
“There’s nobody like Koulikoff.”
The new horse was selected and bought. It was a capital gelding--young,
vigorous, and handsome; an irreproachable beast altogether. The
bargaining began. The owner asked thirty roubles; the convicts wouldn’t
give more than twenty-five. The higgling went on long and hotly. At
length the convicts began laughing.
“Does the money come out of your own purse?” said some. “What’s the good
of all this?”
“Do you want to save for the Government cashbox?” cried others.
“But it’s money that belongs to us all, pals,” said one.
“Us all! It’s plain enough that you needn’t trouble to grow idiots,
they’ll come up of themselves without it.”
At last the business was settled at twenty-eight roubles. The Major was
informed, the purchase sanctioned. Bread and salt were brought at once,
and the new boarder led in triumph into the jail. There was not one of
the convicts, I think, that did not pat his neck or caress his head.
The day we got him he was at once put to fetching water. All the
convicts gazed on him curiously as he pulled at his barrel.
Our waterman, the convict Roman, kept his eyes on the beast with a
stupid sort of satisfaction. He was formerly a peasant, about fifty
years of age, serious and silent, like all the Russian coachmen, whose
behaviour would really seem to acquire some extra gravity by reason of
their being always with horses.
Roman was a quiet creature, affable all round, said little, took snuff
from a box. He had taken care of the horses at the jail for some time
before that. The one just bought was the third given into his charge
since he came to the place.
The coachman’s office fell, as a matter of course, to Roman; nobody
would have dreamed of contesting his right to it. When the bay horse
dropped and died, nobody dreamed of accusing Roman of imprudence, not
even the Major. It was the will of God, that was all; as to Roman, he
knew his business.
That bay horse had become the pet of the jail at once. The convicts were
not particularly tender fellows; but they could not help coming to pet
him often.
Sometimes when Roman, returning from the river, shut the great gate
which the sub-officer had opened, Gniedko would stand quite still
waiting for his driver, and turning to him as for orders.
“Get along, you know the way,” Roman would cry to him. Then Gniedko
would go off peaceably to the kitchen and stop there, and the cooks and
other servants of the place would fill their buckets with water, which
Gniedko seemed to know all about.
“Gniedko, you’re a trump! He’s brought his water-barrel himself. He’s a
delight to see!” they would cry to him.
“That’s true; he’s only a beast, but he knows all that’s said to him.”
“No end of a horse is our Gniedko!”
Then the horse shook his head and snorted, just as if he really
understood all about his being praised; then some one would bring him
bread and salt; and when he had finished with them he would shake his
head again, as if to say, “I know you; I know you. I’m a good horse,
and you’re a good fellow.”
I was quite fond of regaling Gniedko with bread. It was quite a pleasure
to me to look at his nice mouth, and to feel his warm, moist lips
licking up the crumbs from the palm of my hand.
Our convicts were fond of live things, and if they had been allowed
would have filled the barracks with birds and domestic animals. What
could possibly have been better than attending to such creatures for
raising and softening the wild temper of the prisoners? But it was not
permitted; it was not in the regulations; and, truth to say, there was
no room there for many creatures.
However, in my time some animals had established themselves in the jail.
Besides Gniedko, we had some dogs, geese, a he-goat--Vaska--and an
eagle, which remained only a short time.
I think I have said before that _our_ dog was called Bull, and that he
and I had struck up a friendship; but as the lower orders regard dogs as
impure animals undeserving of attention, nobody minded him. He lived in
the jail itself; slept in the court-yard; ate the leavings of the
kitchen, and had no hold whatever on the sympathy of the convicts; all
of whom he knew, however, and regarded as masters and owners. When the
men assigned to work came back to the jail, at the cry of “Corporal,” he
used to run to the great gate and gaily welcome the gang, wagging his
tail and looking into every man’s eyes, as though he expected a caress.
But for several years his little ways were as useless as they were
engaging. Nobody but myself did caress him; so I was the one he
preferred to all others. Somehow--I don’t know in what way--we got
another dog. Snow he was called. As to the third, Koultiapka, I brought
him myself to the place when he was but a pup.
Our Snow was a strange creature. A telega had gone over him and driven
in his spine, so that it made a curve inside him. When you saw him
running at a distance, he looked like twin-dogs born with a ligament. He
was very mangy, too, with bleary eyes, and his tail was hairless, and
always hanging between his legs.
Victim of ill-fate as he was, he seemed to have made up his mind to be
always as impassive as possible; so he never barked at anybody, for he
seemed to be afraid of getting into some fresh trouble. He was nearly
always lurking at the back of the buildings; and if anybody came near he
rolled on his back at once, as though he meant to say, “Do what you like
with me; I’ve not the least idea of resisting you.” And every convict,
when the dog upset himself like that, would give him a passing
obligatory kick, with “Ouh! the dirty brute!” But Snow dared not so much
as give a groan; and if he was too much hurt, would only utter a little,
dull, strangled yelp. He threw himself down just the same way before
Bull or any other dog when he came to try his luck at the kitchen; and
he would stretch himself out flat if a mastiff or any other big dog came
barking at him. Dogs like submission and humility in other dogs; so the
angry brute quieted down at once, and stopped short reflectively before
the poor, humble beast, and then sniffed him curiously all over.
I wonder what poor Snow, trembling with fright, used to think at such
moments. “Is this brigand of a fellow going to bite me?”--no doubt
something like that. When he had sniffed enough at him, the big brute
left him at once, having probably discovered nothing in particular. Snow
used then to jump to his feet, and join a lot of four-footed fellows
like him who were running down some yutchka or other.
Snow knew quite well that no yutchka would ever condescend to the like
of him, that she was too proud for that, but it was some consolation to
him in his troubles to limp after her. As to decent behaviour, he had
but a very vague notion of any such thing. Being totally without any
hope in his future, his highest aim was to get a bellyful of victuals,
and he was cynical enough in showing that it was so.
Once I tried to caress him. This was such an unexpected and new thing to
him that he plumped down on the ground quite helplessly, and quivered
and whined in his delight. As I was really sorry for him I used to
caress him often, so as soon as he caught sight of me he began to whine
in a plaintive, tearful way. He came to his end at the back of the jail,
in the ditch; some dogs tore him to pieces.
Koultiapka was quite a different style of dog. I don’t know why I
brought him in from one of the workshops, where he was just born; but it
gave me pleasure to feed him, and see him grow big. Bull took Koultiapka
under his protection, and slept with him. When the young dog began to
grow up, Bull was remarkably complaisant with him. He allowed the pup to
bite his ears, and pull his skin with his teeth; he played with him as
mature dogs are in the habit of doing with the youngsters. It was a
strange thing, but Koultiapka never grew in height at all, only in
length and breadth. His hide was fluffy and mouse-coloured; one of his
ears hung down, while the other was always cocked up. He was, like all
young dogs, ardent and enthusiastic, yelping with pleasure when he saw
his master, and jumping up to lick his face precisely as if he said: “As
long as he sees how delighted I am, I don’t care; let etiquette go to
the devil!”
Wherever I was, at my call, “Koultiapka,” out he came from some corner,
dashing towards me with noisy satisfaction, making a ball of himself,
and rolling over and over. I was exceedingly fond of the little wretch,
and I used to fancy that destiny had reserved for him nothing but joy
and pleasure in this world of ours; but one fine day the convict
Neustroief, who made women’s shoes and prepared skins, cast his eye on
him; something had evidently struck him, for he called Koultiapka, felt
his skin, and turned him over on the ground in a friendly way. The
unsuspicious dog barked with pleasure, but next day he was nowhere to be
found. I hunted for him for some time, but in vain; at last, after two
weeks, all was explained. Koultiapka’s natural cloak had been too much
for Neustroief, who had flayed him to make up with the skin some boots
of fur-trimmed velvet ordered by the young wife of some official. He
showed them me when they were done, their inside lining was magnificent;
all Koultiapka, poor fellow!
A good many convicts worked at tanning, and often brought with them to
the jail dogs with a nice skin, which soon were seen no more. They stole
them or bought them. I remember one day I saw a couple of convicts
behind the kitchens laying their heads together. One of them held in a
leash a very fine black dog of particularly good breed. A scamp of a
footman had stolen it from his master, and sold it to our shoemakers for
thirty kopecks. They were going to hang it; that was their way of
disposing of them; then they took the skin off, and threw the body into