The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
thought that the muster-roll was to be called, but I did not see the
soldiers who verify the lists, so I was surprised, and began to look
about me a little. The men’s faces were working with emotion, and some
were ghostly pale. They were sternly silent, and seemed to be thinking
of what they should say to the Major. I observed that many of the
convicts seemed to wonder at seeing me among them, but they turned their
glances away from me. No doubt they thought it strange that I should
come into the ranks with them, and join in their remonstrances, and
could not quite believe it. Then they turned round to me again in a
questioning sort of way.
“What are you doing here?” said Vassili Antonoff, in a loud, rude voice;
he happened to be close to me, and a little way from the rest; the man
had always hitherto been scrupulously polite to me.
I looked at him in perplexity, trying to understand what he meant by it;
I began to see that something extraordinary was up in our prison.
“Yes, indeed, what are you about here? Go off into the barrack,” said a
young fellow, a soldier-convict, whom I did not know till then, and who
was a good, quiet lad, “this is none of _your_ business.”
“Have we not fallen into rank,” I answered, “aren’t we going to be
mustered?”
“Why, _he’s_ come, too,” cried one of them.
“Iron-nose,”[7] said another.
“Fly-killer,” added a third, with inexpressible contempt for me in his
tone. This new nickname caused a general burst of laughter.
“These fellows are in clover everywhere. We are in prison, with hard
labour, I rather fancy; they get wheat-bread and sucking-pig, like great
lords as they are. Don’t you get your victuals by yourself? What are you
doing here?”
“Your place is not here,” said Koulikoff to me brusquely, taking me by
the hand and leading me out of the ranks.
He was himself very pale; his dark eyes sparkled with fire, he had
bitten his under lip till the blood came; he wasn’t one of those who
expected the Major without losing self-possession.
I liked to look at Koulikoff when he was in trying circumstances like
these; then he showed himself just what he was in his strong points and
weak. He attitudinised, but he knew how to act, too. I think he would
have gone to his death with a certain affected elegance. While everybody
was insulting me in words and tones, his politeness was greater than
ever; but he spoke in a firm and resolved tone which admitted of no
reply.
“We are here on business of our own, Alexander Petrovitch, and you’ve
got to keep out of it. Go where you like and wait till it’s over ...
here, your people are in the kitchens, go there.”
“They’re in hot quarters down there.”
I did in fact see our Poles at the open window of the kitchen, in
company with a good many other convicts. I did not well know what to be
at; but went there followed by laughter, insulting remarks, and that
sort of muttered growling which is the prison substitute for the
hissings and cat-calls of the world of freedom.
“He doesn’t like it at all! Chu, chu, chu! Seize him!”
I had never been so bitterly insulted since I was in the place. It was a
very painful moment, but just what was to be expected in the excessive
excitement the men were labouring under. In the ante-room I met T--vski,
a young nobleman of not much information, but of firm, generous
character; the convicts excepted him from the hatred they felt for the
convicts of noble birth; they were almost fond of him; every one of his
gestures denoted the brave and energetic man.
“What are you about, Goriantchikoff?” he cried to me; “come here, come
here!”
“But what is _it_ all about?”
“They are going to make a formal complaint, don’t you know it? It won’t
do them a bit of good; who’ll pay any attention to convicts? They’ll try
to find out the ringleaders, and if we are among them they’ll lay it all
on us. Just remember what we have been transported for. They’ll only get
a whipping, but we shall be put regularly to trial. The Major detests us
all, and will be only too happy to ruin us; all his sins will fall on
our shoulders.”
“The convicts would tie us hands and feet and sell us directly,” added
M--tski, when we got into the kitchen.
“They’ll never have mercy on _us_,” added T--vski.
Besides the nobles there were in the kitchen about thirty other
prisoners who did not want to join in the general complaints, some
because they were afraid, others because of their conviction that the
whole proceeding would prove quite useless. Akim Akimitch, who was a
decided opponent of everything that savoured of complaint, or that could
interfere with discipline and the usual routine, waited with great
phlegm to see the end of the business, about which he did not care a
jot. He was perfectly convinced that the authorities would put it all
down immediately.
Isaiah Fomitch’s nose drooped visibly as he listened in a sort of
frightened curiosity to what we said about the affair; he was much
disturbed. With the Polish nobles were some inferior persons of the same
nation, as well as some Russians, timid, dull, silent fellows, who had
not dared to join the rest, and who waited in a melancholy way to see
what the issue would be. There were also some morose, discontented
convicts, who remained in the kitchen, not because they were afraid, but
that they thought this half-revolt an absurdity which could not
succeed; it seemed to me that these were not a little disturbed, and
their faces were quite unsteady. They saw clearly that they were in the
right, and that the issue of the movement would be what they had
foretold, but they had a sort of feeling that they were traitors who had
sold their comrades to the Major. Jolkin--the long-headed Siberian
peasant sent to hard labour for coining, the man who got Koulikoff’s
town practice from him--was there also, as well as the old man of
Starodoub. None of the cooks had left their post, perhaps because they
looked upon themselves as belonging specially to the authorities of the
place, whom it would be unbecoming, therefore, to join in opposing.
“For all that,” said I to M--tski, “except these fellows, all the
convicts are in it,” and no doubt I said it in a way that showed
misgivings.
“I wonder what in the world _we_ have to do with it?” growled B----.
“We should have risked a good deal more than they had we gone with them;
and why? _Je hais ces brigands._[8] Why, do you think that they’ll bring
themselves up to the scratch after all? I can’t see what they want
putting their heads in the lion’s mouth, the fools.”
“It’ll all come to nothing,” said some one, an obstinate, sour-tempered
old fellow. Almazoff, who was with us too, agreed heartily in this.
“Some fifty of them will get a good beating, and that’s all the good
they’ll all get out of it.”
“Here’s the Major!” cried one; everybody ran to the windows.
The Major had come up, spectacles and all, looking as wicked as might
be, towering with passion, red as a turkey-cock. He came on without a
word, and in a determined manner, right up to the line of the convicts.
In conjunctures of this sort he showed uncommon pluck and presence of
mind; but it ought not to be overlooked that he was nearly always
half-seas over. Just then his greasy cap, with its yellow border, and
his tarnished silver epaulettes, gave him a Mephistophelic look in my
excited fancy. Behind him came the quartermaster, Diatloff, who was
quite a personage in the establishment, for he was really at the bottom
of all the authorities did. He was an exceedingly capable and cunning
fellow, and wielded great influence with the Major. He was not by any
means a bad sort of man, and the convicts were, in a general way, not
ill-inclined towards him. Our sergeant followed him with three or four
soldiers, no more; he had already had a tremendous wigging, and there
was plenty more of the same to come, if he knew it. The convicts, who
had remained uncovered, cap in hand, from the moment they sent for the
Major, stiffened themselves, every man shifting his weight to the other
leg; then they remained motionless, and waited for the first word, or
the first shout rather, to come from him.
They had not long to wait. Before he had got more than one word out, the
Major began to shout at the top of his voice; he was beside himself with
rage. We saw him from the windows running all along the line of
convicts, dashing at them here and there with angry questions. As we
were a pretty good distance off, we could not hear what he said or their
replies. We only heard his shouts, or rather what seemed shouting,
groaning, and grunting beautifully mingled.
“Scoundrels! mutineers! to the cat with ye! Whips and sticks! The
ringleaders? _You’re_ one of the ringleaders!” throwing himself on one
of them.
We did not hear the answer; but a minute after we saw this convict leave
the ranks and make for the guard-house.
Another followed, then a third.
“I’ll have you up, every man of you. I’ll---- Who’s in the kitchen
there?” he bawled, as he saw us at the open windows. “Here with all of
you! Drive ’em all out, every man!”
Diatloff, the quartermaster, came towards the kitchens. When we had
told him that _we_ were not complaining of any grievance, he returned,
and reported to the Major at once.
“Ah, those fellows are not in it,” said he, lowering his tone a bit, and
much pleased. “Never mind, bring them along here.”
We left the kitchen. I could not help feeling humiliation; all of us
went along with our heads down.
“Ah, Prokofief! Jolkin too; and you, Almazof! Here, come here, all the
lump of you!” cried the Major to us, with a gasp; but he was somewhat
softened, his tone was even obliging. “M--tski, you’re here too?... Take
down the names. Diatloff, take down all the names, the grumblers in one
list and the contented ones in another--all, without exception; you’ll
give me the list. I’ll have you all before the Committee of
Superintendence.... I’ll ... brigands!”
This word “_list_” told.
“We’ve nothing to complain of!” cried one of the malcontents, in a
half-strangled sort of voice.
“Ah, you’ve nothing to complain of! _Who’s_ that? Let all those who have
nothing to complain of step out of the ranks.”
“All of us, all of us!” came from some others.
“Ah, the food is all right, then? You’ve been put up to it. Ringleaders,
mutineers, eh? So much the worse for them.”
“But, what do you mean by that?” came from a voice in the crowd.
“Where is the fellow that said that?” roared the Major, throwing himself
to where the voice came from. “It was you, Rastorgouïef, you; to the
guard-house with you.”
Rastorgouïef, a young, chubby fellow of high stature, left the ranks and
went with slow steps to the guard-house. It was not he who had said it,
but, as he was called out, he did not venture to contradict.
“You fellows are too fat, that’s what makes you unruly!” shouted the
Major. “You wait, you hulking rascal, in three days you’d---- Wait! I’ll
have it out with you all. Let all those who have nothing to complain of
come out of the ranks, I say----”
“We’re not complaining of anything, your worship,” said some of the
convicts with a sombre air; the rest preserved an obstinate silence. But
the Major wanted nothing further; it was his interest to stop the thing
with as little friction as might be.
“Ah, _now_ I see! _Nobody_ has anything to complain of,” said he. “I
knew it, I saw it all. It’s ringleaders, there are ringleaders, by God,”
he went on, speaking to Diatloff. “We must lay our hands on them, every
man of them. And now--now--it’s time to go to your work. Drummer, there;
drummer, a roll!”
He told them off himself in small detachments. The convicts dispersed
sadly and silently, only too glad to get out of his sight. Immediately