The house of the dead or, Prison life in Siberia
teeth, when I go to see them,” replied one of the women.
She was the dirtiest woman imaginable. She was called Tchekunda, and had
arrived in company with her friend, the “four kopecks,” who was beneath
all description.
“It’s a long time since we have seen anything of you,” says the gallant
to her of the four kopecks; “you seem to have grown thinner.”
“Perhaps; formerly I was good-looking and plump, whereas now one might
fancy I had swallowed eels.”
“And you still run after the soldiers, is that so?”
“All calumny on the part of wicked people; and after all, if I was to be
flogged to death for it, I like soldiers.”
“Never mind your soldiers, we’re the people to love; we have money.”
Imagine this gallant with his shaved crown, with fetters on his ankles,
dressed in a coat of two colours, and watched by an escort.
As I was now returning to the prison, my irons had been put on. I wished
Akimitch good-bye and went away, escorted by a soldier. Those who do
task work return first, and, when I got back to the barracks, a good
number of convicts were already there.
As the kitchen could not have held the whole barrack-full at once, we
did not all dine together. Those who came in first were first served. I
tasted the cabbage soup, but, not being used to it, could not eat it,
and I prepared myself some tea. I sat down at one end of the table, with
a convict of noble birth like myself. The prisoners were going in and
out. There was no want of room, for there were not many of them. Five of
them sat down apart from the large table. The cook gave them each two
ladles full of soup, and brought them a plate of fried fish. These men
were having a holiday. They looked at us in a friendly manner. One of
the Poles came in and took his seat by our side.
“I was not with you, but I know that you are having a feast,” exclaimed
a tall convict who now came in.
He was a man of about fifty years, thin and muscular. His face indicated
cunning, and, at the same time, liveliness. His lower lip, fleshy and
pendant, gave him a soft expression.
“Well, have you slept well? Why don’t you say how do you do? Well, now
my friends of Kursk,” he said, sitting down by the side of the feasters,
“good appetite? Here’s a new guest for you.”
“We are not from the province of Kursk.”
“Then my friends from Tambof, let me say?”
“We are not from Tambof either. You have nothing to claim from us; if
you want to enjoy yourself go to some rich peasant.”
“I have Maria Ikotishna [from “ikot,” hiccough] in my belly, otherwise I
should die of hunger. But where is your peasant to be found?”
“Good heavens! we mean Gazin; go to him.”
“Gazin is on the drink to-day, he’s devouring his capital.”
“He has at least twenty roubles,” says another convict. “It is
profitable to keep a drinking shop.”
“You won’t have me? Then I must eat the Government food.”
“Will you have some tea? If so, ask these noblemen for some.”
“Where do you see any noblemen? They’re noblemen no longer. They’re not
a bit better than us,” said in a sombre voice a convict who was seated
in the corner, who hitherto had not risked a word.
“I should like a cup of tea, but I am ashamed to ask for it. I have
self-respect,” said the convict with the heavy lip, looking at me with a
good-humoured air.
“I will give you some if you like,” I said. “Will you have some?”
“What do you mean--will I have some? Who would not have some?” he said,
coming towards the table.
“Only think! When he was free he ate nothing but cabbage soup and black
bread, but now he is in prison he must have tea like a perfect
gentleman,” continued the convict with the sombre air.
“Does no one here drink tea?” I asked him; but he did not think me
worthy of a reply.
“White rolls, white rolls; who’ll buy?”
A young prisoner was carrying in a net a load of calachi (scones), which
he proposed to sell in the prison. For every ten that he sold, the baker
gave him one for his trouble. It was precisely on this tenth scone that
he counted for his dinner.
“White rolls, white rolls,” he cried, as he entered the kitchen, “white
Moscow rolls, all hot. I would eat the whole of them, but I want money,
lots of money. Come, lads, there is only one left for any of you who has
had a mother.”
This appeal to filial love made every one laugh, and several of his
white rolls were purchased.
“Well,” he said, “Gazin has drunk in such a style, it is quite a sin. He
has chosen a nice moment too. If the man with the eight eyes should
arrive--we shall hide him.”
“Is he very drunk?”
“Yes, and ill-tempered too--unmanageable.”
“There will be some fighting, then?”
“Whom are they speaking of?” I said to the Pole, my neighbour.
“Of Gazin. He is a prisoner who sells spirits. When he has gained a
little money by his trade, he drinks it to the last kopeck; a cruel,
malicious animal when he has been drinking. When sober, he is quiet
enough, but when he is in drink he shows himself in his true character.
He attacks people with the knife until it is taken from him.”
“How do they manage that?”
“Ten men throw themselves upon him and beat him like a sack without
mercy until he loses consciousness. When he is half dead with the
beating, they lay him down on his plank bedstead, and cover him over
with his pelisse.”
“But they might kill him.”
“Any one else would die of it, but not he. He is excessively robust; he
is the strongest of all the convicts. His constitution is so solid, that
the day after one of these punishments he gets up perfectly sound.”
“Tell me, please,” I continued, speaking to the Pole, “why these people
keep their food to themselves, and at the same time seem to envy me my
tea.”
“Your tea has nothing to do with it. They are envious of you. Are you
not a gentleman? You in no way resemble them. They would be glad to pick
a quarrel with you in order to humiliate you. You don’t know what
annoyances you will have to undergo. It is martyrdom for men like us to
be here. Our life is doubly painful, and great strength of character can
alone accustom one to it. You will be vexed and tormented in all sorts
of ways on account of your food and your tea. Although the number of men
who buy their own food and drink tea daily is large enough, they have a
right to do so, you have not.”
He got up and left the table a few minutes later. His predictions were
already being fulfilled.
CHAPTER IV.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS (_continued_).
Hardly had M. --cki--the Pole to whom I had been speaking--gone out when
Gazin, completely drunk, threw himself all in a heap into the kitchen.
To see a convict drunk in the middle of the day, when every one was
about to be sent out to work--given the well-known severity of the
Major, who at any moment might come to the barracks, the watchfulness of
the under officer who never left the prison, the presence of the old
soldiers and the sentinels--all this quite upset the ideas I had formed
of our prison; and a long time passed before I was able to understand
and explain to myself the effects, which in the first instance were
enigmatic indeed.
I have already said that all the convicts had a private occupation, and
that this occupation was for them a natural and imperious one. They are
passionately fond of money, and think more of it than of anything
else--almost as much as of liberty. The convict is half-consoled if he
can ring a few kopecks in his pocket. On the contrary, he is sad,
restless, and despondent if he has no money. He is ready then to commit
no matter what crime in order to get some. Nevertheless, in spite of the
importance it possesses for the convicts, money does not remain long in
their pockets. It is difficult to keep it. Sometimes it is confiscated,
sometimes stolen. When the Major, in a sudden perquisition, discovered a
small sum amassed with great trouble, he confiscated it. It may be that
he laid it out in improving the food of the prisoners, for all the money
taken from them went into his hands. But generally speaking it was
stolen. A means of preserving it was, however, discovered. An old man
from Starodoub, one of the “old believers,” took upon himself to conceal
the convicts’ savings.
I cannot resist my desire to say some words about this man, although it
takes me away from my story. He was about sixty years old, thin, and
getting very gray. He excited my curiosity the first time I saw him, for
he was not like any of the others; his look was so tranquil and mild,
and I always saw with pleasure his clear and limpid eyes, surrounded by
a number of little wrinkles. I often talked with him, and rarely have I
met with so kind, so benevolent a being. He had been consigned to hard
labour for a serious crime. A certain number of the “old believers” at
Starodoub had been converted to the orthodox religion. The Government
had done everything to encourage them, and, at the same time, to convert
the other dissenters. The old man and some other fanatics had resolved
to “defend the faith.” When the orthodox church was being constructed in
their town they set fire to the building. This offence had brought upon
its author the sentence of deportation. This well-to-do shopkeeper--he
was in trade--had left a wife and family whom he loved, and had gone off
courageously into exile, believing in his blindness that he was
“suffering for the faith.”
When one had lived some time by the side of this kind old man, one could
not help asking the question, how could he have rebelled? I spoke to him
several times about his faith. He gave up none of his convictions, but
in his answers I never noticed the slightest hatred; and yet he had
destroyed a church, and was far from denying it. In his view, the
offence he had committed and his martyrdom were things to be proud of.
There were other “old believers” among the convicts--Siberians for the
most part--men of well-developed intelligence, and as cunning as all
peasants. Dialecticians in their way, they followed blindly their law,
and delighted in discussing it. But they had great faults; they were
haughty, proud, and very intolerant. The old man in no way resembled
them. With full more belief in religious exposition than others of the
same faith, he avoided all controversy. As he was of a gay and expansive
disposition he often laughed--not with the coarse cynical laugh of the
other convicts, but with a laugh of clearness and simplicity, in which
there was something of the child, and which harmonised perfectly with
his gray head. I may perhaps be in error, but it seems to me that a man
may be known by his laugh alone. If the laugh of a man you are
acquainted with inspires you with sympathy, be assured that he is an
honest man.
The old man had acquired the respect of all the prisoners without
exception; but he was not proud of it. The convicts called him
grandfather, and he took no offence. I then understood what an influence
he must have exercised on his co-religionists.
In spite of the firmness with which he supported his prison life, one
felt that he was tormented by a profound, incurable melancholy. I slept
in the same barrack with him. One night, towards three o’clock in the
morning, I woke up; I heard a slow, stifling sob. The old man was
sitting upon the stove--the same place where the convict who had wished
to kill the Major was in the habit of praying--and was reading from his
manuscript prayer-book. As he wept I heard him repeating: “Lord, do not
forsake me. Master, strengthen me. My poor little children, my dear
little children, we shall never see one another again.” I cannot say how
much this moved me.
We used to give our money then to this old man. Heaven knows how the
idea got abroad in our barrack that he could not be robbed. It was well