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The	House	of	the	Dead

OR,	PRISON	LIFE	IN	SIBERIA





FYODOR	DOSTOYEVSKY


with	an	introduction	by	Julius	Bramont

TABLE	OF	CONTENTS

Introduction

Part	1.

1. Ten	Years	A	Convict

2. The	Dead-house

3. First	Impressions

4. First	Impressions	(continued).

5. First	Impressions	(continued)

6. The	First	Month

7. The	First	Month	(continued)

8. New	Acquaintances—Petroff

9. Men	of	Determination—Luka

10. Isaiah	Fomitch—The	Bath—Baklouchin.

11. The	Christmas	Holidays

12. The	Performance.

Part	2.

1. The	Hospital

2. The	Hospital	(continued).

3. The	Hospital	(continued).

4. The	Husband	of	Akoulka

5. The	Summer	Season

6. The	Animals	at	the	Convict	Establishment

7. Grievances

8. My	Companions

9. The	Escape

10. Freedom!





INTRODUCTION

“The	Russian	nation	is	a	new	and	wonderful	phenomenon	in	the	history

of	mankind.	The	character	of	the	people	differs	to	such	a	degree	from

that	of	the	other	Europeans	that	their	neighbours	find	it	impossible	to

diagnose	them.”	This	affirmation	by	Dostoïeffsky,	the	prophetic	journalist,	offers	a

key	to	the	treatment	in	his	novels	of	the	troubles	and	aspirations	of	his	race.	He

wrote	with	a	sacramental	fervour	whether	he	was	writing	as	a	personal	agent	or	an

impersonal,	 novelist	 or	 journalist.	 Hence	 his	 rage	 with	 the	 calmer	 men,	 more

gracious	interpreters	of	the	modern	Sclav,	who	like	Ivan	Tourguenieff	were	able	to

see	Russia	on	a	line	with	the	western	nations,	or	to	consider	her	maternal	throes

from	the	disengaged,	safe	retreat	of	an	arm-chair	exile	in	Paris.	Not	so	was	 l’âme

Russe	to	be	given	her	new	literature	in	the	eyes	of	M.	Dostoïeffsky,	strained	with watching,	often	red	with	tears	and	anger.

Those	other	nations,	he	said—proudly	looking	for	the	symptoms	of	the	world-

intelligence	 in	 his	 own—those	 other	 nations	 of	 Europe	 may	 maintain	 that	 they

have	at	heart	a	common	aim	and	a	common	ideal.	In	fact	they	are	divided	among

themselves	 by	 a	 thousand	 interests,	 territorial	 or	 other.	 Each	 pulls	 his	 own	 way with	 ever-growing	 determination.	 It	 would	 seem	 that	 every	 individual	 nation

aspires	 to	 the	 discovery	 of	 the	 universal	 ideal	 for	 humanity,	 and	 is	 bent	 on attaining	that	ideal	by	force	of	its	own	unaided	strength.	Hence,	he	argued,	each

European	nation	is	an	enemy	to	its	own	welfare	and	that	of	the	world	in	general.

To	this	very	disassociation	he	attributed,	without	quite	understanding	the	rest

of	us,	our	not	understanding	the	Russian	people,	and	our	taxing	them	with	“a	lack

of	 personality.”	 We	 failed	 to	 perceive	 their	 rare	 synthetic	 power—that	 faculty	 of the	Russian	mind	to	read	the	aspirations	of	the	whole	of	human	kind.	Among	his

own	folk,	he	avowed,	we	would	find	none	of	the	imperviousness,	the	intolerance,

of	 the	 average	 European.	 The	 Russian	 adapts	 himself	 with	 ease	 to	 the	 play	 of contemporary	thought	and	has	no	difficulty	in	assimilating	any	new	idea.	He	sees

where	it	will	help	his	fellow-creatures	and	where	it	fails	to	be	of	value.	He	divines

the	 process	 by	 which	 ideas,	 even	 the	 most	 divergent,	 the	 most	 hostile	 to	 one another,	may	meet	and	blend.

Possibly,	recognising	this,	M.	Dostoïeffsky	was	the	more	concerned	not	to	be

too	far	depolarised,	or	say	deRussified,	in	his	own	works	of	fiction.	But	in	truth	he had	no	need	to	fear	any	weakening	of	his	natural	fibre	and	racial	proclivities,	or	of

the	 authentic	 utterance	 wrung	 out	 of	 him	 by	 the	 hard	 and	 cruel	 thongs	 of

experience.	 We	 see	 the	 rigorous	 sincerity	 of	 his	 record	 again	 in	 the	 sheer

autobiography	contained	in	the	present	work, The	House	of	the	Dead.	It	was	in	the fatal	 winter	 of	 1849	 when	 he	 was	 with	 many	 others,	 mostly	 very	 young	 men	 like himself,	sentenced	to	death	for	his	liberal	political	propaganda;	a	sentence	which

was	at	the	last	moment	commuted	to	imprisonment	in	the	Siberian	prisons.	Out	of

that	terror,	which	turned	youth	grey,	was	distilled	the	terrible	reality	of	 The	House of	 the	 Dead.	 If	 one	 would	 truly	 fathom	 how	 deep	 that	 reality	 is,	 and	 what	 its phenomenon	 in	 literature	 amounts	 to,	 one	 should	 turn	 again	 to	 that	 favourite

idyllic	book	of	youth,	by	my	countrywoman	Mme.	Cottin, Elizabeth,	or	the	Exiles

of	Siberia,	and	compare,	for	example,	the	typical	scene	of	Elizabeth’s	sleep	in	the wooden	 chapel	 in	 the	 snow,	 where	 she	 ought	 to	 have	 been	 frozen	 to	 death	 but fared	very	comfortably,	with	the	Siberian	actuality	of	Dostoïeffsky.

But	 he	 was	 no	 idyllist,	 though	 he	 could	 be	 tender	 as	 Mme.	 Cottin	 herself.

What	 he	 felt	 about	 these	 things	 you	 can	 tell	 from	 his	 stories.	 If	 a	 more	 explicit statement	 in	 the	 theoretic	 side	 be	 asked	 of	 him,	 take	 this	 plain	 avowal	 from	 his confession	books	of	1870–77:—

“There	is	no	denying	that	the	people	are	morally	ill,	with	a	grave,	although	not

a	mortal,	malady,	one	to	which	it	is	difficult	to	assign	a	name.	May	we	call	it	‘An

unsatisfied	 thirst	 for	 truth’?	 The	 people	 are	 seeking	 eagerly	 and	 untiringly	 for truth	and	for	the	ways	that	lead	to	it,	but	hitherto	they	have	failed	in	their	search.

After	 the	 liberation	 of	 the	 serfs,	 this	 great	 longing	 for	 truth	 appeared	 among	 the people—for	truth	perfect	and	entire,	and	with	it	the	resurrection	of	civic	life.	There

was	a	clamouring	for	a	‘new	Gospel’;	new	ideas	and	feelings	became	manifest;	and

a	 great	 hope	 rose	 up	 among	 the	 people	 believing	 that	 these	 great	 changes	 were precursors	of	a	state	of	things	which	never	came	to	pass.”

There	 is	 the	 accent	 of	 his	 hope	 and	 his	 despair.	 Let	 it	 prove	 to	 you	 the

conviction	 with	 which	 he	 wrote	 these	 tragic	 pages,	 one	 that	 is	 affecting	 at	 this moment	 the	 destiny	 of	 Russia	 and	 the	 spirit	 of	 us	 who	 watch	 her	 as	 profoundly moved	spectators.

JULIUS	BRAMONT.





PART	1.

CHAPTER	1.





TEN	YEARS	A	CONVICT


In	the	midst	of	the	steppes,	of	the	mountains,	of	the	impenetrable	forests	of

the	desert	regions	of	Siberia,	one	meets	from	time	to	time	with	little	towns	of

a	 thousand	 or	 two	 inhabitants,	 built	 entirely	 of	 wood,	 very	 ugly,	 with	 two

churches—one	 in	 the	 centre	 of	 the	 town,	 the	 other	 in	 the	 cemetery—in	 a	 word, towns	which	bear	much	more	resemblance	to	a	good-sized	village	in	the	suburbs

of	 Moscow	 than	 to	 a	 town	 properly	 so	 called.	 In	 most	 cases	 they	 are	 abundantly provided	with	police-master,	assessors,	and	other	inferior	officials.	If	it	is	cold	in

Siberia,	 the	 great	 advantages	 of	 the	 Government	 service	 compensate	 for	 it.	 The inhabitants	 are	 simple	 people,	 without	 liberal	 ideas.	 Their	 manners	 are	 antique, solid,	 and	 unchanged	 by	 time.	 The	 officials	 who	 form,	 and	 with	 reason,	 the

nobility	 in	 Siberia,	 either	 belong	 to	 the	 country,	 deeply-rooted	 Siberians,	 or	 they have	 arrived	 there	 from	 Russia.	 The	 latter	 come	 straight	 from	 the	 capitals,

tempted	by	the	high	pay,	the	extra	allowance	for	travelling	expenses,	and	by	hopes

not	less	seductive	for	the	future.	Those	who	know	how	to	resolve	the	problem	of

life	 remain	 almost	 always	 in	 Siberia;	 the	 abundant	 and	 richly-flavoured	 fruit

which	they	gather	there	recompenses	them	amply	for	what	they	lose.

As	 for	 the	 others,	 light-minded	 persons	 who	 are	 unable	 to	 deal	 with	 the

problem,	they	are	soon	bored	in	Siberia,	and	ask	themselves	with	regret	why	they

committed	the	folly	of	coming.	They	impatiently	kill	the	three	years	which	they	are

obliged	by	rule	to	remain,	and	as	soon	as	their	time	is	up,	they	beg	to	be	sent	back,

and	return	to	their	original	quarters,	running	down	Siberia,	and	ridiculing	it.	They

are	wrong,	for	it	is	a	happy	country,	not	only	as	regards	the	Government	service,

but	also	from	many	other	points	of	view.

The	 climate	 is	 excellent,	 the	 merchants	 are	 rich	 and	 hospitable,	 the

Europeans	 in	 easy	 circumstances	 are	 numerous;	 as	 for	 the	 young	 girls,	 they	 are like	roses	and	their	morality	is	irreproachable.	Game	is	to	be	found	in	the	streets,

and	 throws	 itself	 upon	 the	 sportsman’s	 gun.	 People	 drink	 champagne	 in

prodigious	quantities.	The	caviare	is	astonishingly	good	and	most	abundant.	In	a

word,	 it	 is	 a	 blessed	 land,	 out	 of	 which	 it	 is	 only	 necessary	 to	 be	 able	 to	 make profit;	and	much	profit	is	really	made.

It	is	in	one	of	these	little	towns—gay	and	perfectly	satisfied	with	themselves,

the	 population	 of	 which	 has	 left	 upon	 me	 the	 most	 agreeable	 impression—that	 I met	an	exile,	Alexander	Petrovitch	Goriantchikoff,	formerly	a	landed	proprietor	in

Russia.	 He	 had	 been	 condemned	 to	 hard	 labour	 of	 the	 second	 class	 for

assassinating	his	wife.	After	undergoing	his	punishment—ten	years	of	hard	labour

—he	lived	quietly	and	unnoticed	as	a	colonist	in	the	little	town	of	K——.	To	tell	the

truth,	he	was	inscribed	in	one	of	the	surrounding	districts;	but	he	resided	at	K——,

where	 he	 managed	 to	 get	 a	 living	 by	 giving	 lessons	 to	 children.	 In	 the	 towns	 of Siberia	 one	 often	 meets	 with	 exiles	 who	 are	 occupied	 with	 instruction.	 They	 are not	 looked	 down	 upon,	 for	 they	 teach	 the	 French	 language,	 so	 necessary	 in	 life, and	of	which	without	them	one	would	not,	in	the	distant	parts	of	Siberia,	have	the

least	idea.

I	 saw	 Alexander	 Petrovitch	 the	 first	 time	 at	 the	 house	 of	 an	 official,	 Ivan Ivanitch	 Gvosdikof,	 a	 venerable	 old	 man,	 very	 hospitable,	 and	 the	 father	 of	 five daughters,	 of	 whom	 the	 greatest	 hopes	 were	 entertained.	 Four	 times	 a	 week

Alexander	 Petrovitch	 gave	 them	 lessons,	 at	 the	 rate	 of	 thirty	 kopecks	 silver	 a lesson.	His	external	appearance	interested	me.	He	was	excessively	pale	and	thin,

still	 young—about	 thirty-five	 years	 of	 age—short	 and	 weak,	 always	 very	 neatly

dressed	in	the	European	style.	When	you	spoke	to	him	he	looked	at	you	in	a	very

attentive	 manner,	 listening	 to	 your	 words	 with	 strict	 politeness,	 and	 with	 a

reflective	air,	as	though	you	had	placed	before	him	a	problem	or	wished	to	extract

from	 him	 a	 secret.	 He	 replied	 clearly	 and	 shortly;	 but	 in	 doing	 so,	 weighed	 each word,	 so	 that	 one	 felt	 ill	 at	 ease	 without	 knowing	 why,	 and	 was	 glad	 when	 the conversation	came	to	an	end.	I	put	some	questions	to	Ivan	Gvosdikof	in	regard	to

him.	 He	 told	 me	 that	 Goriantchikoff	 was	 of	 irreproachable	 morals,	 otherwise

Gvosdikof	 would	 not	 have	 entrusted	 him	 with	 the	 education	 of	 his	 children;	 but that	 he	 was	 a	 terrible	 misanthrope,	 who	 kept	 apart	 from	 all	 society;	 that	 he	 was very	learned,	a	great	reader,	and	that	he	spoke	but	little,	and	never	entered	freely

into	a	conversation.	Certain	persons	told	him	that	he	was	mad;	but	that	was	not

looked	upon	as	a	very	serious	defect.	Accordingly,	the	most	important	persons	in

the	 town	 were	 ready	 to	 treat	 Alexander	 Petrovitch	 with	 respect,	 for	 he	 could	 be useful	to	them	in	writing	petitions.	It	was	believed	that	he	was	well	connected	in

Russia.	 Perhaps,	 among	 his	 relations,	 there	 were	 some	 who	 were	 highly	 placed;

but	it	was	known	that	since	his	exile	he	had	broken	off	all	relations	with	them.	In	a word—he	 injured	 himself.	 Every	 one	 knew	 his	 story,	 and	 was	 aware	 that	 he	 had killed	 his	 wife,	 through	 jealousy,	 less	 than	 a	 year	 after	 his	 marriage;	 and	 that	 he had	given	himself	up	to	justice;	which	had	made	his	punishment	much	less	severe.

Such	 crimes	 are	 always	 looked	 upon	 as	 misfortunes,	 which	 must	 be	 treated	 with pity.	Nevertheless,	this	original	kept	himself	obstinately	apart,	and	never	showed

himself	 except	 to	 give	 lessons.	 In	 the	 first	 instance	 I	 paid	 no	 attention	 to	 him; then,	 without	 knowing	 why,	 I	 found	 myself	 interested	 by	 him.	 He	 was	 rather

enigmatic;	 to	 talk	 with	 him	 was	 quite	 impossible.	 Certainly	 he	 replied	 to	 all	 my questions;	he	seemed	to	make	it	a	duty	to	do	so;	but	when	once	he	had	answered,	I

was	afraid	to	interrogate	him	any	longer.

After	 such	 conversations	 one	 could	 observe	 on	 his	 countenance	 signs	 of

suffering	and	exhaustion.	I	remember	that,	one	fine	summer	evening,	I	went	out

with	him	from	the	house	of	Ivan	Gvosdikof.	It	suddenly	occurred	to	me	to	invite

him	to	come	in	with	me	and	smoke	a	cigarette.	I	can	scarcely	describe	the	fright

which	 showed	 itself	 in	 his	 countenance.	 He	 became	 confused,	 muttered

incoherent	 words,	 and	 suddenly,	 after	 looking	 at	 me	 with	 an	 angry	 air,	 took	 to flight	 in	 an	 opposite	 direction.	 I	 was	 very	 much	 astonished	 afterwards,	 when	 he met	me.	He	seemed	to	experience,	on	seeing	me,	a	sort	of	terror;	but	I	did	not	lose

courage.	There	was	something	in	him	which	attracted	me.

A	month	afterwards	I	went	to	see	Petrovitch	without	any	pretext.	It	is	evident

that,	 in	 doing	 so,	 I	 behaved	 foolishly,	 and	 without	 the	 least	 delicacy.	 He	 lived	 at one	of	the	extreme	points	of	the	town	with	an	old	woman	whose	daughter	was	in	a

consumption.	The	latter	had	a	little	child	about	ten	years	old,	very	pretty	and	very

lively.

When	 I	 went	 in	 Alexander	 Petrovitch	 was	 seated	 by	 her	 side,	 and	 was

teaching	 her	 to	 read.	 When	 he	 saw	 me	 he	 became	 confused,	 as	 if	 I	 had	 detected him	in	a	crime.	Losing	all	self-command,	he	suddenly	stood	up	and	looked	at	me

with	awe	and	astonishment.	Then	we	both	of	us	sat	down.	He	followed	attentively

all	my	looks,	as	if	I	had	suspected	him	of	some	mysterious	intention.	I	understood

he	was	horribly	mistrustful.	He	looked	at	me	as	a	sort	of	spy,	and	he	seemed	to	be

on	the	point	of	saying,	“Are	you	not	soon	going	away?”

I	spoke	to	him	of	our	little	town,	of	the	news	of	the	day,	but	he	was	silent,	or

smiled	with	an	air	of	displeasure.	I	could	see	that	he	was	absolutely	ignorant	of	all

that	 was	 taking	 place	 in	 the	 town,	 and	 that	 he	 was	 in	 no	 way	 curious	 to	 know.	 I spoke	 to	 him	 afterwards	 of	 the	 country	 generally,	 and	 of	 its	 men.	 He	 listened	 to me	 still	 in	 silence,	 fixing	 his	 eyes	 upon	 me	 in	 such	 a	 strange	 way	 that	 I	 became ashamed	 of	 what	 I	 was	 doing.	 I	 was	 very	 nearly	 offending	 him	 by	 offering	 him some	 books	 and	 newspapers	 which	 I	 had	 just	 received	 by	 post.	 He	 cast	 a	 greedy look	upon	them;	he	then	seemed	to	alter	his	mind,	and	declined	my	offer,	giving

his	want	of	leisure	as	a	pretext.

At	last	I	wished	him	good-bye,	and	I	felt	a	weight	fall	from	my	shoulders	as	I

left	 the	 house.	 I	 regretted	 to	 have	 harassed	 a	 man	 whose	 tastes	 kept	 him	 apart from	the	rest	of	the	world.	But	the	fault	had	been	committed.	I	had	remarked	that

he	 possessed	 very	 few	 books.	 It	 was	 not	 true,	 then,	 that	 he	 read	 so	 much.

Nevertheless,	 on	 two	 occasions	 when	 I	 drove	 past,	 I	 saw	 a	 light	 in	 his	 lodging.

What	could	make	him	sit	up	so	late?	Was	he	writing,	and	if	that	were	so,	what	was

he	writing?

I	was	absent	from	our	town	for	about	three	months.	When	I	returned	home	in

the	winter,	I	learned	that	Petrovitch	was	dead,	and	that	he	had	not	even	sent	for	a

doctor.	He	was	even	now	already	forgotten,	and	his	lodging	was	unoccupied.	I	at

once	made	the	acquaintance	of	his	landlady,	in	the	hope	of	learning	from	her	what

her	lodger	had	been	writing.	For	twenty	kopecks	she	brought	me	a	basket	full	of

papers	 left	 by	 the	 defunct,	 and	 confessed	 to	 me	 that	 she	 had	 already	 employed four	sheets	in	lighting	her	fire.	She	was	a	morose	and	taciturn	old	woman.	I	could

not	 get	 from	 her	 anything	 that	 was	 interesting.	 She	 could	 tell	 me	 nothing	 about her	lodger.	She	gave	me	to	understand	all	the	same	that	he	scarcely	ever	worked,

and	that	he	remained	for	months	together	without	opening	a	book	or	touching	a

pen.	On	the	other	hand,	he	walked	all	night	up	and	down	his	room,	given	up	to	his

reflections.	 Sometimes,	 indeed,	 he	 spoke	 aloud.	 He	 was	 very	 fond	 of	 her	 little grandchild,	Katia,	above	all	when	he	knew	her	name;	on	her	name’s-day—the	day

of	St.	Catherine—he	always	had	a	requiem	said	in	the	church	for	some	one’s	soul.

He	 detested	 receiving	 visits,	 and	 never	 went	 out	 except	 to	 give	 lessons.	 Even	 his landlady	he	looked	upon	with	an	unfriendly	eye	when,	once	a	week,	she	came	into

his	room	to	put	it	in	order.

During	the	three	years	he	had	passed	with	her,	he	had	scarcely	ever	spoken	to

her.	I	asked	Katia	if	she	remembered	him.	She	looked	at	me	in	silence,	and	turned

weeping	 to	 the	 wall.	 This	 man,	 then,	 was	 loved	 by	 some	 one!	 I	 took	 away	 the

papers,	and	passed	the	day	in	examining	them.	They	were	for	the	most	part	of	no importance,	merely	children’s	exercises.	At	last	I	came	to	a	rather	thick	packet,	the

sheets	of	which	were	covered	with	delicate	handwriting,	which	abruptly	ceased.	It

had	 perhaps	 been	 forgotten	 by	 the	 writer.	 It	 was	 the	 narrative—incoherent	 and fragmentary—of	 the	 ten	 years	 Alexander	 Petrovitch	 had	 passed	 in	 hard	 labour.

This	narrative	was	interrupted,	here	and	there,	either	by	anecdotes,	or	by	strange,

terrible	recollections	thrown	in	convulsively	as	if	torn	from	the	writer.	I	read	some

of	 these	 fragments	 again	 and	 again,	 and	 I	 began	 to	 doubt	 whether	 they	 had	 not been	 written	 in	 moments	 of	 madness;	 but	 these	 memories	 of	 the	 convict	 prison

—“Recollections	of	the	Dead–House,”	as	he	himself	called	them	somewhere	in	his

manuscript—seemed	to	me	not	without	interest.	They	revealed	quite	a	new	world

unknown	 till	 then;	 and	 in	 the	 strangeness	 of	 his	 facts,	 together	 with	 his	 singular remarks	 on	 this	 fallen	 people,	 there	 was	 enough	 to	 tempt	 me	 to	 go	 on.	 I	 may perhaps	 be	 wrong,	 but	 I	 will	 publish	 some	 chapters	 from	 this	 narrative,	 and	 the public	shall	judge	for	itself.





CHAPTER	2.





THE	DEAD-HOUSE


Our	prison	was	at	the	end	of	the	citadel	behind	the	ramparts.	Looking

through	 the	 crevices	 between	 the	 palisade	 in	 the	 hope	 of	 seeing

something,	 one	 sees	 nothing	 but	 a	 little	 corner	 of	 the	 sky,	 and	 a	 high

earthwork,	covered	with	the	long	grass	of	the	steppe.	Night	and	day	sentries	walk

to	 and	 fro	 upon	 it.	 Then	 one	 perceives	 from	 the	 first,	 that	 whole	 years	 will	 pass during	 which	 one	 will	 see	 by	 the	 same	 crevices	 between	 the	 palisades,	 upon	 the same	earthwork,	always	the	same	sentinels	and	the	same	little	corner	of	the	sky,

not	just	above	the	prison,	but	far	and	far	away.	Represent	to	yourself	a	court-yard,

two	 hundred	 feet	 long,	 and	 one	 hundred	 and	 fifty	 feet	 broad,	 enclosed	 by	 an irregular	hexagonal	palisade,	formed	of	stakes	thrust	deep	into	the	earth.	So	much

for	the	external	surroundings	of	the	prison.	On	one	side	of	the	palisade	is	a	great

gate,	 solid,	 and	 always	 shut;	 watched	 perpetually	 by	 the	 sentinels,	 and	 never opened,	except	when	the	convicts	go	out	to	work.	Beyond	this,	there	are	light	and

liberty,	the	life	of	free	people!	Beyond	the	palisade,	one	thought	of	the	marvellous

world,	fantastic	as	a	fairy	tale.	It	was	not	the	same	on	our	side.	Here,	there	was	no

resemblance	to	anything.	Habits,	customs,	laws,	were	all	precisely	fixed.	It	was	the

house	of	living	death.	It	is	this	corner	that	I	undertake	to	describe.

On	penetrating	into	the	enclosure	one	sees	a	few	buildings.	On	each	side	of	a

vast	court	are	stretched	forth	two	wooden	constructions,	made	of	trunks	of	trees,

and	 only	 one	 storey	 high.	 These	 are	 convicts’	 barracks.	 Here	 the	 prisoners	 are confined,	 divided	 into	 several	 classes.	 At	 the	 end	 of	 the	 enclosure	 may	 be	 seen	 a house,	 which	 serves	 as	 a	 kitchen,	 divided	 into	 two	 compartments.	 Behind	 it	 is another	building,	which	serves	at	once	as	cellar,	loft,	and	barn.	The	centre	of	the

enclosure,	completely	barren,	is	a	large	open	space.	Here	the	prisoners	are	drawn

up	 in	 ranks,	 three	 times	 a	 day.	 They	 are	 identified,	 and	 must	 answer	 to	 their names,	morning,	noon,	and	evening,	besides	several	times	in	the	course	of	the	day

if	the	soldiers	on	guard	are	suspicious	and	clever	at	counting.	All	around,	between

the	 palisades	 and	 the	 buildings	 there	 remains	 a	 sufficiently	 large	 space,	 where some	of	the	prisoners	who	are	misanthropes,	or	of	a	sombre	turn	of	mind,	like	to

walk	about	when	they	are	not	at	work.	There	they	go	turning	over	their	favourite

thoughts,	shielded	from	all	observation.

When	 I	 met	 them	 during	 those	 walks	 of	 theirs,	 I	 took	 pleasure	 in	 observing their	 sad,	 deeply-marked	 countenances,	 and	 in	 guessing	 their	 thoughts.	 The

favourite	occupation	of	one	of	the	convicts,	during	the	moments	of	liberty	left	to

him	from	his	hard	labour,	was	to	count	the	palisades.	There	were	fifteen	hundred

of	them.	He	had	counted	them	all,	and	knew	them	nearly	by	heart.	Every	one	of

them	 represented	 to	 him	 a	 day	 of	 confinement;	 but,	 counting	 them	 daily	 in	 this manner,	he	knew	exactly	the	number	of	days	that	he	had	still	to	pass	in	the	prison.

He	was	sincerely	happy	when	he	had	finished	one	side	of	the	hexagon;	yet	he	had

to	wait	for	his	liberation	many	long	years.	But	one	learns	patience	in	a	prison.

One	day	I	saw	a	prisoner,	who	had	undergone	his	punishment,	take	leave	of

his	 comrades.	 He	 had	 had	 twenty	 years’	 hard	 labour.	 More	 than	 one	 convict

remembered	seeing	him	arrive,	quite	young,	careless,	thinking	neither	of	his	crime

nor	 of	 his	 punishment.	 He	 was	 now	 an	 old	 man	 with	 gray	 hairs,	 with	 a	 sad	 and morose	 countenance.	 He	 walked	 in	 silence	 through	 our	 six	 barracks.	 When	 he

entered	 each	 of	 them	 he	 prayed	 before	 the	 holy	 image,	 made	 a	 deep	 bow	 to	 his former	companions,	and	begged	them	not	to	keep	a	bad	recollection	of	him.

I	also	remember	one	evening,	a	prisoner,	who	had	been	formerly	a	well-to-do

Siberian	 peasant,	 so	 called.	 Six	 years	 before	 he	 had	 had	 news	 of	 his	 wife’s remarrying,	which	had	caused	him	great	pain.	That	very	evening	she	had	come	to

the	 prison,	 and	 had	 asked	 for	 him	 in	 order	 to	 make	 him	 a	 present!	 They	 talked together	for	two	minutes,	wept	together,	and	then	separated	never	to	meet	again.	I

saw	the	expression	of	this	prisoner’s	countenance	when	he	reentered	the	barracks.

There,	indeed,	one	learns	to	support	everything.

When	darkness	set	in	we	had	to	reenter	the	barrack,	where	we	were	shut	up

for	 all	 the	 night.	 It	 was	 always	 painful	 for	 me	 to	 leave	 the	 court-yard	 for	 the barrack.	Think	of	a	long,	low,	stifling	room,	scarcely	lighted	by	tallow	candles,	and

full	of	heavy	and	disgusting	odours.	I	cannot	now	understand	how	I	lived	there	for

ten	entire	years.	My	camp	bedstead	was	made	of	three	boards.	This	was	the	only

place	 in	 the	 room	 that	 belonged	 to	 me.	 In	 one	 single	 room	 we	 herded	 together, more	 than	 thirty	 men.	 It	 was,	 above	 all,	 no	 wonder	 that	 we	 were	 shut	 up	 early.

Four	hours	at	least	passed	before	every	one	was	asleep,	and,	until	then,	there	was

a	tumult	and	uproar	of	laughter,	oaths,	rattling	of	chains,	a	poisonous	vapour	of

thick	 smoke;	 a	 confusion	 of	 shaved	 heads,	 stigmatised	 foreheads,	 and	 ragged

clothes	disgustingly	filthy.

Yes,	 man	 is	 a	 pliable	 animal—he	 must	 be	 so	 defined—a	 being	 who	 gets accustomed	to	everything!	That	would	be,	perhaps,	the	best	definition	that	could

be	 given	 of	 him.	 There	 were	 altogether	 two	 hundred	 and	 fifty	 of	 us	 in	 the	 same prison.	This	number	was	almost	invariably	the	same.	Whenever	some	of	them	had

undergone	 their	 punishment,	 other	 criminals	 arrived,	 and	 a	 few	 of	 them	 died.

Among	 them	 there	 were	 all	 sorts	 of	 people.	 I	 believe	 that	 each	 region	 of	 Russia had	 furnished	 its	 representatives.	 There	 were	 foreigners	 there,	 and	 even

mountaineers	from	the	Caucasus.

All	 these	 people	 were	 divided	 into	 different	 classes,	 according	 to	 the

importance	of	the	crime;	and	consequently	the	duration	of	the	punishment	for	the

crime,	whatever	it	might	be,	was	there	represented.	The	population	of	the	prison

was	 composed	 for	 the	 most	 part	 of	 men	 condemned	 to	 hard	 labour	 of	 the	 civil class—“strongly	 condemned,”	 as	 the	 prisoners	 used	 to	 say.	 They	 were	 criminals

deprived	of	all	civil	rights,	men	rejected	by	society,	vomited	forth	by	it,	and	whose

faces	 were	 marked	 by	 the	 iron	 to	 testify	 eternally	 to	 their	 disgrace.	 They	 were incarcerated	for	different	periods	of	time,	varying	from	eight	to	ten	years.	At	the

expiration	 of	 their	 punishment	 they	 were	 sent	 to	 the	 Siberian	 districts	 in	 the character	of	colonists.

As	to	the	criminals	of	the	military	section,	they	were	not	deprived	of	their	civil

rights—as	 is	 generally	 the	 case	 in	 Russian	 disciplinary	 companies—but	 were

punished	 for	 a	 relatively	 short	 period.	 As	 soon	 as	 they	 had	 undergone	 their

punishment	 they	 had	 to	 return	 to	 the	 place	 whence	 they	 had	 come,	 and	 became soldiers	in	the	battalions	of	the	Siberian	Line.1

Many	of	them	came	back	to	us	afterwards,	for	serious	crimes,	this	time	not	for

a	 small	 number	 of	 years,	 but	 for	 twenty	 at	 least.	 They	 then	 formed	 part	 of	 the section	called	“for	perpetuity.”	Nevertheless,	the	perpetuals	were	not	deprived	of

their	 right.	 There	 was	 another	 section	 sufficiently	 numerous,	 composed	 of	 the

worst	 malefactors,	 nearly	 all	 veterans	 in	 crime,	 and	 which	 was	 called	 the	 special section.	 There	 were	 sent	 convicts	 from	 all	 the	 Russias.	 They	 looked	 upon	 one another	with	reason	as	imprisoned	for	ever,	for	the	term	of	their	confinement	had

not	been	indicated.	The	law	required	them	to	receive	double	and	treble	tasks.	They

remained	in	prison	until	work	of	the	most	painful	character	had	to	be	undertaken

in	Siberia.

“You	are	only	here	for	a	fixed	time,”	they	said	to	the	other	convicts;	“we,	on

the	contrary,	are	here	for	all	our	life.”

I	have	heard	that	this	section	has	since	been	abolished.	At	the	same	time,	civil

convicts	 are	 kept	 apart,	 in	 order	 that	 the	 military	 convicts	 may	 be	 organised	 by themselves	into	a	homogeneous	“disciplinary	company.”	The	administration,	too,

has	 naturally	 been	 changed;	 consequently	 what	 I	 describe	 are	 the	 customs	 and

practices	 of	 another	 time,	 and	 of	 things	 which	 have	 since	 been	 abolished.	 Yes,	 it was	a	long	time	ago;	it	seems	to	me	that	it	is	all	a	dream.	I	remember	entering	the

convict	 prison	 one	 December	 evening,	 as	 night	 was	 falling.	 The	 convicts	 were

returning	 from	 work.	 The	 roll-call	 was	 about	 to	 be	 made.	 An	 under	 officer	 with large	 moustaches	 opened	 to	 me	 the	 gate	 of	 this	 strange	 house,	 where	 I	 was	 to remain	so	many	years,	to	endure	so	many	emotions,	and	of	which	I	could	not	form

even	 an	 approximate	 idea,	 if	 I	 had	 not	 gone	 through	 them.	 Thus,	 for	 example, could	 I	 ever	 have	 imagined	 the	 poignant	 and	 terrible	 suffering	 of	 never	 being alone	even	for	one	minute	during	ten	years?	Working	under	escort	in	the	barracks

together	with	two	hundred	“companions;”	never	alone,	never!

However,	 I	 was	 obliged	 to	 get	 accustomed	 to	 it.	 Among	 them	 there	 were

murderers	by	imprudence,	and	murderers	by	profession,	simple	thieves,	masters

in	 the	 art	 of	 finding	 money	 in	 the	 pockets	 of	 the	 passers-by,	 or	 of	 wiping	 off	 no matter	what	from	the	table.	It	would	have	been	difficult,	however,	to	say	why	and

how	certain	prisoners	found	themselves	among	the	convicts.	Each	of	them	had	his

history,	confused	and	heavy,	painful	as	the	morning	after	a	debauch.

The	convicts,	as	a	rule,	spoke	very	little	of	their	past	life,	which	they	did	not

like	to	think	of.	They	endeavoured,	even,	to	dismiss	it	from	their	memory.

Amongst	my	companions	of	the	chain	I	have	known	murderers	who	were	so

gay	 and	 so	 free	 from	 care,	 that	 one	 might	 have	 made	 a	 bet	 that	 their	 conscience never	 made	 them	 the	 least	 reproach.	 But	 there	 were	 also	 men	 of	 sombre

countenance	 who	 remained	 almost	 always	 silent.	 It	 was	 very	 rarely	 any	 one	 told his	history.	This	sort	of	thing	was	not	the	fashion.	Let	us	say	at	once	that	it	was	not

received.	 Sometimes,	 however,	 from	 time	 to	 time,	 for	 the	 sake	 of	 change,	 a

prisoner	 used	 to	 tell	 his	 life	 to	 another	 prisoner,	 who	 would	 listen	 coldly	 to	 the narrative.	 No	 one,	 to	 tell	 the	 truth,	 could	 have	 said	 anything	 to	 astonish	 his neighbour.	 “We	 are	 not	 ignoramuses,”	 they	 would	 sometimes	 say	 with	 singular

pride.

I	remember	one	day	a	ruffian	who	had	got	drunk—it	was	sometimes	possible

for	the	convicts	to	get	drink—relating	how	he	had	killed	and	cut	up	a	child	of	five.

He	had	first	tempted	the	child	with	a	plaything,	and	then	taking	it	to	a	loft,	had	cut

it	up	to	pieces.	The	entire	barrack,	which,	generally	speaking,	laughed	at	his	jokes,

uttered	one	unanimous	cry.	The	ruffian	was	obliged	to	be	silent.	But	if	the	convicts

had	interrupted	him,	it	was	not	by	any	means	because	his	recital	had	caused	their

indignation,	but	because	it	was	not	allowed	to	speak	of	such	things.

I	 must	 here	 observe	 that	 the	 convicts	 possessed	 a	 certain	 degree	 of

instruction.	 Half	 of	 them,	 if	 not	 more,	 knew	 how	 to	 read	 and	 write.	 Where	 in Russia,	in	no	matter	what	population,	could	two	hundred	and	fifty	men	be	found

able	 to	 read	 and	 write?	 Later	 on	 I	 have	 heard	 people	 say,	 and	 conclude	 on	 the strength	of	these	abuses,	that	education	demoralises	the	people.	This	is	a	mistake.

Education	 has	 nothing	 whatever	 to	 do	 with	 moral	 deterioration.	 It	 must	 be

admitted,	 nevertheless,	 that	 it	 develops	 a	 resolute	 spirit	 among	 the	 people.	 But this	is	far	from	being	a	defect.

Each	 section	 had	 a	 different	 costume.	 The	 uniform	 of	 one	 was	 a	 cloth	 vest,

half	brown	and	half	gray,	and	trousers	with	one	leg	brown,	the	other	gray.	One	day

while	we	were	at	work,	a	little	girl	who	sold	scones	of	white	bread	came	towards

the	convicts.	She	looked	at	them	for	a	time	and	then	burst	into	a	laugh.	“Oh,	how

ugly	they	are!”	she	cried;	“they	have	not	even	enough	gray	cloth	or	brown	cloth	to

make	 their	 clothes.”	 Every	 convict	 wore	 a	 vest	 made	 of	 gray	 cloth,	 except	 the sleeves,	which	were	brown.	Their	heads,	too,	were	shaved	in	different	styles.	The

crown	 was	 bared	 sometimes	 longitudinally,	 sometimes	 latitudinally,	 from	 the

nape	of	the	neck	to	the	forehead,	or	from	one	ear	to	another.

This	 strange	 family	 had	 a	 general	 likeness	 so	 pronounced	 that	 it	 could	 be

recognised	at	a	glance.

Even	the	most	striking	personalities,	those	who	dominated	involuntarily	the

other	convicts,	could	not	help	taking	the	general	tone	of	the	house.

Of	the	convicts—with	the	exception	of	a	few	who	enjoyed	childish	gaiety,	and

who	by	that	alone	drew	upon	themselves	general	contempt—all	the	convicts	were

morose,	 envious,	 frightfully	 vain,	 presumptuous,	 susceptible,	 and	 excessively

ceremonious.	 To	 be	 astonished	 at	 nothing	 was	 in	 their	 eyes	 the	 first	 and

indispensable	 quality.	 Accordingly,	 their	 first	 aim	 was	 to	 bear	 themselves	 with dignity.	 But	 often	 the	 most	 composed	 demeanour	 gave	 way	 with	 the	 rapidity	 of lightning.	 With	 the	 basest	 humility	 some,	 however,	 possessed	 genuine	 strength;

these	were	naturally	all	sincere.	But	strangely	enough,	they	were	for	the	most	part excessively	and	morbidly	vain.	Vanity	was	always	their	salient	quality.

The	majority	of	the	prisoners	were	depraved	and	perverted,	so	that	calumnies

and	 scandal	 rained	 amongst	 them	 like	 hail.	 Our	 life	 was	 a	 constant	 hell,	 a

perpetual	 damnation;	 but	 no	 one	 would	 have	 dared	 to	 raise	 a	 voice	 against	 the internal	 regulations	 of	 the	 prison,	 or	 against	 established	 usages.	 Accordingly, willingly	 or	 unwillingly,	 they	 had	 to	 be	 submitted	 to.	 Certain	 indomitable

characters	 yielded	 with	 difficulty,	 but	 they	 yielded	 all	 the	 same.	 Prisoners	 who when	 at	 liberty	 had	 gone	 beyond	 all	 measure,	 who,	 urged	 by	 their	 over-excited vanity,	had	committed	frightful	crimes	unconsciously,	as	if	in	a	delirium,	and	had

been	the	terror	of	entire	towns,	were	put	down	in	a	very	short	time	by	the	system

of	our	prison.	The	“new	man,”	when	he	began	to	reconnoitre,	soon	found	that	he

could	 astonish	 no	 one,	 and	 insensibly	 he	 submitted,	 took	 the	 general	 tone,	 and assumed	a	sort	of	personal	dignity	which	almost	every	convict	maintained,	just	as

if	 the	 denomination	 of	 convict	 had	 been	 a	 title	 of	 honour.	 Not	 the	 least	 sign	 of shame	or	of	repentance,	but	a	kind	of	external	submission	which	seemed	to	have

been	 reasoned	 out	 as	 the	 line	 of	 conduct	 to	 be	 pursued.	 “We	 are	 lost	 men,”	 they said	to	themselves.	“We	were	unable	to	live	in	liberty;	we	must	now	go	to	Green

Street. ”2

“You	 would	 not	 obey	 your	 father	 and	 mother;	 you	 will	 now	 obey	 thongs	 of

leather.”	“The	man	who	would	not	sow	must	now	break	stones.”

These	things	were	said,	and	repeated	in	the	way	of	morality,	as	sentences	and

proverbs,	but	without	any	one	taking	them	seriously.	They	were	but	words	in	the

air.	There	was	not	one	man	among	them	who	admitted	his	iniquity.	Let	a	stranger

not	a	convict	endeavour	to	reproach	him	with	his	crime,	and	the	insults	directed

against	 him	 would	 be	 endless.	 And	 how	 refined	 are	 convicts	 in	 the	 matter	 of insults!	 They	 insult	 delicately,	 like	 artists;	 insult	 with	 the	 most	 delicate	 science.

They	endeavour	not	so	much	to	offend	by	the	expression	as	by	the	meaning,	the

spirit	 of	 an	 envenomed	 phrase.	 Their	 incessant	 quarrels	 developed	 greatly	 this special	art.

As	they	only	worked	under	the	threat	of	an	immense	stick,	they	were	idle	and

depraved.	 Those	 who	 were	 not	 already	 corrupt	 when	 they	 arrived	 at	 the	 convict establishment,	 became	 perverted	 very	 soon.	 Brought	 together	 in	 spite	 of

themselves,	 they	 were	 perfect	 strangers	 to	 one	 another.	 “The	 devil	 has	 worn	 out

three	 pairs	 of	 sandals	 before	 he	 got	 us	 together,”	 they	 would	 say.	 Intrigues, calumnies,	scandal	of	all	kinds,	envy,	and	hatred	reigned	above	everything	else.	In

this	 life	 of	 sloth,	 no	 ordinary	 spiteful	 tongue	 could	 make	 head	 against	 these murderers,	with	insults	constantly	in	their	mouths.

As	 I	 said	 before,	 there	 were	 found	 among	 them	 men	 of	 open	 character,

resolute,	intrepid,	accustomed	to	self-command.	These	were	held	involuntarily	in

esteem.	Although	they	were	very	jealous	of	their	reputation,	they	endeavoured	to

annoy	 no	 one,	 and	 never	 insulted	 one	 another	 without	 a	 motive.	 Their	 conduct was	on	all	points	full	of	dignity.	They	were	rational,	and	almost	always	obedient,

not	 by	 principle,	 or	 from	 any	 respect	 for	 duty,	 but	 as	 if	 in	 virtue	 of	 a	 mutual convention	 between	 themselves	 and	 the	 administration—a	 convention	 of	 which

the	advantages	were	plain	enough.

The	 officials,	 moreover,	 behaved	 prudently	 towards	 them.	 I	 remember	 that

one	prisoner	of	the	resolute	and	intrepid	class,	known	to	possess	the	instincts	of	a

wild	beast,	was	summoned	one	day	to	be	whipped.	It	was	during	the	summer,	no

work	was	being	done.	The	Adjutant,	the	direct	and	immediate	chief	of	the	convict

prison,	 was	 in	 the	 orderly-room,	 by	 the	 side	 of	 the	 principal	 entrance,	 ready	 to assist	at	the	punishment.	This	Major	was	a	fatal	being	for	the	prisoners,	whom	he

had	brought	to	such	a	state	that	they	trembled	before	him.	Severe	to	the	point	of

insanity,	“he	threw	himself	upon	them,”	to	use	their	expression.	But	it	was	above

all	that	his	look,	as	penetrating	as	that	of	a	lynx,	was	feared.	It	was	impossible	to

conceal	 anything	 from	 him.	 He	 saw,	 so	 to	 say,	 without	 looking.	 On	 entering	 the prison,	he	knew	at	once	what	was	being	done.	Accordingly,	the	convicts,	one	and

all,	 called	 him	 the	 man	 with	 the	 eight	 eyes.	 His	 system	 was	 bad,	 for	 it	 had	 the effect	 of	 irritating	 men	 who	 were	 already	 irascible.	 But	 for	 the	 Commandant,	 a well-bred	 and	 reasonable	 man,	 who	 moderated	 the	 savage	 onslaughts	 of	 the

Major,	the	latter	would	have	caused	sad	misfortunes	by	his	bad	administration.	I

do	not	understand	how	he	managed	to	retire	from	the	service	safe	and	sound.	It	is

true	that	he	left	after	being	called	before	a	court-martial.

The	prisoner	turned	pale	when	he	was	called;	generally	speaking,	he	lay	down

courageously,	and	without	uttering	a	word,	to	receive	the	terrible	rods,	after	which

he	got	up	and	shook	himself.	He	bore	the	misfortune	calmly,	philosophically,	it	is

true,	 though	 he	 was	 never	 punished	 carelessly,	 nor	 without	 all	 sorts	 of

precautions.	But	this	time	he	considered	himself	innocent.	He	turned	pale,	and	as

he	 walked	 quietly	 towards	 the	 escort	 of	 soldiers	 he	 managed	 to	 conceal	 in	 his sleeve	 a	 shoemaker’s	 awl.	 The	 prisoners	 were	 severely	 forbidden	 to	 carry	 sharp instruments	 about	 them.	 Examinations	 were	 frequently,	 minutely,	 and

unexpectedly	made,	and	all	infractions	of	the	rule	were	severely	punished.	But	as

it	is	difficult	to	take	away	from	the	criminal	what	he	is	determined	to	conceal,	and

as,	 moreover,	 sharp	 instruments	 are	 necessarily	 used	 in	 the	 prison,	 they	 were never	destroyed.	If	the	official	succeeded	in	taking	them	away	from	the	convicts,

the	latter	procured	new	ones	very	soon.

On	 the	 occasion	 in	 question,	 all	 the	 convicts	 had	 now	 thrown	 themselves

against	 the	 palisade,	 with	 palpitating	 hearts,	 to	 look	 through	 the	 crevices.	 It	 was known	that	this	time	Petroff	would	not	allow	himself	to	be	flogged,	that	the	end	of

the	Major	had	come.	But	at	the	critical	moment	the	latter	got	into	his	carriage,	and

went	away,	leaving	the	direction	of	the	punishment	to	a	subaltern.	“God	has	saved

him!”	said	the	convicts.	As	for	Petroff,	he	underwent	his	punishment	quietly.	Once

the	 Major	 had	 gone,	 his	 anger	 fell.	 The	 prisoner	 is	 submissive	 and	 obedient	 to	 a certain	 point,	 but	 there	 is	 a	 limit	 which	 must	 not	 be	 crossed.	 Nothing	 is	 more curious	than	these	strange	outbursts	of	disobedience	and	rage.	Often	a	man	who

has	 supported	 for	 many	 years	 the	 most	 cruel	 punishment,	 will	 revolt	 for	 a	 trifle, for	nothing	at	all.	He	might	pass	for	a	madman;	that,	in	fact,	is	what	is	said	of	him.

I	have	already	said	that	during	many	years	I	never	remarked	the	least	sign	of

repentance,	not	even	the	slightest	uneasiness	with	regard	to	the	crime	committed;

and	that	most	of	the	convicts	considered	neither	honour	nor	conscience,	holding

that	 they	 had	 a	 right	 to	 act	 as	 they	 thought	 fit.	 Certainly	 vanity,	 evil	 examples, deceitfulness,	and	false	shame	were	responsible	for	much.	On	the	other	hand,	who

can	claim	to	have	sounded	the	depths	of	these	hearts,	given	over	to	perdition,	and

to	have	found	them	closed	to	all	light?	It	would	seem	all	the	same	that	during	so

many	 years	 I	 ought	 to	 have	 been	 able	 to	 notice	 some	 indication,	 even	 the	 most fugitive,	of	some	regret,	some	moral	suffering.	I	positively	saw	nothing	of	the	kind.

With	 ready-made	 opinions	 one	 cannot	 judge	 of	 crime.	 Its	 philosophy	 is	 a	 little more	 complicated	 than	 people	 think.	 It	 is	 acknowledged	 that	 neither	 convict

prisons,	nor	the	hulks,	nor	any	system	of	hard	labour	ever	cured	a	criminal.	These

forms	of	chastisement	only	punish	him	and	reassure	society	against	the	offences

he	might	commit.	Confinement,	regulation,	and	excessive	work	have	no	effect	but

to	develop	with	these	men	profound	hatred,	a	thirst	for	forbidden	enjoyment,	and

frightful	 recalcitrations.	 On	 the	 other	 hand	 I	 am	 convinced	 that	 the	 celebrated

cellular	 system	 gives	 results	 which	 are	 specious	 and	 deceitful.	 It	 deprives	 a criminal	 of	 his	 force,	 of	 his	 energy,	 enervates	 his	 soul	 by	 weakening	 and

frightening	 it,	 and	 at	 last	 exhibits	 a	 dried	 up	 mummy	 as	 a	 model	 of	 repentance and	amendment.

The	criminal	who	has	revolted	against	society,	hates	it,	and	considers	himself

in	 the	 right;	 society	 was	 wrong,	 not	 he.	 Has	 he	 not,	 moreover,	 undergone	 his punishment?	 Accordingly	 he	 is	 absolved,	 acquitted	 in	 his	 own	 eyes.	 In	 spite	 of different	 opinions,	 every	 one	 will	 acknowledge	 that	 there	 are	 crimes	 which

everywhere,	 always,	 under	 no	 matter	 what	 legislation,	 are	 beyond	 discussion

crimes,	 and	 should	 be	 regarded	 as	 such	 as	 long	 as	 man	 is	 man.	 It	 is	 only	 at	 the convict	 prison	 that	 I	 have	 heard	 related,	 with	 a	 childish,	 unrestrained	 laugh,	 the strangest,	 most	 atrocious	 offences.	 I	 shall	 never	 forget	 a	 certain	 parricide,

formerly	 a	 nobleman	 and	 a	 public	 functionary.	 He	 had	 given	 great	 grief	 to	 his father—a	true	prodigal	son.	The	old	man	endeavoured	in	vain	to	restrain	him	by

remonstrance	on	the	fatal	slope	down	which	he	was	sliding.	As	he	was	loaded	with

debts,	 and	 his	 father	 was	 suspected	 of	 having,	 besides	 an	 estate,	 a	 sum	 of	 ready money,	 he	 killed	 him	 in	 order	 to	 enter	 more	 quickly	 into	 his	 inheritance.	 This crime	 was	 not	 discovered	 until	 a	 month	 afterwards.	 During	 all	 this	 time	 the

murderer,	who	meanwhile	had	informed	the	police	of	his	father’s	disappearance,

continued	his	debauches.	At	last,	during	his	absence,	the	police	discovered	the	old

man’s	corpse	in	a	drain.	The	gray	head	was	severed	from	the	trunk,	but	replaced	in

its	original	position.	The	body	was	entirely	dressed.	Beneath,	as	if	by	derision,	the

assassin	had	placed	a	cushion.

The	 young	 man	 confessed	 nothing.	 He	 was	 degraded,	 deprived	 of	 his

nobiliary	 privileges,	 and	 condemned	 to	 twenty	 years’	 hard	 labour.	 As	 long	 as	 I knew	him	I	always	found	him	to	be	careless	of	his	position.	He	was	the	most	light-minded,	inconsiderate	man	that	I	ever	met,	although	he	was	far	from	being	a	fool.

I	never	observed	in	him	any	great	tendency	to	cruelty.	The	other	convicts	despised

him,	 not	 on	 account	 of	 his	 crime,	 of	 which	 there	 was	 never	 any	 question,	 but because	 he	 was	 without	 dignity.	 He	 sometimes	 spoke	 of	 his	 father.	 One	 day	 for instance,	boasting	of	the	hereditary	good	health	of	his	family,	he	said:	“My	father,

for	example,	until	his	death	was	never	ill.”

Animal	insensibility	carried	to	such	a	point	is	most	remarkable—it	is,	indeed,

phenomenal.	 There	 must	 have	 been	 in	 this	 case	 an	 organic	 defect	 in	 the	 man,

some	 physical	 and	 moral	 monstrosity	 unknown	 hitherto	 to	 science,	 and	 not simply	crime.	I	naturally	did	not	believe	in	so	atrocious	a	crime;	but	people	of	the

same	town	as	himself,	who	knew	all	the	details	of	his	history,	related	it	to	me.	The

facts	 were	 so	 clear	 that	 it	 would	 have	 been	 madness	 not	 to	 accept	 them.	 The prisoners	once	heard	him	cry	out	during	his	sleep:	“Hold	him!	hold	him!	Cut	his

head	off,	his	head,	his	head!”

Nearly	 all	 the	 convicts	 dreamed	 aloud,	 or	 were	 delirious	 in	 their	 sleep.

Insults,	 words	 of	 slang,	 knives,	 hatchets,	 seemed	 constantly	 present	 in	 their

dreams.	 “We	 are	 crushed!”	 they	 would	 say;	 “we	 are	 without	 entrails;	 that	 is	 why we	shriek	in	the	night.”

Hard	 labour	 in	 our	 fortress	 was	 not	 an	 occupation,	 but	 an	 obligation.	 The

prisoners	accomplished	their	task,	they	worked	the	number	of	hours	fixed	by	the

law,	 and	 then	 returned	 to	 the	 prison.	 They	 hated	 their	 liberty.	 If	 the	 convict	 did not	do	some	work	on	his	own	account	voluntarily,	it	would	be	impossible	for	him

to	 support	 his	 confinement.	 How	 could	 these	 persons,	 all	 strongly	 constituted, who	 had	 lived	 sumptuously,	 and	 desired	 so	 to	 live	 again,	 who	 had	 been	 brought together	against	their	will,	after	society	had	cast	them	up—how	could	they	live	in	a

normal	 and	 natural	 manner?	 Man	 cannot	 exist	 without	 work,	 without	 legal,

natural	 property.	 Depart	 from	 these	 conditions,	 and	 he	 becomes	 perverted	 and

changed	 into	 a	 wild	 beast.	 Accordingly,	 every	 convict,	 through	 natural

requirements	and	by	the	instinct	of	self-preservation,	had	a	trade—an	occupation

of	some	kind.

The	long	days	of	summer	were	taken	up	almost	entirely	by	our	hard	labour.

The	night	was	so	short	that	we	had	only	just	time	to	sleep.	It	was	not	the	same	in

winter.	 According	 to	 the	 regulations,	 the	 prisoners	 had	 to	 be	 shut	 up	 in	 the barracks	 at	 nightfall.	 What	 was	 to	 be	 done	 during	 these	 long,	 sad	 evenings	 but work?	 Consequently	 each	 barrack,	 though	 locked	 and	 bolted,	 assumed	 the

appearance	 of	 a	 large	 workshop.	 The	 work	 was	 not,	 it	 is	 true,	 strictly	 forbidden, but	it	was	forbidden	to	have	tools,	without	which	work	is	evidently	impossible.	But

we	 laboured	 in	 secret,	 and	 the	 administration	 seemed	 to	 shut	 its	 eyes.	 Many

prisoners	arrived	without	knowing	how	to	make	use	of	their	ten	fingers;	but	they

learnt	a	trade	from	some	of	their	companions,	and	became	excellent	workmen.

We	 had	 among	 us	 cobblers,	 bootmakers,	 tailors,	 masons,	 locksmiths,	 and

gilders.	 A	 Jew	 named	 Esau	 Boumstein	 was	 at	 the	 same	 time	 a	 jeweller	 and	 a

usurer.	 Every	 one	 worked,	 and	 thus	 gained	 a	 few	 pence—for	 many	 orders	 came from	the	town.	Money	is	a	tangible	resonant	liberty,	inestimable	for	a	man	entirely

deprived	of	true	liberty.	If	he	feels	some	money	in	his	pocket,	he	consoles	himself

a	little,	even	though	he	cannot	spend	it—but	one	can	always	and	everywhere	spend

money,	the	more	so	as	forbidden	fruit	is	doubly	sweet.	One	can	often	buy	spirits	in

the	 convict	 prison.	 Although	 pipes	 are	 severely	 forbidden,	 every	 one	 smokes.

Money	 and	 tobacco	 save	 the	 convicts	 from	 the	 scurvy,	 as	 work	 saves	 them	 from crime—for	 without	 work	 they	 would	 mutually	 have	 destroyed	 one	 another	 like

spiders	 shut	 up	 in	 a	 close	 bottle.	 Work	 and	 money	 were	 all	 the	 same	 forbidden.

Often	during	the	night	severe	examinations	were	made,	during	which	everything

that	 was	 not	 legally	 authorised	 was	 confiscated.	 However	 successfully	 the	 little hoards	had	been	concealed,	they	were	sometimes	discovered.	That	was	one	of	the

reasons	 why	 they	 were	 not	 kept	 very	 long.	 They	 were	 exchanged	 as	 soon	 as

possible	for	drink,	which	explains	how	it	happened	that	spirits	penetrated	into	the

convict	 prison.	 The	 delinquent	 was	 not	 only	 deprived	 of	 his	 hoard,	 but	 was	 also cruelly	flogged.

A	 short	 time	 after	 each	 examination	 the	 convicts	 procured	 again	 the	 objects

which	had	been	confiscated,	and	everything	went	on	as	before.	The	administration

knew	it;	and	although	the	condition	of	the	convicts	was	a	good	deal	like	that	of	the

inhabitants	 of	 Vesuvius,	 they	 never	 murmured	 at	 the	 punishment	 inflicted	 for

these	peccadilloes.	Those	who	had	no	manual	skill	did	business	somehow	or	other.

The	 modes	 of	 buying	 and	 selling	 were	 original	 enough.	 Things	 changed	 hands

which	no	one	expected	a	convict	would	ever	have	thought	of	selling	or	buying,	or

even	of	regarding	as	of	any	value	whatever.	The	least	rag	had	its	value,	and	might

be	 turned	 to	 account.	 In	 consequence,	 however,	 of	 the	 poverty	 of	 the	 convicts, money	acquired	in	their	eyes	a	superior	value	to	that	really	belonging	to	it.

Long	and	painful	tasks,	sometimes	of	a	very	complicated	kind,	brought	back	a

few	kopecks.	Several	of	the	prisoners	lent	by	the	week,	and	did	good	business	that

way.	 The	 prisoner	 who	 was	 ruined	 and	 insolvent	 carried	 to	 the	 usurer	 the	 few things	belonging	to	him	and	pledged	them	for	some	halfpence,	which	were	lent	to

him	at	a	fabulous	rate	of	interest.	If	he	did	not	redeem	them	at	the	fixed	time	the

usurer	sold	them	pitilessly	by	auction,	and	without	the	least	delay.

Usury	 flourished	 so	 well	 in	 our	 convict	 prison	 that	 money	 was	 lent	 even	 on

things	belonging	to	the	Government:	linen,	boots,	etc.—things	that	were	wanted	at

every	 moment.	 When	 the	 lender	 accepted	 such	 pledges	 the	 affair	 took	 an unexpected	 turn.	 The	 proprietor	 went,	 immediately	 after	 he	 had	 received	 his

money,	 and	 told	 the	 under	 officer—chief	 superintendent	 of	 the	 convict	 prison—

that	objects	belonging	to	the	State	were	being	concealed,	on	which	everything	was

taken	away	from	the	usurer	without	even	the	formality	of	a	report	to	the	superior

administration.	But	never	was	there	any	quarrel—and	that	is	very	curious	indeed

—between	 the	 usurer	 and	 the	 owner.	 The	 first	 gave	 up	 in	 silence,	 with	 a	 morose air,	 the	 things	 demanded	 from	 him,	 as	 if	 he	 had	 been	 waiting	 for	 the	 request.

Sometimes,	perhaps,	he	confessed	to	himself	that,	in	the	place	of	the	borrower,	he

would	 not	 have	 acted	 differently.	 Accordingly,	 if	 he	 was	 insulted	 after	 this

restitution,	it	was	less	from	hatred	than	simply	as	a	matter	of	conscience.

The	convicts	robbed	one	another	without	shame.	Each	prisoner	had	his	little

box	 fitted	 with	 a	 padlock,	 in	 which	 he	 kept	 the	 things	 entrusted	 to	 him	 by	 the administration.	Although	these	boxes	were	authorised,	that	did	not	prevent	them

from	 being	 broken	 into.	 The	 reader	 can	 easily	 imagine	 what	 clever	 thieves	 were found	 among	 us.	 A	 prisoner	 who	 was	 sincerely	 devoted	 to	 me—I	 say	 it	 without boasting—stole	my	Bible	from	me,	the	only	book	allowed	in	the	convict	prison.	He

told	me	of	it	the	same	day,	not	from	repentance,	but	because	he	pitied	me	when	he

saw	 me	 looking	 for	 it	 everywhere.	 We	 had	 among	 our	 companions	 of	 the	 chain

several	 convicts	 called	 “innkeepers,”	 who	 sold	 spirits,	 and	 became	 comparatively rich	 by	 doing	 so.	 I	 shall	 speak	 of	 this	 further	 on,	 for	 the	 liquor	 traffic	 deserves special	study.

A	great	number	of	prisoners	had	been	deported	for	smuggling,	which	explains

how	it	was	that	drink	was	brought	secretly	into	the	convict	prison,	under	so	severe

a	 surveillance	 as	 ours	 was.	 In	 passing	 it	 may	 be	 remarked	 that	 smuggling	 is	 an offence	 apart.	 Would	 it	 be	 believed	 that	 money,	 the	 solid	 profit	 from	 the	 affair, possesses	often	only	secondary	importance	for	the	smuggler?	It	is	all	the	same	an

authentic	 fact.	 He	 works	 by	 vocation.	 In	 his	 style	 he	 is	 a	 poet.	 He	 risks	 all	 he possesses,	 exposes	 himself	 to	 terrible	 dangers,	 intrigues,	 invents,	 gets	 out	 of	 a scrape,	and	brings	everything	to	a	happy	end	by	a	sort	of	inspiration.	This	passion

is	as	violent	as	that	of	play.

I	knew	a	prisoner	of	colossal	stature	who	was	the	mildest,	the	most	peaceable,

and	most	manageable	man	it	was	possible	to	see.	We	often	asked	one	another	how

he	 had	 been	 deported.	 He	 had	 such	 a	 calm,	 sociable	 character,	 that	 during	 the

whole	time	that	he	passed	at	the	convict	prison,	he	never	quarrelled	with	any	one.

Born	in	Western	Russia,	where	he	lived	on	the	frontier,	he	had	been	sent	to	hard

labour	 for	 smuggling.	 Naturally,	 then,	 he	 could	 not	 resist	 his	 desire	 to	 smuggle spirits	 into	 the	 prison.	 How	 many	 times	 was	 he	 not	 punished	 for	 it,	 and	 heaven knows	 how	 much	 he	 feared	 the	 rods.	 This	 dangerous	 trade	 brought	 him	 in	 but

slender	 profits.	 It	 was	 the	 speculator	 who	 got	 rich	 at	 his	 expense.	 Each	 time	 he was	punished	he	wept	like	an	old	woman,	and	swore	by	all	that	was	holy	that	he

would	never	be	caught	at	such	things	again.	He	kept	his	vow	for	an	entire	month,

but	 he	 ended	 by	 yielding	 once	 more	 to	 his	 passion.	 Thanks	 to	 these	 amateurs	 of smuggling,	spirits	were	always	to	be	had	in	the	convict	prison.

Another	 source	 of	 income	 which,	 without	 enriching	 the	 prisoners,	 was

constantly	and	beneficently	turned	to	account,	was	alms-giving.	The	upper	classes

of	 our	 Russian	 society	 do	 not	 know	 to	 what	 an	 extent	 merchants,	 shopkeepers, and	 our	 people	 generally,	 commiserate	 the	 “unfortunate!” 3	 Alms	 were	 always forthcoming,	 and	 consisted	 generally	 of	 little	 white	 loaves,	 sometimes	 of	 money, but	very	rarely.	Without	alms,	the	existence	of	the	convicts,	and	above	all	that	of

the	 accused,	 who	 are	 badly	 fed,	 would	 be	 too	 painful.	 These	 alms	 are	 shared equally	between	all	the	prisoners.	If	the	gifts	are	not	sufficient,	the	little	loaves	are divided	into	halves,	and	sometimes	into	six	pieces,	so	that	each	convict	may	have

his	 share.	 I	 remember	 the	 first	 alms,	 a	 small	 piece	 of	 money,	 that	 I	 received.	 A short	time	after	my	arrival,	one	morning,	as	I	was	coming	back	from	work	with	a

soldier	escort,	I	met	a	mother	and	her	daughter,	a	child	of	ten,	as	beautiful	as	an

angel.	I	had	already	seen	them	once	before.

The	mother	was	the	widow	of	a	poor	soldier,	who,	while	still	young,	had	been

sentenced	by	a	court-martial,	and	had	died	in	the	infirmary	of	the	convict	prison

while	I	was	there.	They	wept	hot	tears	when	they	came	to	bid	him	good-bye.	On

seeing	me	the	little	girl	blushed,	and	murmured	a	few	words	into	her	mother’s	ear,

who	stopped,	and	took	from	a	basket	a	kopeck	which	she	gave	to	the	little	girl.	The

little	girl	ran	after	me.

“Here,	 poor	 man,”	 she	 said,	 “take	 this	 in	 the	 name	 of	 Christ.”	 I	 took	 the

money	 which	 she	 slipped	 into	 my	 hand.	 The	 little	 girl	 returned	 joyfully	 to	 her mother.	I	preserved	that	kopeck	a	considerable	time.

1	Goriantchikoff	became	himself	a	soldier	in	Siberia,	when	he	had	finished	his	term	of imprisonment.

2	 An	 allusion	 to	 the	 two	 rows	 of	 soldiers,	 armed	 with	 green	 rods,	 between	 which convicts	 condemned	 to	 corporal	 punishment	 had	 and	 still	 have	 to	 pass.	 But	 this punishment	now	exists	only	for	convicts	deprived	of	all	their	civil	rights.	This	subject will	be	returned	to	further	on.

3	 Men	 condemned	 to	 hard	 labour,	 and	 exiles	 generally,	 are	 so	 called	 by	 the	 Russian peasantry.





CHAPTER	3.





FIRST	IMPRESSIONS


During	the	first	weeks,	and	naturally	the	early	part	of	my	imprisonment,

made	 a	 deep	 impression	 on	 my	 imagination.	 The	 following	 years	 on	 the

other	 hand	 are	 all	 mixed	 up	 together,	 and	 leave	 but	 a	 confused

recollection.	Certain	epochs	of	this	life	are	even	effaced	from	my	memory.	I	have

kept	one	general	impression	of	it,	always	the	same;	painful,	monotonous,	stifling.

What	I	saw	in	experience	during	the	first	days	of	my	imprisonment	seems	to	me	as

if	 it	 had	 all	 taken	 place	 yesterday.	 Such	 was	 sure	 to	 be	 the	 case.	 I	 remember perfectly	 that	 in	 the	 first	 place	 this	 life	 astonished	 me	 by	 the	 very	 fact	 that	 it offered	 nothing	 particular,	 nothing	 extraordinary,	 or	 to	 express	 myself	 better, nothing	unexpected.	It	was	not	until	later	on,	when	I	had	lived	some	time	in	the

convict	prison,	that	I	understood	all	that	was	exceptional	and	unforeseen	in	such	a

life.	I	was	astonished	at	the	discovery.	I	will	avow	that	this	astonishment	remained

with	 me	 throughout	 my	 term	 of	 punishment.	 I	 could	 not	 decidedly	 reconcile

myself	to	this	existence.

First	 of	 all,	 I	 experienced	 an	 invincible	 repugnance	 on	 arriving;	 but	 oddly

enough	the	life	seemed	to	me	less	painful	than	I	had	imagined	on	the	journey.

Indeed,	prisoners,	though	embarrassed	by	their	irons	went	to	and	fro	in	the

prison	freely	enough.	They	insulted	one	another,	sang,	worked,	smoked	pipes,	and

drank	spirits.	There	were	not	many	drinkers	all	the	same.	There	were	also	regular

card	parties	during	the	night.	The	labour	did	not	seem	to	me	very	trying;	I	fancied

that	it	could	not	be	the	real	“hard	labour.”	I	did	not	understand	till	long	afterwards

why	 this	 labour	 was	 really	 hard	 and	 excessive.	 It	 was	 less	 by	 reason	 of	 its difficulty,	 than	 because	 it	 was	 forced,	 imposed,	 obligatory;	 and	 it	 was	 only	 done through	fear	of	the	stick.	The	peasant	works	certainly	harder	than	the	convict,	for,

during	the	summer,	he	works	night	and	day.	But	it	is	in	his	own	interest	that	he

fatigues	himself.	His	aim	is	reasonable,	so	that	he	suffers	less	than	the	convict	who

performs	hard	labour	from	which	he	derives	no	profit.	It	once	came	into	my	head

that	if	it	were	desired	to	reduce	a	man	to	nothing—to	punish	him	atrociously,	to

crush	 him	 in	 such	 a	 manner	 that	 the	 most	 hardened	 murderer	 would	 tremble

before	 such	 a	 punishment,	 and	 take	 fright	 beforehand—it	 would	 be	 necessary	 to give	to	his	work	a	character	of	complete	uselessness,	even	to	absurdity.

Hard	labour,	as	it	is	now	carried	on,	presents	no	interest	to	the	convict;	but	it has	 its	 utility.	 The	 convict	 makes	 bricks,	 digs	 the	 earth,	 builds;	 and	 all	 his occupations	 have	 a	 meaning	 and	 an	 end.	 Sometimes,	 even	 the	 prisoner	 takes	 an interest	 in	 what	 he	 is	 doing.	 He	 then	 wishes	 to	 work	 more	 skilfully,	 more

advantageously.	 But	 let	 him	 be	 constrained	 to	 pour	 water	 from	 one	 vessel	 into another,	or	to	transport	a	quantity	of	earth	from	one	place	to	another,	in	order	to

perform	the	contrary	operation	immediately	afterwards,	then	I	am	persuaded	that

at	the	end	of	a	few	days	the	prisoner	would	strangle	himself	or	commit	a	thousand

crimes,	 punishable	 with	 death,	 rather	 than	 live	 in	 such	 an	 abject	 condition	 and endure	 such	 torments.	 It	 is	 evident	 that	 such	 punishment	 would	 be	 rather	 a

torture,	an	atrocious	vengeance,	than	a	correction.	It	would	be	absurd,	for	it	would

have	no	natural	end.

I	 did	 not,	 however,	 arrive	 until	 the	 winter—in	 the	 month	 of	 December—and

the	 labour	 was	 then	 unimportant	 in	 our	 fortress.	 I	 had	 no	 idea	 of	 the	 summer labour—five	times	as	fatiguing.	The	prisoners,	during	the	winter	season,	broke	up

on	the	Irtitch	some	old	boats	belonging	to	the	Government,	found	occupation	in

the	workshops,	took	away	the	snow	blown	by	hurricanes	against	the	buildings,	or

burned	and	pounded	alabaster.	As	the	day	was	very	short,	the	work	ceased	at	an

early	hour,	and	every	one	returned	to	the	convict	prison,	where	there	was	scarcely

anything	 to	 do,	 except	 the	 supplementary	 work	 which	 the	 convicts	 did	 for

themselves.

Scarcely	 a	 third	 of	 the	 convicts	 worked	 seriously,	 the	 others	 idled	 their	 time and	 wandered	 about	 without	 aim	 in	 the	 barracks,	 scheming	 and	 insulting	 one

another.	Those	who	had	a	little	money	got	drunk	on	spirits,	or	lost	what	they	had

saved	at	gambling.	And	all	this	from	idleness,	weariness,	and	want	of	something	to

do.

I	learned,	moreover,	to	know	one	suffering	which	is	perhaps	the	sharpest,	the

most	painful	that	can	be	experienced	in	a	house	of	detention	apart	from	laws	and

liberty.	 I	 mean,	 “forced	 cohabitation.”	 Cohabitation	 is	 more	 or	 less	 forced

everywhere	and	always;	but	nowhere	is	it	so	horrible	as	in	a	prison.	There	are	men

there	 with	 whom	 no	 one	 would	 consent	 to	 live.	 I	 am	 certain	 that	 every	 convict, unconsciously	perhaps,	has	suffered	from	this.

The	food	of	the	prisoners	seemed	to	me	passable;	some	declared	even	that	it

was	incomparably	better	than	in	any	Russian	prison.	I	cannot	certify	to	this,	for	I

was	never	in	prison	anywhere	else.	Many	of	us,	besides,	were	allowed	to	procure whatever	nourishment	we	wanted.	As	fresh	meat	cost	only	three	kopecks	a	pound,

those	 who	 always	 had	 money	 allowed	 themselves	 the	 luxury	 of	 eating	 it.	 The

majority	of	the	prisoners	were	contented	with	the	regular	ration.

When	they	praised	the	diet	of	the	convict	prison,	they	were	thinking	only	of

the	 bread,	 which	 was	 distributed	 at	 the	 rate	 of	 so	 much	 per	 room,	 and	 not

individually	or	by	weight.	This	last	condition	would	have	frightened	the	convicts,

for	 a	 third	 of	 them	 at	 least	 would	 have	 constantly	 suffered	 from	 hunger;	 while, with	the	system	in	vogue,	every	one	was	satisfied.	Our	bread	was	particularly	nice,

and	 was	 even	 renowned	 in	 the	 town.	 Its	 good	 quality	 was	 attributed	 to	 the

excellent	construction	of	the	prison	ovens.	As	for	our	cabbage-soup,	it	was	cooked

and	thickened	with	flour.	It	had	not	an	appetising	appearance.	On	working	days	it

was	clear	and	thin;	but	what	particularly	disgusted	me	was	the	way	it	was	served.

The	prisoners,	however,	paid	no	attention	to	that.

During	 the	 three	 days	 that	 followed	 my	 arrival,	 I	 did	 not	 go	 to	 work.	 Some respite	 was	 always	 given	 to	 prisoners	 just	 arrived,	 in	 order	 to	 allow	 them	 to recover	from	their	fatigue.	The	second	day	I	had	to	go	out	of	the	convict	prison	in

order	to	be	ironed.	My	chain	was	not	of	the	regulation	pattern;	it	was	composed	of

rings,	which	gave	forth	a	clear	sound,	so	I	heard	other	convicts	say.	I	had	to	wear

them	externally	over	my	clothes,	whereas	my	companions	had	chains	formed,	not

of	 rings,	 but	 of	 four	 links,	 as	 thick	 as	 the	 finger,	 and	 fastened	 together	 by	 three links	 which	 were	 worn	 beneath	 the	 trousers.	 To	 the	 central	 ring	 was	 fastened	 a strip	of	leather,	tied	in	its	turn	to	a	girdle	fastened	over	the	shirt.

I	can	see	again	the	first	morning	that	I	passed	in	the	convict	prison.	The	drum

sounded	in	the	orderly	room,	near	the	principal	entrance.	Ten	minutes	afterwards

the	under	officer	opened	the	barracks.	The	convicts	woke	up	one	after	another	and

rose	trembling	with	cold	from	their	plank	bedsteads,	by	the	dull	light	of	a	tallow

candle.	 Nearly	 all	 of	 them	 were	 morose;	 they	 yawned	 and	 stretched	 themselves.

Their	foreheads,	marked	by	the	iron,	were	contracted.	Some	made	the	sign	of	the

Cross;	others	began	to	talk	nonsense.	The	cold	air	from	outside	rushed	in	as	soon

as	the	door	was	opened.	Then	the	prisoners	hurried	round	the	pails	full	of	water,

one	 after	 another,	 and	 took	 water	 in	 their	 mouths,	 and,	 letting	 it	 out	 into	 their hands,	washed	their	faces.	Those	pails	had	been	brought	in	the	night	before	by	a

prisoner	specially	appointed,	according	to	the	rules,	to	clean	the	barracks.

The	 convicts	 chose	 him	 themselves.	 He	 did	 not	 work	 with	 the	 others,	 for	 it was	his	business	to	examine	the	camp	bedsteads	and	the	floors,	to	fetch	and	carry

water.	This	water	served	in	the	morning	for	the	prisoners’	ablutions,	and	the	rest

during	 the	 day	 for	 ordinary	 drinking.	 That	 very	 morning	 there	 were	 disputes	 on the	subject	of	one	of	the	pitchers.

“What	are	you	doing	there	with	your	marked	forehead?”	grumbled	one	of	the

prisoners,	tall,	dry,	and	sallow.

He	attracted	attention	by	the	strange	protuberances	with	which	his	skull	was

covered.	 He	 pushed	 against	 another	 convict	 round	 and	 small,	 with	 a	 lively

rubicund	countenance.

“Just	wait.”

“What	are	you	crying	out	about?	You	know	that	a	fine	must	be	paid	when	the

others	are	kept	waiting.	Off	with	you.	What	a	monument,	my	brethren!”

“A	little	calf,”	he	went	on	muttering.	“See,	the	white	bread	of	the	prison	has

fattened	him.”

“For	what	do	you	take	yourself?	A	fine	bird,	indeed.”

“You	are	about	right.”

“What	bird	do	you	mean?”

“You	don’t	require	to	be	told.”

“How	so?”

“Find	out.”

They	devoured	one	another	with	their	eyes.	The	little	man,	waiting	for	a	reply,

with	 clenched	 fists,	 was	 apparently	 ready	 to	 fight.	 I	 thought	 that	 an	 encounter would	take	place.	It	was	all	quite	new	to	me;	accordingly	I	watched	the	scene	with

curiosity.	Later	on	I	learnt	that	such	quarrels	were	very	innocent,	that	they	served

for	entertainment.	Like	an	amusing	comedy,	it	scarcely	ever	ended	in	blows.	This

characteristic	plainly	informed	me	of	the	manners	of	the	prisoners.

The	tall	prisoner	remained	calm	and	majestic.	He	felt	that	some	answer	was

expected	from	him,	if	he	was	not	to	be	dishonoured,	covered	with	ridicule.	It	was

necessary	for	him	to	show	that	he	was	a	wonderful	bird,	a	personage.	Accordingly,

he	cast	a	side	look	on	his	adversary,	endeavouring,	with	inexpressible	contempt,	to

irritate	him	by	looking	at	him	over	his	shoulders,	up	and	down,	as	he	would	have done	with	an	insect.	At	last	the	little	fat	man	was	so	irritated	that	he	would	have

thrown	 himself	 upon	 his	 adversary	 had	 not	 his	 companions	 surrounded	 the

combatants	to	prevent	a	serious	quarrel	from	taking	place.

“Fight	with	your	fists,	not	with	your	tongues,”	cried	a	spectator	from	a	corner

of	the	room.

“No,	 hold	 them,”	 answered	 another,	 “they	 are	 going	 to	 fight.	 We	 are	 fine

fellows,	one	against	seven	is	our	style.”

Fine	 fighting	 men!	 One	 was	 here	 for	 having	 sneaked	 a	 pound	 of	 bread,	 the

other	 is	 a	 pot-stealer;	 he	 was	 whipped	 by	 the	 executioner	 for	 stealing	 a	 pot	 of curdled	milk	from	an	old	woman.

“Enough,	 keep	 quiet,”	 cried	 a	 retired	 soldier,	 whose	 business	 it	 was	 to	 keep order	in	the	barrack,	and	who	slept	in	a	corner	of	the	room	on	a	bedstead	of	his

own.

“Water,	my	children,	water	for	Nevalid	Petrovitch,	water	for	our	little	brother,

who	has	just	woke	up.”

“Your	brother!	Am	I	your	brother?	Did	we	ever	drink	a	roublesworth	of	spirits

together?”	muttered	the	old	soldier	as	he	passed	his	arms	through	the	sleeves	of

his	great-coat.

The	 roll	 was	 about	 to	 be	 called,	 for	 it	 was	 already	 late.	 The	 prisoners	 were hurrying	 towards	 the	 kitchen.	 They	 had	 to	 put	 on	 their	 pelisses,	 and	 were	 to receive	 in	 their	 bi-coloured	 caps	 the	 bread	 which	 one	 of	 the	 cooks—one	 of	 the bakers,	that	is	to	say—was	distributing	among	them.	These	cooks,	like	those	who

did	the	household	work,	were	chosen	by	the	prisoners	themselves.	There	were	two

for	the	kitchen,	making	four	in	all	for	the	convict	prison.	They	had	at	their	disposal

the	only	kitchen-knife	authorised	in	the	prison,	which	was	used	for	cutting	up	the

bread	 and	 meat.	 The	 prisoners	 arranged	 themselves	 in	 groups	 around	 the	 tables as	best	they	could	in	caps	and	pelisses,	with	leather	girdles	round	their	waists,	all

ready	 to	 begin	 work.	 Some	 of	 the	 convicts	 had	 kvas	 before	 them,	 in	 which	 they steeped	 pieces	 of	 bread.	 The	 noise	 was	 insupportable.	 Many	 of	 the	 convicts,

however,	were	talking	together	in	corners	with	a	steady,	tranquil	air.

“Good-morning	and	good	appetite,	Father	Antonitch,”	said	a	young	prisoner,

sitting	down	by	the	side	of	an	old	man,	who	had	lost	his	teeth.

“If	you	are	not	joking,	well,	good-morning,”	said	the	latter,	without	raising	his eyes,	and	endeavouring	to	masticate	a	piece	of	bread	with	his	toothless	gums.

“I	declare	I	fancied	you	were	dead,	Antonitch.”

“Die	first,	I	will	follow	you.”

I	 sat	 down	 beside	 them.	 On	 my	 right	 two	 convicts	 were	 conversing	 with	 an

attempt	at	dignity.

“I	am	not	likely	to	be	robbed,”	said	one	of	them.	“I	am	more	afraid	of	stealing

myself.”

“It	would	not	be	a	good	idea	to	rob	me.	The	devil!	I	should	pay	the	man	out.”

“But	what	would	you	do,	you	are	only	a	convict?	We	have	no	other	name.	You

will	 see	 that	 she	 will	 rob	 you,	 the	 wretch,	 without	 even	 saying,	 ‘Thank	 you.’	 The money	I	gave	her	was	wasted.	Just	fancy,	she	was	here	a	few	days	ago!	Where	were

we	 to	 go?	 Shall	 I	 ask	 permission	 to	 go	 into	 the	 house	 of	 Theodore,	 the

executioner?	 He	 has	 still	 his	 house	 in	 the	 suburb,	 the	 one	 he	 bought	 from	 that Solomon,	you	know,	that	scurvy	Jew	who	hung	himself	not	long	since.”

“Yes,	I	know	him,	the	one	who	sold	liquor	here	three	years	ago,	and	who	was

called	Grichka—the	secret-drinking	shop.”

“I	know.”

” All	brag.	You	don’t	know.	In	the	first	place	it	is	another	drinking	shop.”

“What	do	you	mean,	another?	You	don’t	know	what	you	are	talking	about.	I

will	bring	you	as	many	witnesses	as	you	like.”

“Oh,	you	will	bring	them,	will	you?	Who	are	you?	Do	you	know	to	whom	you

are	speaking?”

“Yes,	indeed.”

“I	have	often	thrashed	you,	though	I	don’t	boast	of	it.	Do	not	give	yourself	airs

then.”

“You	have	thrashed	me?	The	man	who	will	thrash	me	is	not	yet	born;	and	the

man	who	did	thrash	me	is	six	feet	beneath	the	ground.”

“Plague-stricken	rascal	of	Bender?”

“May	the	Siberian	leprosy	devour	you	with	ulcers!”

“May	a	chopper	cleave	your	dog	of	a	head.”

Insults	were	falling	about	like	rain.

“Come,	now,	they	are	going	to	fight.	When	men	have	not	been	able	to	conduct

themselves	properly	they	should	keep	silent.	They	are	too	glad	to	come	and	eat	the

Government	bread,	the	rascals!”

They	 were	 soon	 separated.	 Let	 them	 fight	 with	 the	 tongue	 as	 much	 as	 they

wish.	That	is	permitted.	It	is	a	diversion	at	the	service	of	every	one;	but	no	blows.

It	is,	indeed,	only	in	extraordinary	cases	that	blows	were	exchanged.	If	a	fight	took

place,	information	was	given	to	the	Major,	who	ordered	an	inquiry	or	directed	one

himself;	 and	 then	 woe	 to	 the	 convicts.	 Accordingly	 they	 set	 their	 faces	 against anything	like	a	serious	quarrel;	besides,	they	insulted	one	another	chiefly	to	pass

the	 time,	 as	 an	 oratorical	 exercise.	 They	 get	 excited;	 the	 quarrel	 takes	 a	 furious, ferocious	character;	they	seem	about	to	slaughter	one	another.	Nothing	of	the	kind

takes	place.	As	soon	as	their	anger	has	reached	a	certain	pitch	they	separate.

That	astonished	me	much,	and	if	I	relate	some	of	the	conversations	between

the	convicts,	I	do	so	with	a	purpose.	Could	I	have	imagined	that	people	could	have

insulted	one	another	for	pleasure,	that	they	could	find	enjoyment	in	it?

We	must	not	forget	the	gratification	of	vanity.	A	dialectician,	who	knows	how

to	insult	artistically,	is	respected.	A	little	more,	and	he	would	be	applauded	like	an

actor.

Already,	 the	 night	 before,	 I	 noticed	 some	 glances	 in	 my	 direction.	 On	 the

other	hand,	several	convicts	hung	around	me	as	if	they	had	suspected	that	I	had

brought	money	with	me.	They	endeavoured	to	get	into	my	good	graces	by	teaching

me	 how	 to	 carry	 my	 irons	 without	 being	 incommoded.	 They	 also	 gave	 me—of

course	 in	 return	 for	 money—a	 box	 with	 a	 lock,	 in	 order	 to	 keep	 safe	 the	 things which	 had	 been	 entrusted	 to	 me	 by	 the	 administration,	 and	 the	 few	 shirts	 that	 I had	 been	 allowed	 to	 bring	 with	 me	 to	 the	 convict	 prison.	 Not	 later	 than	 next morning	these	same	prisoners	stole	my	box,	and	drank	the	money	which	they	had

taken	out	of	it.

One	of	them	became	afterwards	a	great	friend	of	mine,	though	he	robbed	me

whenever	an	opportunity	offered	itself.	He	was,	all	the	same,	vexed	at	what	he	had

done.	He	committed	these	thefts	almost	unconsciously,	as	if	in	the	way	of	a	duty.

Consequently	I	bore	him	no	grudge.

These	convicts	let	me	know	that	one	could	have	tea,	and	that	I	should	do	well to	get	myself	a	teapot.	They	found	me	one,	which	I	hired	for	a	certain	time.	They

also	recommended	me	a	cook,	who,	for	thirty	kopecks	a	month,	would	arrange	the

dishes	I	might	desire,	if	it	was	my	intention	to	buy	provisions	and	take	my	meals

apart.	Of	course	they	borrowed	money	from	me.	The	day	of	my	arrival	they	asked

me	for	some	at	three	different	times.

The	noblemen	degraded	from	their	position,	here	incarcerated	in	the	convict

prison,	 were	 badly	 looked	 upon	 by	 their	 fellow	 prisoners;	 although	 they	 had	 lost all	their	rights	like	the	other	convicts,	they	were	not	looked	upon	as	comrades.

In	 this	 instinctive	 repugnance	 there	 was	 a	 sort	 of	 reason.	 To	 them	 we	 were

always	gentlemen,	although	they	often	laughed	at	our	fall.

“Ah!	it’s	all	over	now.	Mossieu’s	carriage	formerly	crushed	the	passers-by	at

Moscow.	Now	Mossieu	picks	hemp!”

They	 knew	 our	 sufferings,	 though	 we	 hid	 them	 as	 much	 as	 possible.	 It	 was,

above	all,	when	we	were	all	working	together	that	we	had	most	to	endure,	for	our

strength	was	not	so	great	as	theirs,	and	we	were	really	not	of	much	assistance	to

them.	Nothing	is	more	difficult	than	to	gain	the	confidence	of	the	common	people;

above	all,	such	people	as	these!

There	were	only	a	few	of	us	who	were	of	noble	birth	in	the	whole	prison.	First,

there	 were	 five	 Poles—of	 whom	 further	 on	 I	 shall	 speak	 in	 detail—they	 were

detested	 by	 the	 convicts	 more,	 perhaps,	 than	 the	 Russian	 nobles.	 The	 Poles—I

speak	 only	 of	 the	 political	 convicts—always	 behaved	 to	 them	 with	 a	 constrained and	 offensive	 politeness,	 scarcely	 ever	 speaking	 to	 them,	 and	 making	 no

endeavour	 to	 conceal	 the	 disgust	 which	 they	 experienced	 in	 such	 company.	 The

convicts	understood	all	this,	and	paid	them	back	in	their	own	coin.

Two	years	passed	before	I	could	gain	the	good-will	of	my	companions;	but	the

greater	part	of	them	were	attached	to	me,	and	declared	that	I	was	a	good	fellow.

There	 were	 altogether—counting	 myself—five	 Russian	 nobles	 in	 the	 convict

prison.	 I	 had	 heard	 of	 one	 of	 them	 even	 before	 my	 arrival	 as	 a	 vile	 and	 base creature,	horribly	corrupt,	doing	the	work	of	spy	and	informer.	Accordingly,	from

the	very	first	day	I	refused	to	enter	into	relations	with	this	man.	The	second	was

the	parricide	of	whom	I	have	spoken	in	these	memoirs.	The	third	was	Akimitch.	I

have	 scarcely	 ever	 seen	 such	 an	 original;	 and	 I	 have	 still	 a	 lively	 recollection	 of

him.

Tall,	thin,	weak-minded,	and	terribly	ignorant,	he	was	as	argumentative	and

as	 particular	 about	 details	 as	 a	 German.	 The	 convicts	 laughed	 at	 him;	 but	 they feared	him,	on	account	of	his	susceptible,	excitable,	and	quarrelsome	disposition.

As	 soon	 as	 he	 arrived,	 he	 was	 on	 a	 footing	 of	 perfect	 equality	 with	 them.	 He insulted	 them	 and	 beat	 them.	 Phenomenally	 just,	 it	 was	 sufficient	 for	 him	 that there	 was	 injustice,	 to	 interfere	 in	 an	 affair	 which	 did	 not	 concern	 him.	 He	 was, moreover,	 exceedingly	 simple.	 When	 he	 quarrelled	 with	 the	 convicts,	 he

reproached	them	with	being	thieves,	and	exhorted	them	in	all	sincerity	to	steal	no

more.	He	had	served	as	a	sub-lieutenant	in	the	Caucasus.	I	made	friends	with	him

the	first	day,	and	he	related	to	me	his	“affair.”	He	had	begun	as	a	cadet	in	a	Line

regiment.	 After	 waiting	 some	 time	 to	 be	 appointed	 to	 his	 commission	 as	 sub-

lieutenant,	he	at	last	received	it,	and	was	sent	into	the	mountains	to	command	a

small	fort.	A	small	tributary	prince	in	the	neighbourhood	set	fire	to	the	fort,	and

made	a	night	attack,	which	had	no	success.

Akimitch	 was	 very	 cunning,	 and	 pretended	 not	 to	 know	 that	 he	 was	 the

author	of	the	attack,	which	he	attributed	to	some	insurgents	wandering	about	the

mountains.	After	a	month	he	invited	the	prince,	in	a	friendly	way,	to	come	and	see

him.	 The	 prince	 arrived	 on	 horseback,	 without	 suspecting	 anything.	 Akimitch

drew	up	his	garrison	in	line	of	battle,	and	exposed	to	the	soldiers	the	treason	and

villainy	of	his	visitor.	He	reproached	him	with	his	conduct;	proved	to	him	that	to

set	fire	to	the	fort	was	a	shameful	crime;	explained	to	him	minutely	the	duties	of	a

tributary	prince;	and	then,	by	way	of	peroration	to	his	harangue,	had	him	shot.	He

at	 once	 informed	 his	 superior	 officers	 of	 this	 execution,	 with	 all	 the	 details necessary.	Thereupon	Akimitch	was	brought	to	trial.	He	appeared	before	a	court-martial,	 and	 was	 condemned	 to	 death;	 but	 his	 sentence	 was	 commuted,	 and	 he

was	sent	to	Siberia	as	a	convict	of	the	second	class—condemned,	that	is	to	say,	to

twelve	 years’	 hard	 labour	 and	 imprisonment	 in	 a	 fortress.	 He	 admitted	 willingly that	he	had	acted	illegally,	and	that	the	prince	ought	to	have	been	tried	in	a	civil

court,	and	not	by	a	court-martial.	Nevertheless,	he	could	not	understand	that	his

action	was	a	crime.

“He	 had	 burned	 my	 fort;	 what	 was	 I	 to	 do?	 Was	 I	 to	 thank	 him	 for	 it?”	 he answered	to	my	objections.

Although	the	convicts	laughed	at	Akimitch,	and	pretended	that	he	was	a	little

mad,	they	esteemed	him	all	the	same	by	reason	of	his	cleverness	and	his	precision.

He	 knew	 all	 possible	 trades,	 and	 could	 do	 whatever	 you	 wished.	 He	 was

cobbler,	bootmaker,	painter,	carver,	gilder,	and	locksmith.	He	had	acquired	these

talents	at	the	convict	prison,	for	it	was	sufficient	for	him	to	see	an	object,	in	order

to	imitate	it.	He	sold	in	the	town,	or	caused	to	be	sold,	baskets,	lanterns,	and	toys.

Thanks	 to	 his	 work,	 he	 had	 always	 some	 money,	 which	 he	 employed	 in	 buying

shirts,	pillows,	and	so	on.	He	had	himself	made	a	mattress,	and	as	he	slept	in	the

same	 room	 as	 myself	 he	 was	 very	 useful	 to	 me	 at	 the	 beginning	 of	 my

imprisonment.	Before	leaving	prison	to	go	to	work,	the	convicts	were	drawn	up	in

two	 ranks	 before	 the	 orderly-room,	 surrounded	 by	 an	 escort	 of	 soldiers	 with

loaded	muskets.	An	officer	of	Engineers	then	arrived,	with	the	superintendent	of

the	 works	 and	 a	 few	 soldiers,	 who	 watched	 the	 operations.	 The	 superintendent

counted	the	convicts,	and	sent	them	in	bands	to	the	places	where	they	were	to	be

occupied.

I	 went	 with	 some	 other	 prisoners	 to	 the	 workshop	 of	 the	 Engineers—a	 low

brick	house	built	in	the	midst	of	a	large	court-yard	full	of	materials.	There	was	a

forge	 there,	 and	 carpenters’,	 locksmiths’,	 and	 painters’	 workshops.	 Akimitch	 was assigned	 to	 the	 last.	 He	 boiled	 the	 oil	 for	 the	 varnish,	 mixed	 the	 colours,	 and painted	tables	and	other	pieces	of	furniture	in	imitation	walnut.

While	I	was	waiting	to	have	additional	irons	put	on,	I	communicated	to	him

my	first	impressions.

“Yes,”	 he	 said,	 “they	 do	 not	 like	 nobles,	 above	 all	 those	 who	 have	 been

condemned	 for	 political	 offences,	 and	 they	 take	 a	 pleasure	 in	 wounding	 their

feelings.	Is	it	not	intelligible?	We	do	not	belong	to	them,	we	do	not	suit	them.	They

have	all	been	serfs	or	soldiers.	Tell	me	what	sympathy	can	they	have	for	us.	The

life	 here	 is	 hard,	 but	 it	 is	 nothing	 in	 comparison	 with	 that	 of	 the	 disciplinary companies	in	Russia.	There	it	is	hell.	The	men	who	have	been	in	them	praise	our

convict	 prison.	 It	 is	 paradise	 compared	 to	 their	 purgatory.	 Not	 that	 the	 work	 is harder.	It	is	said	that	with	the	convicts	of	the	first	class	the	administration—it	is

not	 exclusively	 military	 as	 it	 is	 here—acts	 quite	 differently	 from	 what	 it	 does towards	us.	They	have	their	little	houses	there	I	have	been	told,	for	I	have	not	seen

for	 myself.	 They	 wear	 no	 uniform,	 their	 heads	 are	 not	 shaved,	 though,	 in	 my opinion,	uniforms	and	shaved	heads	are	not	bad	things;	it	is	neater,	and	also	it	is

more	 agreeable	 to	 the	 eye,	 only	 these	 men	 do	 not	 like	 it.	 Oh,	 what	 a	 Babel	 this

place	 is!	 Soldiers,	 Circassians,	 old	 believers,	 peasants	 who	 have	 left	 their	 wives and	families,	Jews,	Gypsies,	people	come	from	Heaven	knows	where,	and	all	this

variety	of	men	are	to	live	quietly	together	side	by	side,	eat	from	the	same	dish,	and

sleep	on	the	same	planks.	Not	a	moment’s	liberty,	no	enjoyment	except	in	secret;

they	must	hide	their	money	in	their	boots;	and	then	always	the	convict	prison	at

every	moment—perpetually	convict	prison!	Involuntarily	wild	ideas	come	to	one.”

As	 I	 already	 knew	 all	 this,	 I	 was	 above	 all	 anxious	 to	 question	 Akimitch	 in regard	 to	 our	 Major.	 He	 concealed	 nothing,	 and	 the	 impression	 which	 his	 story left	upon	me	was	far	from	being	an	agreeable	one.

I	had	to	live	for	two	years	under	the	authority	of	this	officer.	All	that	Akimitch

had	 told	 me	 about	 him	 was	 strictly	 true.	 He	 was	 a	 spiteful,	 ill-regulated	 man, terrible	 above	 all	 things,	 because	 he	 possessed	 almost	 absolute	 power	 over	 two hundred	human	beings.	He	looked	upon	the	prisoners	as	his	personal	enemies—

first,	 and	 very	 serious	 fault.	 His	 rare	 capacities,	 and,	 perhaps,	 even	 his	 good qualities,	were	perverted	by	his	intemperance	and	his	spitefulness.	He	sometimes

fell	 like	 a	 bombshell	 into	 the	 barracks	 in	 the	 middle	 of	 the	 night.	 If	 he	 noticed	 a prisoner	asleep	on	his	back	or	his	left	side,	he	awoke	him	and	said	to	him:	“You

must	 sleep	 as	 I	 ordered!”	 The	 convicts	 detested	 him	 and	 feared	 him	 like	 the plague.	His	repulsive,	crimson	countenance	made	every	one	tremble.	We	all	knew

that	 the	 Major	 was	 entirely	 in	 the	 hands	 of	 his	 servant	 Fedka,	 and	 that	 he	 had nearly	 gone	 mad	 when	 his	 dog	 “Treasure”	 fell	 ill.	 He	 preferred	 this	 dog	 to	 every other	living	creature.

When	 Fedka	 told	 him	 that	 a	 convict,	 who	 had	 picked	 up	 some	 veterinary

knowledge,	 made	 wonderful	 cures,	 he	 sent	 for	 him	 directly	 and	 said	 to	 him,	 “I entrust	my	dog	to	your	care.	If	you	cure	‘Treasure’	I	will	reward	you	royally.”	The

man,	 a	 very	 intelligent	 Siberian	 peasant,	 was	 indeed	 a	 good	 veterinary	 surgeon, but	he	was	above	all	a	cunning	peasant.	He	used	to	tell	his	comrades	long	after	the

affair	had	taken	place	the	story	of	his	visit	to	the	Major.

“I	looked	at	‘Treasure,’	he	was	lying	down	on	a	sofa	with	his	head	on	a	white

cushion.	I	saw	at	once	that	he	had	inflammation,	and	that	he	wanted	bleeding.	I

think	 I	 could	 have	 cured	 him,	 but	 I	 said	 to	 myself,	 ‘What	 will	 happen	 if	 the	 dog dies?	It	will	be	my	fault.’	‘No,	your	noble	highness,’	I	said	to	him,	‘you	have	called

me	too	late.	If	I	had	seen	your	dog	yesterday	or	the	day	before,	he	would	now	be

restored	to	health;	but	at	the	present	moment	I	can	do	nothing.	He	will	die.’	And

‘Treasure’	died.”

I	was	told	one	day	that	a	convict	had	tried	to	kill	the	Major.	This	prisoner	had

for	several	years	been	noticed	for	his	submissive	attitude	and	also	his	silence.	He

was	regarded	even	as	a	madman.	As	he	possessed	some	instruction	he	passed	his

nights	reading	the	Bible.	When	everybody	was	asleep	he	rose,	climbed	up	on	to	the

stove,	lit	a	church	taper,	opened	his	Gospel	and	began	to	read.	He	did	this	for	an

entire	year.

One	fine	day	he	left	the	ranks	and	declared	that	he	would	not	go	to	work.	He

was	reported	to	the	Major,	who	flew	into	a	rage,	and	hurried	to	the	barracks.	The

convict	 rushed	 forward	 and	 hurled	 at	 him	 a	 brick,	 which	 he	 had	 procured

beforehand;	 but	 it	 missed	 him.	 The	 prisoner	 was	 seized,	 tried,	 and	 whipped—it was	a	matter	of	a	few	moments—carried	to	the	hospital,	and	died	there	three	days

afterwards.	He	declared	during	his	last	moments	that	he	hated	no	one;	but	that	he

had	wished	to	suffer.	He	belonged	to	no	sect	of	fanatics.	Afterwards,	when	people

spoke	of	him	in	the	barracks,	it	was	always	with	respect.

At	last	they	put	new	irons	on	me.	While	they	were	being	soldered	a	number	of

young	 women,	 selling	 little	 white	 loaves,	 came	 into	 the	 forge	 one	 after	 another.

They	were,	for	the	most	part,	quite	little	girls	who	came	to	sell	the	loaves	that	their

mothers	 had	 baked.	 As	 they	 got	 older	 they	 still	 continued	 to	 hang	 about	 us,	 but they	no	longer	brought	bread.	There	were	always	some	of	them	about.	There	were

also	married	women.	Each	roll	cost	two	kopecks.	Nearly	all	the	prisoners	used	to

have	them.	I	noticed	a	prisoner	who	worked	as	a	carpenter.	He	was	already	getting

gray,	but	he	had	a	ruddy,	smiling	complexion.	He	was	joking	with	the	vendors	of

rolls.	 Before	 they	 arrived	 he	 had	 tied	 a	 red	 handkerchief	 round	 his	 neck.	 A	 fat woman,	much	marked	with	the	small-pox,	put	down	her	basket	on	the	carpenter’s

table.	They	began	to	talk.

“Why	 did	 you	 not	 come	 yesterday?”	 said	 the	 convict,	 with	 a	 self-satisfied

smile.

“I	did	come;	but	you	had	gone,”	replied	the	woman	boldly.

“Yes;	 they	 made	 us	 go	 away,	 otherwise	 we	 should	 have	 met.	 The	 day	 before

yesterday	they	all	came	to	see	me.”

“Who	came?”

“Why,	Mariashka,	Khavroshka,	Tchekunda,	Dougrochva”	(the	woman	of	four

kopecks).

“What,”	I	said	to	Akimitch,	“is	it	possible	that——?”

“Yes;	it	happens	sometimes,”	he	replied,	lowering	his	eyes,	for	he	was	a	very

proper	man.

Yes;	it	happened	sometimes,	but	rarely,	and	with	unheard	of	difficulties.	The

convicts	 preferred	 to	 spend	 their	 money	 in	 drink.	 It	 was	 very	 difficult	 to	 meet these	women.	It	was	necessary	to	come	to	an	agreement	about	the	place,	and	the

time;	to	arrange	a	meeting,	to	find	solitude,	and,	what	was	most	difficult	of	all,	to

avoid	 the	 escorts—almost	 an	 impossibility—and	 to	 spend	 relatively	 prodigious

sums.	I	have	sometimes,	however,	witnessed	love	scenes.	One	day	three	of	us	were

heating	 a	 brick-kiln	 on	 the	 banks	 of	 the	 Irtitch.	 The	 soldiers	 of	 the	 escort	 were good-natured	fellows.	Two	“blowers”	(they	were	so-called)	soon	appeared.

“Where	were	you	staying	so	long?”	said	a	prisoner	to	them,	who	had	evidently

been	expecting	them.	“Was	it	at	the	Zvierkoffs	that	you	were	detained?”

“At	the	Zvierkoffs?	It	will	be	fine	weather,	and	the	fowls	will	have	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	today,	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	4.

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

coreligionists.

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	known	that	he

hid	 somewhere	 the	 savings	 deposited	 with	 him,	 but	 no	 one	 had	 been	 able	 to

discover	his	secret.	He	revealed	it	to	us;	to	the	Poles,	and	myself.	One	of	the	stakes

of	 the	 palisade	 bore	 a	 branch	 which	 apparently	 belonged	 to	 it,	 but	 it	 could	 be taken	away,	and	then	replaced	in	the	stake.	When	the	branch	was	removed	a	hole

could	be	seen.	This	was	the	hiding-place	in	question.

I	 now	 resume	 the	 thread	 of	 my	 narrative.	 Why	 does	 not	 the	 convict	 save	 up

his	money?	Not	only	is	it	difficult	for	him	to	keep	it,	but	the	prison	life,	moreover,

is	 so	 sad	 that	 the	 convict	 by	 his	 very	 nature	 thirsts	 for	 freedom	 of	 action.	 By	 his position	 in	 society	 he	 is	 so	 irregular	 a	 being	 that	 the	 idea	 of	 swallowing	 up	 his capital	in	orgies,	of	intoxicating	himself	with	revelry,	seems	to	him	quite	natural	if

only	 he	 can	 procure	 himself	 one	 moment’s	 forgetfulness.	 It	 was	 strange	 to	 see certain	individuals	bent	over	their	labour	only	with	the	object	of	spending	in	one

day	all	their	gains,	even	to	the	last	kopeck.	Then	they	would	go	to	work	again	until

a	new	debauch,	looked	forward	to	months	beforehand.	Certain	convicts	were	fond

of	 new	 clothes,	 more	 or	 less	 singular	 in	 style,	 such	 as	 fancy	 trousers	 and

waistcoats;	 but	 it	 was	 above	 all	 for	 the	 coloured	 shirts	 that	 the	 convicts	 had	 a pronounced	taste;	also	for	belts	with	metal	clasps.

On	 holidays	 the	 dandies	 of	 the	 prison	 put	 on	 their	 Sunday	 best.	 They	 were

worth	 seeing	 as	 they	 strutted	 about	 their	 part	 of	 the	 barracks.	 The	 pleasure	 of feeling	 themselves	 well	 dressed	 amounted	 with	 them	 to	 childishness;	 indeed,	 in many	things	convicts	are	only	children.	Their	fine	clothes	disappeared	very	soon,

often	 the	 evening	 of	 the	 very	 day	 on	 which	 they	 had	 been	 bought.	 Their	 owners pledged	them	or	sold	them	again	for	a	trifle.

The	 feasts	 were	 generally	 held	 at	 fixed	 times.	 They	 coincided	 with	 religious

festivals,	 or	 with	 the	 name’s	 day	 of	 the	 drunken	 convict.	 On	 getting	 up	 in	 the morning	 he	 would	 place	 a	 wax	 taper	 before	 the	 holy	 image,	 then	 he	 said	 his

prayer,	 dressed,	 and	 ordered	 his	 dinner.	 He	 had	 bought	 beforehand	 meat,	 fish, and	little	patties;	then	he	gorged	like	an	ox,	almost	always	alone.	It	was	very	rare

to	see	a	convict	invite	another	convict	to	share	his	repast.	At	dinner	the	vodka	was

produced.	 The	 convict	 would	 suck	 it	 up	 like	 the	 sole	 of	 a	 boot,	 and	 then	 walk through	 the	 barracks	 swaggering	 and	 tottering.	 It	 was	 his	 desire	 to	 show	 all	 his companions	 that	 he	 was	 drunk,	 that	 he	 was	 carrying	 on,	 and	 thus	 obtain	 their particular	esteem.

The	Russian	people	feel	always	a	certain	sympathy	for	a	drunken	man;	among

us	 it	 amounted	 really	 to	 esteem.	 In	 the	 convict	 prison	 intoxication	 was	 a	 sort	 of aristocratic	distinction.

As	 soon	 as	 he	 felt	 himself	 in	 spirits	 the	 convict	 ordered	 a	 musician.	 We	 had among	 us	 a	 little	 fellow—a	 deserter	 from	 the	 army—very	 ugly,	 but	 who	 was	 the happy	 possessor	 of	 a	 violin	 on	 which	 he	 could	 play.	 As	 he	 had	 no	 trade	 he	 was always	ready	to	follow	the	festive	convict	from	barrack	to	barrack	grinding	him	out

dance	tunes	with	all	his	strength.	His	countenance	often	expressed	the	fatigue	and

disgust	 which	 his	 music—always	 the	 same—caused	 him;	 but	 when	 the	 prisoner

called	out	to	him,	“Go	on	playing,	are	you	not	paid	for	it?”	he	attacked	his	violin

more	violently	than	ever.	These	drunkards	felt	sure	that	they	would	be	taken	care

of,	 and	 in	 case	 of	 the	 Major	 arriving	 would	 be	 concealed	 from	 his	 watchful	 eyes.

This	service	we	rendered	in	the	most	disinterested	spirit.	On	their	side	the	under

officer,	 and	 the	 old	 soldiers	 who	 remained	 in	 the	 prison	 to	 keep	 order,	 were perfectly	reassured.	The	drunkard	would	cause	no	disturbance.	At	the	least	scare

of	 revolt	 or	 riot	 he	 would	 have	 been	 quieted	 and	 then	 bound.	 Accordingly	 the inferior	officers	closed	their	eyes;	they	knew	that	if	vodka	was	forbidden	all	would

go	wrong.	How	was	this	vodka	procured?

It	was	bought	in	the	convict	prison	itself	from	the	drink-sellers,	as	they	were

called,	 who	 followed	 this	 trade—a	 very	 lucrative	 one—although	 the	 tipplers	 were not	very	numerous,	for	revelry	was	expensive,	especially	when	it	is	considered	how

hardly	money	was	earned.	The	drink	business	was	begun,	continued,	and	ended	in

rather	an	original	manner.	The	prisoner	who	knew	no	trade,	would	not	work,	and

who,	 nevertheless,	 desired	 to	 get	 speedily	 rich,	 made	 up	 his	 mind,	 when	 he

possessed	 a	 little	 money,	 to	 buy	 and	 sell	 vodka.	 The	 enterprise	 was	 risky,	 it required	 great	 daring,	 for	 the	 speculator	 hazarded	 his	 skin	 as	 well	 as	 liquor.	 But the	drink-seller	hesitated	before	no	obstacles.	At	the	outset	he	brought	the	vodka

himself	 to	 the	 prison	 and	 got	 rid	 of	 it	 on	 the	 most	 advantageous	 terms.	 He repeated	this	operation	a	second	and	a	third	time.	If	he	had	not	been	discovered

by	 the	 officials,	 he	 now	 possessed	 a	 sum	 which	 enabled	 him	 to	 extend	 his

business.	 He	 became	 a	 capitalist	 with	 agents	 and	 assistants,	 he	 risked	 much	 less and	gained	much	more.	Then	his	assistants	incurred	risk	in	place	of	him.

Prisons	are	always	abundantly	inhabited	by	ruined	men	without	the	habit	of

work,	 but	 endowed	 with	 skill	 and	 daring;	 their	 only	 capital	 is	 their	 back.	 They often	decide	to	put	it	into	circulation,	and	propose	to	the	drink-seller	to	introduce

vodka	 into	 the	 barracks.	 There	 is	 always	 in	 the	 town	 a	 soldier,	 a	 shopkeeper,	 or some	 loose	 woman	 who,	 for	 a	 stipulated	 sum—rather	 a	 small	 one—buys	 vodka

with	the	drink-seller’s	money,	hides	it	in	a	place	known	to	the	convict-smuggler,

near	 the	 workshop	 where	 he	 is	 employed.	 The	 person	 who	 supplies	 the	 vodka,

tastes	 the	 precious	 liquid	 almost	 always	 as	 he	 is	 carrying	 it	 to	 the	 hiding-place, and	 replaces	 relentlessly	 what	 he	 has	 drunk	 by	 pure	 water.	 The	 purchaser	 may take	 it	 or	 leave	 it,	 but	 he	 cannot	 give	 himself	 airs.	 He	 thinks	 himself	 very	 lucky that	his	money	has	not	been	stolen	from	him,	and	that	he	has	received	some	kind

of	 vodka	 in	 exchange.	 The	 man	 who	 is	 to	 take	 it	 into	 the	 prison—to	 whom	 the drink-seller	 has	 indicated	 the	 hiding-place—goes	 to	 the	 supplier	 with	 bullock’s intestines	which	after	being	washed,	have	been	filled	with	water,	and	which	thus

preserves	their	softness	and	suppleness.	When	the	intestines	have	been	filled	with

vodka,	 the	 smuggler	 rolls	 them	 round	 his	 body.	 Now,	 all	 the	 cunning,	 the

adroitness	 of	 this	 daring	 convict	 is	 shown.	 The	 man’s	 honour	 is	 at	 stake.	 It	 is necessary	 for	 him	 to	 take	 in	 the	 escort	 and	 the	 man	 on	 guard;	 and	 he	 will	 take them	 in.	 If	 the	 carrier	 is	 artful,	 the	 soldier	 of	 the	 escort—sometimes	 a	 recruit—

does	not	notice	anything	particular;	for	the	prisoner	has	studied	him	thoroughly,

besides	which	he	has	artfully	combined	the	hour	and	the	place	of	meeting.	If	the

convict—a	 bricklayer	 for	 example—climbs	 up	 on	 the	 wall	 that	 he	 is	 building,	 the escort	 will	 certainly	 not	 climb	 up	 after	 him	 to	 watch	 his	 movements.	 Who	 then, will	 see	 what	 he	 is	 about?	 On	 getting	 near	 the	 prison,	 he	 gets	 ready	 a	 piece	 of fifteen	or	twenty	kopecks,	and	waits	at	the	gate	for	the	corporal	on	guard.

The	corporal	examines,	feels,	and	searches	each	convict	on	his	return	to	the

barracks,	and	then	opens	the	gate	to	him.	The	carrier	of	the	vodka	hopes	that	he

will	 be	 ashamed	 to	 examine	 him	 too	 much	 in	 detail;	 but	 if	 the	 corporal	 is	 a cunning	 fellow,	 that	 is	 just	 what	 he	 will	 do;	 and	 in	 that	 case	 he	 finds	 the contraband	vodka.	The	convict	has	now	only	one	chance	of	salvation.	He	slips	into

the	hand	of	the	under	officer	the	piece	of	money	he	holds	in	readiness,	and	often, thanks	to	this	manoeuvre,	the	vodka	arrives	safely	in	the	hands	of	the	drink-seller.

But	sometimes	the	trick	does	not	succeed,	and	it	is	then	that	the	sole	capital	of	the

smuggler	 enters	 really	 into	 circulation.	 A	 report	 is	 made	 to	 the	 Major,	 who

sentences	 the	 unhappy	 culprit	 to	 a	 thorough	 flogging.	 As	 for	 the	 vodka,	 it	 is confiscated.	 The	 smuggler	 undergoes	 his	 punishment	 without	 betraying	 the

speculator,	 not	 because	 such	 a	 denunciation	 would	 disgrace	 him,	 but	 because	 it would	bring	him	nothing.	He	would	be	flogged	all	the	same,	the	only	consolation

he	could	have	would	be	that	the	drink-seller	would	share	his	punishment;	but	as

he	needs	him,	he	does	not	denounce	him,	although	having	allowed	himself	to	be

surprised,	he	will	receive	no	payment	from	him.

Denunciation,	however,	flourishes	in	the	convict	prison.	Far	from	hating	spies

or	keeping	apart	from	them,	the	prisoners	often	make	friends	of	them.	If	any	one

had	 taken	 it	 into	 his	 head	 to	 prove	 to	 the	 convicts	 all	 the	 baseness	 of	 mutual denunciation,	no	one	in	the	prison	would	have	understood.	The	former	nobleman

of	whom	I	have	already	spoken,	that	cowardly	and	violent	creature	with	whom	I

had	 already	 broken	 off	 all	 relations	 immediately	 after	 my	 arrival	 in	 the	 fortress, was	the	friend	of	Fedka,	the	Major’s	body-servant.	He	used	to	tell	him	everything

that	 took	 place	 in	 the	 convict	 prison,	 and	 this	 was	 naturally	 carried	 back	 to	 the servant’s	 master.	 Every	 one	 knew	 it,	 but	 no	 one	 had	 the	 idea	 of	 showing	 any	 ill-will	 against	 the	 man,	 or	 of	 reproaching	 him	 with	 his	 conduct.	 When	 the	 vodka arrived	without	accident	at	the	prison,	the	speculator	paid	the	smuggler	and	made

up	his	accounts.	His	merchandise	had	already	cost	him	sufficiently	dear;	and	that

the	profit	might	be	greater,	he	diluted	it	by	adding	fifty	per	cent.	of	pure	water.	He

was	ready,	and	had	only	to	wait	for	customers.

The	 first	 holiday,	 perhaps	 even	 on	 a	 week-day,	 a	 convict	 would	 turn	 up.	 He

had	 been	 working	 like	 a	 negro	 for	 many	 months	 in	 order	 to	 save	 up,	 kopeck	 by kopeck,	 a	 small	 sum	 which	 he	 was	 resolved	 to	 spend	 all	 at	 once.	 These	 days	 of rejoicing	 had	 been	 looked	 forward	 to	 long	 beforehand.	 He	 had	 dreamt	 of	 them

during	 the	 endless	 winter	 nights,	 during	 his	 hardest	 labour,	 and	 the	 perspective had	supported	him	under	his	severest	trials.	The	dawn	of	this	day	so	impatiently

awaited,	has	just	appeared.	He	has	some	money	in	his	pocket.	It	has	been	neither

stolen	 from	 him	 nor	 confiscated.	 He	 is	 free	 to	 spend	 it.	 Accordingly	 he	 takes	 his savings	to	the	drink-seller,	who,	to	begin	with,	gives	vodka	which	is	almost	pure—

it	has	been	only	twice	baptized—but	gradually,	as	the	bottle	gets	more	and	more

empty,	he	fills	it	up	with	water.	Accordingly	the	convict	pays	for	his	vodka	five	or six	times	as	much	as	he	would	in	a	tavern.

It	 may	 be	 imagined	 how	 many	 glasses,	 and,	 above	 all,	 what	 sums	 of	 money

are	 required	 before	 the	 convict	 is	 drunk.	 However,	 as	 he	 has	 lost	 the	 habit	 of drinking,	 the	 little	 alcohol	 which	 remains	 in	 the	 liquid	 intoxicates	 him	 rapidly enough;	he	goes	on	drinking	until	there	is	nothing	left;	he	pledges	or	sells	all	his

new	 clothes—for	 the	 drink-seller	 is	 at	 the	 same	 time	 a	 pawnbroker.	 As	 his

personal	garments	are	not	very	numerous	he	next	pledges	the	clothes	supplied	to

him	by	the	Government.	When	the	drink	has	made	away	with	his	last	shirt,	his	last

rag,	he	lies	down	and	wakes	up	the	next	morning	with	a	bad	headache.	In	vain	he

begs	the	drink-seller	to	give	him	credit	for	a	drop	of	vodka	in	order	to	remove	his

depression;	 he	 experiences	 a	 direct	 refusal.	 That	 very	 day	 he	 sets	 to	 work	 again.

For	 several	 months	 together,	 he	 will	 weary	 himself	 out	 while	 looking	 forward	 to such	a	debauch	as	the	one	which	has	now	disappeared	in	the	past.	Little	by	little

he	 regains	 courage	 while	 waiting	 for	 such	 another	 day,	 still	 far	 off,	 but	 which ultimately	will	arrive.	As	for	the	drink-seller,	if	he	has	gained	a	large	sum—some

dozen	of	roubles—he	procures	some	more	vodka,	but	this	time	he	does	not	baptize

it,	because	he	intends	it	for	himself.	Enough	of	trade!	it	is	time	for	him	to	amuse

himself.	Accordingly	he	eats,	drinks,	pays	for	a	little	music—his	means	allow	him

to	grease	the	palm	of	the	inferior	officers	in	the	convict	prison.	This	festival	lasts

sometimes	 for	 several	 days.	 When	 his	 stock	 of	 vodka	 is	 exhausted,	 he	 goes	 and drinks	with	the	other	drink-sellers	who	are	waiting	for	him;	he	then	drinks	up	his

last	kopeck.

However	 careful	 the	 convicts	 may	 be	 in	 watching	 over	 their	 companions	 in

debauchery,	it	sometimes	happens	that	the	Major	or	the	officer	on	guard	notices

what	is	going	on.	The	drunkard	is	then	dragged	to	the	orderly-room,	his	money	is

confiscated	if	he	has	any	left,	and	he	is	flogged.	The	convict	shakes	himself	like	a

beaten	dog,	returns	to	barracks,	and,	after	a	few	days,	resumes	his	trade	as	drink-

seller.

It	sometimes	happens	that	among	the	convicts	there	are	admirers	of	the	fair

sex.	For	a	sufficiently	large	sum	of	money	they	succeed,	accompanied	by	a	soldier

whom	 they	 have	 corrupted,	 in	 getting	 secretly	 out	 of	 the	 fortress	 into	 a	 suburb instead	of	going	to	work.	There	in	an	apparently	quiet	house	a	banquet	is	held	at

which	large	sums	of	money	are	spent.	The	convicts’	money	is	not	to	be	despised,

accordingly	 the	 soldiers	 will	 sometimes	 arrange	 these	 temporary	 escapes beforehand,	sure	as	they	are	of	being	generously	recompensed.	Generally	speaking

these	soldiers	are	themselves	candidates	for	the	convict	prison.	The	escapades	are

scarcely	 ever	 discovered.	 I	 must	 add	 that	 they	 are	 very	 rare,	 for	 they	 are	 very expensive,	 and	 the	 admirers	 of	 the	 fair	 sex	 are	 obliged	 to	 have	 recourse	 to	 other less	costly	means.

At	the	beginning	of	my	stay,	a	young	convict	with	very	regular	features	excited

my	curiosity;	his	name	was	Sirotkin,	he	was	in	many	respects	an	enigmatic	being.

His	face	had	struck	me,	he	was	not	more	than	twenty-three	years	of	age,	and	he

belonged	to	the	special	section;	that	is	to	say,	he	was	condemned	to	hard	labour	in

perpetuity.	He	accordingly	was	to	be	looked	upon	as	one	of	the	most	dangerous	of

military	criminals.	Mild	and	tranquil,	he	spoke	little	and	rarely	laughed;	his	blue

eyes,	his	clear	complexion,	his	fair	hair	gave	him	a	soft	expression,	which	even	his

shaven	 crown	 did	 not	 destroy.	 Although	 he	 had	 no	 trade,	 he	 managed	 to	 get

himself	money	from	time	to	time.	He	was	remarkably	lazy,	and	always	dressed	like

a	sloven;	but	if	any	one	was	generous	enough	to	present	him	with	a	red	shirt,	he

was	 beside	 himself	 with	 joy	 at	 having	 a	 new	 garment,	 and	 he	 exhibited	 it

everywhere.	 Sirotkin	 neither	 drank	 nor	 played,	 and	 he	 scarcely	 ever	 quarrelled with	the	other	convicts.	He	walked	about	with	his	hands	in	his	pockets	peacefully,

and	with	a	pensive	air.	What	he	was	thinking	of	I	cannot	say.	When	any	one	called

to	 him,	 to	 ask	 him	 a	 question,	 he	 replied	 with	 deference,	 precisely,	 without chattering	like	the	others.	He	had	in	his	eyes	the	expression	of	a	child	of	ten;	when

he	had	money	he	bought	nothing	of	what	the	others	looked	upon	as	indispensable.

His	vest	might	be	torn,	he	did	not	get	it	mended,	any	more	than	he	bought	himself

new	 boots.	 What	 particularly	 pleased	 him	 were	 the	 little	 white	 rolls	 and

gingerbread,	which	he	would	eat	with	the	satisfaction	of	a	child	of	seven.	When	he

was	 not	 at	 work	 he	 wandered	 about	 the	 barracks;	 when	 every	 one	 else	 was

occupied,	 he	 remained	 with	 his	 arms	 by	 his	 sides;	 if	 any	 one	 joked	 with	 him,	 or laughed	 at	 him—which	 happened	 often	 enough—he	 turned	 on	 his	 heel	 without

speaking	and	went	elsewhere.	If	the	pleasantry	was	too	strong	he	blushed.	I	often

asked	myself	for	what	crime	he	could	have	been	condemned	to	hard	labour.	One

day	when	I	was	ill,	and	lying	in	the	hospital,	Sirotkin	was	also	there,	stretched	out

on	a	bedstead	not	far	from	me.	I	entered	into	conversation	with	him;	he	became

animated,	and	told	me	freely	how	he	had	been	taken	for	a	soldier,	how	his	mother

had	followed	him	in	tears,	and	what	treatment	he	had	endured	in	military	service.

He	added	that	he	had	never	been	able	to	accustom	himself	to	this	life;	every	one was	 severe	 and	 angry	 with	 him	 about	 nothing,	 his	 officers	 were	 always	 against him.

“But	why	did	they	send	you	here?—and	into	the	special	section	above	all!	Ah,

Sirotkin!”

“Yes,	Alexander	Petrovitch,	although	I	was	only	one	year	with	the	battalion,	I

was	sent	here	for	killing	my	captain,	Gregory	Petrovitch.”

“I	heard	about	that,	but	I	did	not	believe	it;	how	was	it	that	you	killed	him?”

“All	that	was	told	you	was	true;	my	life	was	insupportable.”

“But	 the	 other	 recruits	 supported	 it	 well	 enough.	 It	 is	 very	 hard	 at	 the

beginning,	but	men	get	accustomed	to	it	and	end	by	becoming	excellent	soldiers.

Your	mother	must	have	pampered	you	and	spoiled	you.	I	am	sure	that	she	fed	you

with	gingerbread	and	with	sweet	milk	until	you	were	eighteen.”

“My	mother,	it	is	true,	was	very	fond	of	me.	When	I	left	her	she	took	to	her

bed	 and	 remained	 there.	 How	 painful	 to	 me	 everything	 in	 my	 military	 life	 was; after	 that	 all	 went	 wrong.	 I	 was	 perpetually	 being	 punished,	 and	 why?	 I	 obeyed every	one,	I	was	exact,	careful.	I	did	not	drink,	I	borrowed	from	no	one—it’s	all	up

with	 a	 man	 when	 he	 begins	 to	 borrow—and	 yet	 every	 one	 around	 me	 was	 harsh

and	cruel.	I	sometimes	hid	myself	in	a	corner	and	did	nothing	but	sob.	One	day,	or

rather	one	night,	I	was	on	guard.	It	was	autumn:	there	was	a	strong	wind,	and	it

was	 so	 dark	 that	 you	 could	 not	 see	 a	 speck,	 and	 I	 was	 sad,	 so	 sad!	 I	 took	 the bayonet	from	the	end	of	my	musket	and	placed	it	by	my	side.	Then	I	put	the	barrel

to	my	breast	and	with	my	big	toe—I	had	taken	my	boot	off—pressed	the	trigger.	It

missed	 fire.	 I	 looked	 at	 my	 musket	 and	 loaded	 it	 with	 a	 charge	 of	 fresh	 powder.

Then	I	broke	off	the	corner	of	my	flint,	and	once	more	I	placed	the	muzzle	against

my	breast.	Again	there	was	a	misfire.	What	was	I	to	do?	I	said	to	myself.	I	put	my

boot	 on,	 I	 fastened	 my	 bayonet	 to	 the	 barrel,	 and	 walked	 up	 and	 down	 with	 my musket	on	my	shoulder.	Let	them	do	what	they	like,	I	said	to	myself;	but	I	will	not

be	 a	 soldier	 any	 longer.	 Half-an-hour	 afterwards	 the	 captain	 arrived,	 making	 his rounds.	He	came	straight	upon	me.	‘Is	that	the	way	you	carry	yourself	when	you

are	 on	 guard?’	 I	 seized	 my	 musket,	 and	 stuck	 the	 bayonet	 into	 his	 body.	 Then	 I had	to	walk	forty-six	versts.	That	is	how	I	came	to	be	in	the	special	section.”

He	 was	 telling	 no	 falsehood,	 yet	 I	 did	 not	 understand	 how	 they	 could	 have

sent	him	there;	such	crimes	deserve	a	much	less	severe	punishment.	Sirotkin	was the	only	one	of	the	convicts	who	was	really	handsome.	As	for	his	companions	of

the	 special	 section—to	 the	 number	 of	 fifteen—they	 were	 frightful	 to	 behold	 with their	hideous,	disgusting	physiognomies.	Gray	heads	were	plentiful	among	them.	I

shall	speak	of	these	men	further	on.	Sirotkin	was	often	on	good	terms	with	Gazin,

the	drink-seller,	of	whom	I	have	already	spoken	at	the	beginning	of	this	chapter.

This	Gazin	was	a	terrible	being;	the	impression	that	he	produced	on	every	one

was	 confusing	 or	 appalling.	 It	 seemed	 to	 me	 that	 a	 more	 ferocious,	 a	 more

monstrous	 creature	 could	 not	 exist.	 Yet	 I	 have	 seen	 at	 Tobolsk,	 Kameneff,	 the brigand,	 celebrated	 for	 his	 crimes.	 Later,	 I	 saw	 Sokoloff,	 the	 escaped	 convict, formerly	a	deserter,	who	was	a	ferocious	creature;	but	neither	of	them	inspired	me

with	 so	 much	 disgust	 as	 Gazin.	 I	 often	 fancied	 that	 I	 had	 before	 my	 eyes	 an enormous,	gigantic	spider	of	the	size	of	a	man.	He	was	a	Tartar,	and	there	was	no

convict	 so	 strong	 as	 he	 was.	 It	 was	 less	 by	 his	 great	 height	 and	 his	 herculean construction,	 than	 by	 his	 enormous	 and	 deformed	 head,	 that	 he	 inspired	 terror.

The	 strangest	 reports	 were	 current	 about	 him.	 Some	 said	 that	 he	 had	 been	 a

soldier,	others	that	he	had	escaped	from	Nertchinsk,	and	that	he	had	been	exiled

several	times	to	Siberia,	but	had	always	succeeded	in	getting	away.	Landing	at	last

in	our	convict	prison,	he	belonged	there	to	the	special	section.	It	appeared	that	he

had	taken	a	pleasure	in	killing	little	children	when	he	had	attracted	them	to	some

deserted	 place;	 then	 he	 frightened	 them,	 tortured	 them,	 and	 after	 having	 fully enjoyed	 the	 terror	 and	 the	 convulsions	 of	 the	 poor	 little	 things,	 he	 killed	 them resolutely	and	with	delight.	These	horrors	had	perhaps	been	imagined	by	reason

of	 the	 painful	 impression	 that	 the	 monster	 produced	 upon	 us;	 but	 they	 seemed probable,	 and	 harmonised	 with	 his	 physiognomy.	 Nevertheless,	 when	 Gazin	 was

not	drunk,	he	conducted	himself	well	enough.

He	 was	 always	 quiet,	 never	 quarrelled,	 avoided	 all	 disputes	 as	 if	 from

contempt	for	his	companions,	just	as	though	he	had	entertained	a	high	opinion	of

himself.	 He	 spoke	 very	 little,	 all	 his	 movements	 were	 measured,	 calm,	 resolute.

His	 look	 was	 not	 without	 intelligence,	 but	 its	 expression	 was	 cruel	 and	 derisive like	his	smile.	Of	all	the	convicts	who	sold	vodka,	he	was	the	richest.	Twice	a	year

he	got	completely	drunk,	and	it	was	then	that	all	his	brutal	ferocity	exhibited	itself.

Little	 by	 little	 he	 got	 excited,	 and	 began	 to	 tease	 the	 prisoners	 with	 venomous satire	prepared	long	beforehand.	Finally	when	he	was	quite	drunk,	he	had	attacks

of	 furious	 rage,	 and,	 seizing	 a	 knife,	 would	 rush	 upon	 his	 companions.	 The

convicts	 who	 knew	 his	 herculean	 vigour,	 avoided	 him	 and	 protected	 themselves against	 him,	 for	 he	 would	 throw	 himself	 on	 the	 first	 person	 he	 met.	 A	 means	 of disarming	him	had	been	discovered.	Some	dozen	prisoners	would	rush	suddenly

upon	Gazin,	and	give	him	violent	blows	in	the	pit	of	the	stomach,	in	the	belly,	and

generally	beneath	the	region	of	the	heart,	until	he	lost	consciousness.	Any	one	else

would	 have	 died	 under	 such	 treatment,	 but	 Gazin	 soon	 got	 well.	 When	 he	 had

been	well	beaten	they	would	wrap	him	up	in	his	pelisse,	and	throw	him	upon	his

plank	bedstead,	leaving	him	to	digest	his	drink.	The	next	day	he	woke	up	almost

well,	and	went	to	his	work	silent	and	sombre.	Every	time	that	Gazin	got	drunk,	all

the	prisoners	knew	how	his	day	would	finish.	He	knew	also,	but	he	drank	all	the

same.	Several	years	passed	in	this	way.	Then	it	was	noticed	that	Gazin	had	lost	his

energy,	 and	 that	 he	 was	 beginning	 to	 get	 weak.	 He	 did	 nothing	 but	 groan,

complaining	 of	 all	 kinds	 of	 illnesses.	 His	 visits	 to	 the	 hospital	 became	 more	 and more	frequent.	“He	is	giving	in,”	said	the	prisoners.

At	one	time	Gazin	had	gone	into	the	kitchen	followed	by	the	little	fellow	who

scraped	the	violin,	and	whom	the	convicts	in	their	festivities	used	to	hire	to	play	to

them.	He	stopped	in	the	middle	of	the	hall	silently	examining	his	companions	one

after	another.	No	one	breathed	a	word.	When	he	saw	me	with	my	companions,	he

looked	 at	 us	 in	 his	 malicious,	 jeering	 style,	 and	 smiled	 horribly	 with	 the	 air	 of	 a man	 who	 was	 satisfied	 with	 a	 good	 joke	 that	 he	 had	 just	 thought	 of.	 He

approached	our	table,	tottering.

“Might	 I	 ask,”	 he	 said,	 “where	 you	 get	 the	 money	 which	 allows	 you	 to	 drink tea?”

I	exchanged	a	look	with	my	neighbour.	I	understood	that	the	best	thing	for	us

was	to	be	silent,	and	not	to	answer.	The	least	contradiction	would	have	put	Gazin

in	a	passion.

“You	must	have	money,”	he	continued,	“you	must	have	a	good	deal	of	money

to	drink	tea;	but,	tell	me,	are	you	sent	to	hard	labour	to	drink	tea?	I	say,	did	you

come	here	for	that	purpose?	Please	answer,	I	should	like	to	know.”

Seeing	that	we	were	resolved	on	silence,	and	that	we	had	determined	not	to

pay	any	attention	to	him,	he	ran	towards	us,	livid	and	trembling	with	rage.	At	two

steps’	distance,	he	saw	a	heavy	box,	which	served	to	hold	the	bread	given	for	the

dinner	and	supper	of	the	convicts.	Its	contents	were	sufficient	for	the	meal	of	half

the	 prisoners.	 At	 this	 moment	 it	 was	 empty.	 He	 seized	 it	 with	 both	 hands	 and

brandished	 it	 above	 our	 heads.	 Although	 murder,	 or	 attempted,	 was	 an inexhaustible	 source	 of	 trouble	 for	 the	 convicts—examinations,	 counter-examinations,	and	inquiries	without	end	would	be	the	natural	consequence—and

though	quarrels	were	generally	cut	short,	when	they	did	not	lead	to	such	serious

results,	yet	every	one	remained	silent	and	waited.

Not	one	word	in	our	favour,	not	one	cry	against	Gazin.	The	hatred	of	all	the

prisoners	for	all	who	were	of	gentle	birth	was	so	great	that	every	one	of	them	was

evidently	 pleased	 to	 see	 that	 we	 were	 in	 danger.	 But	 a	 fortunate	 incident

terminated	this	scene,	which	must	have	become	tragic.	Gazin	was	about	to	let	fly

the	 enormous	 box,	 which	 he	 was	 turning	 and	 twisting	 above	 his	 head,	 when	 a

convict	ran	in	from	the	barracks,	and	cried	out:

“Gazin,	they	have	stolen	your	vodka!”

The	horrible	brigand	let	fall	the	box	with	a	frightful	oath,	and	ran	out	of	the

kitchen.

“Well,	God	has	saved	them,”	said	the	prisoners	among	themselves,	repeating

the	words	several	times.

I	 never	 knew	 whether	 his	 vodka	 had	 been	 stolen,	 or	 whether	 it	 was	 only	 a

stratagem	invented	to	save	us.

That	 same	 evening,	 before	 the	 closing	 of	 the	 barracks,	 when	 it	 was	 already

dark,	I	walked	to	the	side	of	the	palisade.	A	heavy	feeling	of	sadness	weighed	upon

my	soul.	During	all	the	time	that	I	passed	in	the	convict	prison	I	never	felt	myself

so	 miserable	 as	 on	 that	 evening,	 though	 the	 first	 day	 is	 always	 the	 hardest, whether	at	hard	labour	or	in	the	prison.	One	thought	in	particular	had	left	me	no

respite	 since	 my	 deportation—a	 question	 insoluble	 then	 and	 insoluble	 now.	 I

reflected	on	the	inequality	of	the	punishments	inflicted	for	the	same	crimes.	Often,

indeed,	 one	 crime	 cannot	 be	 compared	 even	 approximately	 to	 another.	 Two

murderers	 kill	 a	 man	 under	 circumstances	 which	 in	 each	 case	 are	 minutely

examined	and	weighed.	They	each	receive	the	same	punishment;	and	yet	by	what

an	abyss	are	their	two	actions	separated!	One	has	committed	a	murder	for	a	trifle

—for	 an	 onion.	 He	 has	 killed	 on	 the	 high-road	 a	 peasant	 who	 was	 passing,	 and found	on	him	an	onion,	and	nothing	else.

“Well,	I	was	sent	to	hard	labour	for	a	peasant	who	had	nothing	but	an	onion!”

“Fool	 that	 you	 are!	 an	 onion	 is	 worth	 a	 kopeck.	 If	 you	 had	 killed	 a	 hundred

peasants	you	would	have	had	a	hundred	kopecks,	or	one	rouble.”	The	above	is	a prison	joke.

Another	criminal	has	killed	a	debauchee	who	was	oppressing	or	dishonouring

his	wife,	his	sister,	or	his	daughter.

A	 third,	 a	 vagabond,	 half	 dead	 with	 hunger,	 pursued	 by	 a	 whole	 band	 of

police,	 was	 defending	 his	 liberty,	 his	 life.	 He	 is	 to	 be	 regarded	 as	 on	 an	 equality with	the	brigand	who	assassinates	children	for	his	amusement,	for	the	pleasure	of

feeling	 their	 warm	 blood	 flow	 over	 his	 hands,	 of	 seeing	 them	 shudder	 in	 a	 last bird-like	palpitation	beneath	the	knife	which	tears	their	flesh!

They	 will	 all	 alike	 be	 sent	 to	 hard	 labour;	 though	 the	 sentence	 will	 perhaps not	be	for	the	same	number	of	years.	But	the	variations	in	the	punishment	are	not

very	numerous,	whereas	different	kinds	of	crimes	may	be	reckoned	by	thousands.

As	many	characters,	so	many	crimes.

Let	 us	 admit	 that	 it	 is	 impossible	 to	 get	 rid	 of	 this	 first	 inequality	 in

punishment,	 that	 the	 problem	 is	 insoluble,	 and	 that	 in	 connection	 with	 penal

matters	 it	 is	 the	 squaring	 of	 the	 circle.	 Let	 all	 that	 be	 admitted;	 but	 even	 if	 this inequality	 cannot	 be	 avoided,	 there	 is	 another	 thing	 to	 be	 thought	 of—the

consequences	of	the	punishment.	Here	is	a	man	who	is	wasting	away	like	a	candle;

there	is	another	one,	on	the	contrary,	who	had	no	idea	before	going	into	exile	that

there	could	be	such	a	gay,	such	an	idle	life,	where	he	would	find	a	circle	of	such

agreeable	 friends.	 Individuals	 of	 this	 latter	 class	 are	 to	 be	 found	 in	 the	 convict prison.

Now	take	a	man	of	heart,	of	cultivated	mind,	and	of	delicate	conscience.	What

he	 feels	 kills	 him	 more	 certainly	 than	 the	 material	 punishment.	 The	 judgment

which	 he	 himself	 pronounces	 on	 his	 crime	 is	 more	 pitiless	 than	 that	 of	 the	 most severe	tribunal,	the	most	Draconian	law.	He	lives	by	the	side	of	another	convict,

who	has	not	once	reflected	on	the	murder	he	is	expiating,	during	the	whole	time	of

his	 sojourn	 in	 the	 convict	 prison.	 He,	 perhaps,	 even	 considers	 himself	 innocent.

Are	 there	 not,	 also,	 poor	 devils	 who	 commit	 crimes	 in	 order	 to	 be	 sent	 to	 hard labour,	 and	 thus	 to	 escape	 the	 liberty	 which	 is	 much	 more	 painful	 than

confinement?	A	man’s	life	is	miserable,	he	has	never,	perhaps,	been	able	to	satisfy

his	 hunger.	 He	 is	 worked	 to	 death	 in	 order	 to	 enrich	 his	 master.	 In	 the	 convict prison	his	work	will	be	less	severe,	less	crushing.	He	will	eat	as	much	as	he	wants,

better	than	he	could	ever	have	hoped	to	eat,	had	he	remained	free.	On	holidays	he

will	 have	 meat,	 and	 fine	 people	 will	 give	 him	 alms,	 and	 his	 evening’s	 work	 will bring	him	in	some	money.	And	the	society	one	meets	with	in	the	convict	prison,	is

that	to	be	counted	for	nothing?	The	convicts	are	clever,	wide-awake	people,	who

are	up	to	everything.	The	new	arrival	can	scarcely	conceal	the	admiration	he	feels

for	 his	 companions	 in	 labour.	 He	 has	 seen	 nothing	 like	 it	 before,	 and	 he	 will consider	himself	in	the	best	company	possible.

Is	it	possible	that	men	so	differently	situated	can	feel	in	an	equal	degree	the

punishment	 inflicted?	 But	 why	 think	 about	 questions	 that	 are	 insoluble?	 The

drum	beats,	let	us	go	back	to	barracks.





CHAPTER	5.

FIRST	IMPRESSIONS	( CONTINUED)

We	were	between	walls	once	more.	The	doors	of	the	barracks	were

locked,	 each	 with	 a	 particular	 padlock,	 and	 the	 prisoners	 remained

shut	up	till	the	next	morning.

The	 verification	 was	 made	 by	 a	 non-commissioned	 officer	 accompanied	 by

two	soldiers.	When	by	chance	an	officer	was	present,	the	convicts	were	drawn	up

in	the	court-yard,	but	generally	speaking	they	were	identified	in	the	buildings.	As

the	soldiers	often	made	mistakes,	they	went	out	and	came	back	in	order	to	count

us	again	and	again,	until	their	reckoning	was	satisfactory,	then	the	barracks	were

closed.	 Each	 one	 contained	 about	 thirty	 prisoners,	 and	 we	 were	 very	 closely

packed	 in	 our	 camp	 bedsteads.	 As	 it	 was	 too	 soon	 to	 go	 to	 sleep,	 the	 convicts occupied	themselves	with	work.

Besides	 the	 old	 soldier	 of	 whom	 I	 have	 spoken,	 who	 slept	 in	 our	 dormitory,

and	represented	there	the	administration	of	the	prison,	there	was	in	our	barrack

another	 old	 soldier	 wearing	 a	 medal	 as	 rewarded	 for	 good	 conduct.	 It	 happened often	 enough,	 however,	 that	 the	 good-conduct	 men	 themselves	 committed

offences	for	which	they	were	sentenced	to	be	whipped.	They	then	lost	their	rank,

and	 were	 immediately	 replaced	 by	 comrades	 whose	 conduct	 was	 considered

satisfactory.

Our	 good-conduct	 man	 was	 no	 other	 than	 Akim	 Akimitch.	 To	 my	 great

astonishment,	 he	 was	 very	 rough	 with	 the	 prisoners,	 but	 they	 only	 replied	 by jokes.	 The	 other	 old	 soldier,	 more	 prudent,	 interfered	 with	 no	 one,	 and	 if	 he opened	 his	 mouth,	 it	 was	 only	 as	 a	 matter	 of	 form,	 as	 an	 affair	 of	 duty.	 For	 the most	part	he	remained	silent,	seated	on	his	little	bedstead,	occupied	in	mending

his	own	boots.

That	 day	 I	 could	 not	 help	 making	 to	 myself	 an	 observation,	 the	 accuracy	 of

which	 became	 afterwards	 apparent:	 that	 all	 those	 who	 are	 not	 convicts	 and	 who have	to	deal	with	them,	whoever	they	may	be—beginning	with	the	soldiers	of	the

escort	and	the	sentinels—look	upon	the	convicts	in	a	false	and	exaggerated	light,

expecting	that	for	a	yes	or	a	no,	these	men	will	throw	themselves	upon	them	knife

in	hand.	The	prisoners,	perfectly	conscious	of	the	fear	they	inspire,	show	a	certain

arrogance.	 Accordingly,	 the	 best	 prison	 director	 is	 the	 one	 who	 experiences	 no emotion	 in	 their	 presence.	 In	 spite	 of	 the	 airs	 they	 give	 themselves,	 the	 convicts prefer	that	confidence	should	be	placed	in	them.	By	such	means,	indeed,	they	may

be	conciliated.	I	have	more	than	once	had	occasion	to	notice	their	astonishment	at

an	 official	 entering	 their	 prison	 without	 an	 escort,	 and	 certainly	 their

astonishment	 was	 not	 unflattering.	 A	 visitor	 who	 is	 intrepid	 imposes	 respect.	 If anything	 unfortunate	 happens,	 it	 will	 not	 be	 in	 his	 presence.	 The	 terror	 inspired by	the	convicts	is	general,	and	yet	I	saw	no	foundation	for	it.	Is	it	the	appearance

of	the	prisoner,	his	brigand-like	look,	that	causes	a	certain	repugnance?	Is	it	not

rather	the	feeling	that	invades	you	directly	you	enter	the	prison,	that	in	spite	of	all

efforts,	all	precautions,	it	is	impossible	to	turn	a	living	man	into	a	corpse,	to	stifle his	feelings,	his	thirst	for	vengeance	and	for	life,	his	passions,	and	his	imperious

desire	to	satisfy	them?	However	that	may	be,	I	declare	that	there	is	no	reason	for

fearing	the	convicts.	A	man	does	not	throw	himself	so	quickly	nor	so	easily	upon

his	fellow-man,	knife	in	hand.	Few	accidents	happen;	sometimes	they	are	so	rare

that	the	danger	may	be	looked	upon	as	non-existent.

I	speak,	it	must	be	understood,	only	of	prisoners	already	condemned,	who	are

undergoing	 their	 punishment,	 and	 some	 of	 whom	 are	 almost	 happy	 to	 find

themselves	 in	 the	 convict	 prison;	 so	 attractive	 under	 all	 circumstances	 is	 a	 new form	 of	 life.	 These	 latter	 live	 quiet	 and	 contented.	 As	 for	 the	 turbulent	 ones,	 the convicts	themselves	keep	them	in	restraint,	and	their	arrogance	never	goes	too	far.

The	 prisoner,	 audacious	 and	 reckless	 as	 he	 may	 be,	 is	 afraid	 of	 every	 official connected	with	the	prison.	It	is	by	no	means	the	same	with	the	accused	whose	fate

has	not	been	decided.	Such	a	one	is	quite	capable	of	attacking,	no	matter	whom,

without	any	motive	of	hatred,	and	solely	because	he	is	to	be	whipped	the	next	day.

If,	 indeed,	 he	 commits	 a	 fresh	 crime	 his	 offence	 becomes	 complicated.

Punishment	 is	 delayed,	 and	 he	 gains	 time.	 The	 act	 of	 aggression	 is	 explained;	 it has	 a	 cause,	 an	 object.	 The	 convict	 wishes	 at	 all	 hazards	 to	 change	 his	 fate,	 and that	 as	 soon	 as	 possible.	 In	 connection	 with	 this,	 I	 myself	 have	 witnessed	 a physiological	fact	of	the	strangest	kind.

In	 the	 section	 of	 military	 convicts	 was	 an	 old	 soldier	 who	 had	 been

condemned	 to	 two	 years’	 hard	 labour,	 a	 great	 boaster,	 and	 at	 the	 same	 time	 a coward.	 Generally	 speaking,	 the	 Russian	 soldier	 does	 not	 boast.	 He	 has	 no	 time for	 doing	 so,	 even	 had	 he	 the	 inclination.	 When	 such	 a	 one	 appears	 among	 a multitude	of	others,	he	is	always	a	coward	and	a	rogue.	Dutoff—that	was	the	name

of	 the	 prisoner	 of	 whom	 I	 am	 speaking—underwent	 his	 punishment,	 and	 then went	 back	 to	 the	 same	 battalion	 in	 the	 Line;	 but,	 like	 all	 who	 are	 sent	 to	 the convict	prison	to	be	corrected,	he	had	been	thoroughly	corrupted.	A	“return	horse”

reappears	 in	 the	 convict	 prison	 after	 two	 or	 three	 weeks’	 liberty,	 not	 for	 a comparatively	 short	 time,	 but	 for	 fifteen	 or	 twenty	 years.	 So	 it	 happened	 in	 the case	of	Dutoff.	Three	weeks	after	he	had	been	set	at	liberty,	he	robbed	one	of	his

comrades,	and	was,	moreover,	mutinous.	He	was	taken	before	a	court-martial	and

sentenced	to	a	severe	form	of	corporal	punishment.	Horribly	frightened,	like	the

coward	 that	 he	 was,	 at	 the	 prospect	 of	 punishment,	 he	 threw	 himself,	 knife	 in hand,	on	to	the	officer	of	the	guard,	as	he	entered	his	dungeon	on	the	eve	of	the

day	 that	 he	 was	 to	 run	 the	 gauntlet	 through	 the	 men	 of	 his	 company.	 He	 quite understood	 that	 he	 was	 aggravating	 his	 offence,	 and	 that	 the	 duration	 of	 his punishment	would	be	increased;	but	all	he	wanted	was	to	postpone	for	some	days,

or	at	least	for	some	hours,	a	terrible	moment.	He	was	such	a	coward	that	he	did

not	 even	 wound	 the	 officer	 whom	 he	 had	 attacked.	 He	 had,	 indeed,	 only

committed	this	assault	in	order	to	add	a	new	crime	to	the	last	already	against	him,

and	thus	defer	the	sentence.

The	moment	preceding	the	punishment	is	terrible	for	the	man	condemned	to

the	rods.	I	have	seen	many	of	them	on	the	eve	of	the	fatal	day.	I	generally	met	with

them	in	the	hospital	when	I	was	ill,	which	happened	often	enough.	In	Russia	the

people	who	show	most	compassion	for	the	convicts	are	certainly	the	doctors,	who

never	 make	 between	 the	 prisoners	 the	 distinctions	 observed	 by	 other	 persons

brought	 into	 direct	 relations	 with	 them.	 In	 this	 respect	 the	 common	 people	 can alone	be	compared	with	the	doctors,	for	they	never	reproach	a	criminal	with	the

crime	 that	 he	 has	 committed,	 whatever	 it	 may	 be.	 They	 forgive	 him	 in

consideration	of	the	sentence	passed	upon	him.

Is	 it	 not	 known	 that	 the	 common	 people	 throughout	 Russia	 call	 crime	 a

“misfortune,”	 and	 the	 criminal	 an	 “unfortunate”?	 This	 definition	 is	 expressive, profound,	 and,	 moreover,	 unconscious,	 instinctive.	 To	 the	 doctor	 the	 convicts

have	naturally	recourse,	above	all	when	they	are	to	undergo	corporal	punishment.

The	 prisoner	 who	 has	 been	 before	 a	 court-martial	 knows	 pretty	 well	 at	 what

moment	 his	 sentence	 will	 be	 executed.	 To	 escape	 it	 he	 gets	 himself	 sent	 to	 the hospital,	 in	 order	 to	 postpone	 for	 some	 days	 the	 terrible	 moment.	 When	 he	 is declared	restored	to	health,	he	knows	that	the	day	after	he	leaves	the	hospital	this

moment	will	arrive.	Accordingly,	on	quitting	the	hospital	the	convict	is	always	in	a

state	 of	 agitation.	 Some	 of	 them	 may	 endeavour	 from	 vanity	 to	 conceal	 their anxiety,	but	no	one	is	taken	in	by	that;	every	one	understands	the	cruelty	of	such	a

moment,	and	is	silent	from	humane	motives.

I	 knew	 one	 young	 convict,	 an	 exsoldier,	 sentenced	 for	 murder,	 who	 was	 to

receive	the	maximum	of	rods.	The	eve	of	the	day	on	which	he	was	to	be	flogged,	he

had	resolved	to	drink	a	bottle	of	vodka	in	which	he	had	infused	a	quantity	of	snuff.

The	 prisoner	 condemned	 to	 the	 rods	 always	 drinks,	 before	 the	 critical

moment	 arrives,	 a	 certain	 amount	 of	 spirits	 which	 he	 has	 procured	 long

beforehand,	 and	 often	 at	 a	 fabulous	 price.	 He	 would	 deprive	 himself	 of	 the

necessaries	of	life	for	six	months	rather	than	not	be	in	a	position	to	swallow	half	a

pint	of	vodka	before	the	flogging.	The	convicts	are	convinced	that	a	drunken	man

suffers	less	from	the	sticks	or	whip	than	one	who	is	in	cold	blood.

I	 will	 return	 to	 my	 narrative.	 The	 poor	 devil	 felt	 ill	 a	 few	 moments	 after	 he had	swallowed	his	bottle	of	vodka.	He	vomited	blood,	and	was	carried	in	a	state	of

unconsciousness	to	the	hospital.	His	lungs	were	so	much	injured	by	this	accident

that	 phthisis	 declared	 itself,	 and	 carried	 off	 the	 soldier	 in	 a	 few	 months.	 The doctors	who	had	attended	him	never	knew	the	origin	of	his	illness.

If	examples	of	cowardice	are	not	rare	among	the	prisoners,	it	must	be	added

that	 there	 are	 some	 whose	 intrepidity	 is	 quite	 astounding.	 I	 remember	 many

instances	of	courage	pushed	to	the	extreme.	The	arrival	in	the	hospital	of	a	terrible

bandit	remains	fixed	in	my	memory.

One	fine	summer	day	the	report	was	spread	in	the	infirmary	that	the	famous

prisoner,	Orloff,	was	to	be	flogged	the	same	evening,	and	that	he	would	be	brought

afterwards	 to	 the	 hospital.	 The	 prisoners	 who	 were	 already	 there	 said	 that	 the punishment	would	be	a	cruel	one,	and	every	one—including	myself	I	must	admit—

was	 awaiting	 with	 curiosity	 the	 arrival	 of	 this	 brigand,	 about	 whom	 the	 most unheard-of	 things	 were	 told.	 He	 was	 a	 malefactor	 of	 a	 rare	 kind,	 capable	 of assassinating	 in	 cold	 blood	 old	 men	 and	 children.	 He	 possessed	 an	 indomitable force	of	will,	and	was	fully	conscious	of	his	power.	As	he	had	been	guilty	of	several

crimes,	they	had	condemned	him	to	be	flogged	through	the	ranks.

He	was	brought,	or,	rather	carried,	in	towards	evening.	The	place	was	already

dark.	Candles	were	lighted.	Orloff	was	excessively	pale,	almost	unconscious,	with

his	thick	curly	hair	of	dull	black	without	the	least	brilliancy.	His	back	was	skinned

and	swollen,	blue,	and	stained	with	blood.	The	prisoners	nursed	him	throughout the	night;	they	changed	his	poultices,	placed	him	on	his	side,	prepared	for	him	the

lotion	ordered	by	the	doctor;	in	a	word,	showed	as	much	solicitude	for	him	as	for	a

relation	or	benefactor.

Next	day	he	had	fully	recovered	his	faculties,	and	took	one	or	two	turns	round

the	room.	I	was	much	astonished,	for	he	was	broken	down	and	powerless	when	he

was	 brought	 in.	 He	 had	 received	 half	 the	 number	 of	 blows	 ordered	 by	 the

sentence.	 The	 doctor	 had	 stopped	 the	 punishment,	 convinced	 that	 if	 it	 were

continued	Orloff’s	death	would	inevitably	ensue.

This	 criminal	 was	 of	 a	 feeble	 constitution,	 weakened	 by	 long	 imprisonment.

Whoever	has	seen	prisoners	after	having	been	flogged,	will	remember	their	thin,

drawn-out	 features	 and	 their	 feverish	 looks.	 Orloff	 soon	 recovered	 his	 powerful energy,	which	enabled	him	to	get	over	his	physical	weakness.	He	was	no	ordinary

man.	From	curiosity	I	made	his	acquaintance,	and	was	able	to	study	him	at	leisure

for	an	entire	week.	Never	in	my	life	did	I	meet	a	man	whose	will	was	more	firm	or

inflexible.

I	had	seen	at	Tobolsk	a	celebrity	of	the	same	kind—a	former	chief	of	brigands.

This	 man	 was	 a	 veritable	 wild	 beast;	 by	 being	 near	 him,	 without	 even	 knowing him,	it	was	impossible	not	to	recognise	in	him	a	dangerous	creature.	What	above

all	 frightened	 me	 was	 his	 stupidity.	 Matter,	 in	 this	 man,	 had	 taken	 such	 an ascendant	over	mind,	that	one	could	see	at	a	glance	that	he	cared	for	nothing	in

the	world	but	the	brutal	satisfaction	of	his	physical	wants.	I	was	certain,	however,

that	 Kareneff—that	 was	 his	 name—would	 have	 fainted	 on	 being	 condemned	 to

such	 rigorous	 corporal	 punishment	 as	 Orloff	 had	 undergone;	 and	 that	 he	 would

have	murdered	the	first	man	near	him	without	blinking.

Orloff,	 on	 the	 contrary,	 was	 a	 brilliant	 example	 of	 the	 victory	 of	 spirit	 over matter.	 He	 had	 a	 perfect	 command	 over	 himself.	 He	 despised	 punishment,	 and

feared	nothing	in	the	world.	His	dominant	characteristic	was	boundless	energy,	a

thirst	for	vengeance,	and	an	immovable	will	when	he	had	some	object	to	attain.

I	was	not	astonished	at	his	haughty	air.	He	looked	down	upon	all	around	him

from	the	height	of	his	grandeur.	Not	that	he	took	the	trouble	to	pose;	his	pride	was

an	innate	quality.	I	don’t	think	that	anything	had	the	least	influence	over	him.	He

looked	 upon	 everything	 with	 the	 calmest	 eye,	 as	 if	 nothing	 in	 the	 world	 could astonish	him.	He	knew	well	that	the	other	prisoners	respected	him;	but	he	never

took	advantage	of	it	to	give	himself	airs.

Nevertheless,	vanity	and	conceit	are	defects	from	which	scarcely	any	convict

is	 exempt.	 He	 was	 intelligent	 and	 strangely	 frank	 in	 talking	 too	 much	 about

himself.	He	replied	point-blank	to	all	the	questions	I	put	to	him,	and	confessed	to

me	 that	 he	 was	 waiting	 impatiently	 for	 his	 return	 to	 health	 in	 order	 to	 take	 the remainder	of	the	punishment	he	was	to	undergo.

“Now,”	he	said	to	me	with	a	wink,	“it	is	all	over.	I	shall	have	the	remainder,

and	 shall	 be	 sent	 to	 Nertchinsk	 with	 a	 convoy	 of	 prisoners.	 I	 shall	 profit	 by	 it	 to escape.	I	shall	get	away	beyond	doubt.	If	only	my	back	would	heal	a	little	quicker!”

For	five	days	he	was	burning	with	impatience	to	be	in	a	condition	for	leaving

the	 hospital	 At	 times	 he	 was	 gay	 and	 in	 the	 best	 of	 humours.	 I	 profited	 by	 these rare	occasions	to	question	him	about	his	adventures.

Then	 he	 would	 contract	 his	 eyebrows	 a	 little;	 but	 he	 always	 answered	 my

questions	 in	 a	 straightforward	 manner.	 When	 he	 understood	 that	 I	 was

endeavouring	 to	 see	 through	 him,	 and	 to	 discover	 in	 him	 some	 trace	 of

repentance,	he	looked	at	me	with	a	haughty	and	contemptuous	air,	as	if	I	were	a

foolish	little	boy,	to	whom	he	did	too	much	honour	by	conversing	with	him.

I	detected	in	his	countenance	a	sort	of	compassion	for	me.	After	a	moment’s

pause	he	laughed	out	loud,	but	without	the	least	irony.	I	fancy	he	must,	more	than

once,	have	laughed	in	the	same	manner,	when	my	words	returned	to	his	memory.

At	 last	 he	 wrote	 down	 his	 name	 as	 cured,	 although	 his	 back	 was	 not	 yet	 entirely healed.	 As	 I	 also	 was	 almost	 well,	 we	 left	 the	 infirmary	 together	 and	 returned	 to the	 convict	 prison,	 while	 he	 was	 shut	 up	 in	 the	 guard-room,	 where	 he	 had	 been imprisoned	before.	When	he	left	me	he	shook	me	by	the	hand,	which	in	his	eyes

was	a	great	mark	of	confidence.	I	fancy	he	did	so,	because	at	that	moment	he	was

in	 a	 good	 humour.	 But	 in	 reality	 he	 must	 have	 despised	 me,	 for	 I	 was	 a	 feeble being,	 contemptible	 in	 all	 respects,	 and	 guilty	 above	 all	 of	 resignation.	 The	 next day	he	underwent	the	second	half	of	his	punishment.

When	the	gates	of	the	barracks	had	been	closed,	it	assumed,	in	less	than	no

time,	quite	another	aspect—that	of	a	private	house,	of	quite	a	home.	Then	only	did

I	see	my	convict	comrades	at	their	ease.	During	the	day	the	under	officers,	or	some

of	 the	 other	 authorities,	 might	 suddenly	 arrive,	 so	 that	 the	 prisoners	 were	 then always	on	the	look-out.	They	were	only	half	at	their	ease.	As	soon,	however,	as	the

bolts	 had	 been	 pushed	 and	 the	 gates	 padlocked,	 every	 one	 sat	 down	 in	 his	 place and	 began	 to	 work.	 The	 barrack	 was	 lighted	 up	 in	 an	 unexpected	 manner.	 Each convict	had	his	candle	and	his	wooden	candlestick.	Some	of	them	stitched	boots,

others	sewed	different	kinds	of	garments.	The	air,	already	mephitic,	became	more

and	more	impure.

Some	 of	 the	 prisoners,	 huddled	 together	 in	 a	 corner,	 played	 at	 cards	 on	 a

piece	of	carpet.	In	each	barrack	there	was	a	prisoner	who	possessed	a	small	piece

of	 carpet,	 a	 candle,	 and	 a	 pack	 of	 horribly	 greasy	 cards.	 The	 owner	 of	 the	 cards received	from	the	players	fifteen	kopecks	[about	sixpence]	a	night.	They	generally

played	at	the	“three	leaves”—Gorka,	that	is	to	say:	a	game	of	chance.	Each	player

placed	before	him	a	pile	of	copper	money—all	that	he	possessed—and	did	not	get

up	until	he	had	lost	it	or	had	broken	the	bank.

Playing	 was	 continued	 until	 late	 at	 night;	 sometimes	 the	 dawn	 found	 the

gamblers	 still	 at	 their	 game.	 Often,	 indeed,	 it	 did	 not	 cease	 until	 a	 few	 minutes before	 the	 opening	 of	 the	 gates.	 In	 our	 room—as	 in	 all	 the	 others—there	 were beggars	 ruined	 by	 drink	 and	 play,	 or	 rather	 beggars	 innate—I	 say	 innate,	 and maintain	my	expression.	Indeed,	in	our	country,	and	in	all	classes,	there	are,	and

always	 will	 be,	 strange	 easy-going	 people	 whose	 destiny	 it	 is	 to	 remain	 always beggars.	They	are	poor	devils	all	their	lives;	quite	broken	down,	they	remain	under

the	domination	or	guardianship	of	some	one,	generally	a	prodigal,	or	a	man	who

has	suddenly	made	his	fortune.	All	initiative	is	for	them	an	insupportable	burden.

They	 only	 exist	 on	 condition	 of	 undertaking	 nothing	 for	 themselves,	 and	 by

serving,	 always	 living	 under	 the	 will	 of	 another.	 They	 are	 destined	 to	 act	 by	 and through	 others.	 Under	 no	 circumstances,	 even	 of	 the	 most	 unexpected	 kind,	 can they	 get	 rich;	 they	 are	 always	 beggars.	 I	 have	 met	 these	 persons	 in	 all	 classes	 of society,	in	all	coteries,	in	all	associations,	including	the	literary	world.

As	soon	as	a	party	was	made	up,	one	of	these	beggars,	quite	indispensable	to

the	 game,	 was	 summoned.	 He	 received	 five	 kopecks	 for	 a	 whole	 night’s

employment;	 and	 what	 employment	 it	 was!	 His	 duty	 was	 to	 keep	 guard	 in	 the

vestibule,	with	thirty	degrees	(Réaumur)	of	frost,	in	total	darkness,	for	six	or	seven

hours.	The	man	on	watch	had	to	listen	for	the	slightest	noise,	for	the	Major	or	one

of	the	other	officers	of	the	guard	would	sometimes	make	a	round	rather	late	in	the

night.	 They	 arrived	 secretly,	 and	 sometimes	 discovered	 the	 players	 and	 the

watchers	in	the	act—thanks	to	the	light	of	the	candles,	which	could	be	seen	from

the	court-yard.

When	the	key	was	heard	grinding	in	the	padlock	which	closed	the	gate,	it	was

too	late	to	put	the	lights	out	and	lie	down	on	the	plank	bedsteads.	Such	surprises

were,	 however,	 rare.	 Five	 kopecks	 was	 a	 ridiculous	 payment	 even	 in	 our	 convict prison,	and	the	exigency	and	hardness	of	the	gamblers	astonished	me	in	this	as	in

many	 cases:	 “You	 are	 paid,	 you	 must	 do	 what	 you	 are	 told.”	 This	 was	 the

argument,	and	it	admitted	of	no	reply.	To	have	paid	a	few	kopecks	to	any	one	gave

the	right	to	turn	him	to	the	best	possible	account,	and	even	to	claim	his	gratitude.

More	 than	 once	 it	 happened	 to	 me	 to	 see	 the	 convicts	 spend	 their	 money

extravagantly,	throwing	it	away	on	all	sides,	and,	at	the	same	time,	cheat	the	man

employed	to	watch.	I	have	seen	this	in	several	barracks	on	many	occasions.

I	 have	 already	 said	 that,	 with	 the	 exception	 of	 the	 gamblers,	 every	 one

worked.	 Five	 only	 of	 the	 convicts	 remained	 completely	 idle,	 and	 went	 to	 bed	 on the	first	opportunity.	My	sleeping	place	was	near	the	door.	Next	to	me	was	Akim

Akimitch,	and	when	we	were	lying	down	our	heads	touched.	He	used	to	work	until

ten	or	eleven	at	making,	by	pasting	together	pieces	of	paper,	multicolour	lanterns,

which	some	one	living	in	the	town	had	ordered	from	him,	and	for	which	he	used	to

be	 well	 paid.	 He	 excelled	 in	 this	 kind	 of	 work,	 and	 did	 it	 methodically	 and regularly.	 When	 he	 had	 finished	 he	 put	 away	 carefully	 his	 tools,	 unfolded	 his mattress,	said	his	prayers,	and	went	to	sleep	with	the	sleep	of	the	just.	He	carried

his	 love	 of	 order	 even	 to	 pedantry,	 and	 must	 have	 thought	 himself	 in	 his	 inner heart	 a	 man	 of	 brains,	 as	 is	 generally	 the	 case	 with	 narrow,	 mediocre	 persons.	 I did	 not	 like	 him	 the	 first	 day,	 although	 he	 gave	 me	 much	 to	 think	 of.	 I	 was astonished	 that	 such	 a	 man	 could	 be	 found	 in	 a	 convict	 prison.	 I	 shall	 speak	 of Akimitch	further	on	in	the	course	of	this	book.

But	 I	 must	 now	 continue	 to	 describe	 the	 persons	 with	 whom	 I	 was	 to	 live	 a number	 of	 years.	 Those	 who	 surrounded	 me	 were	 to	 be	 my	 companions	 every

minute,	and	it	will	be	understood	that	I	looked	upon	them	with	anxious	curiosity.

On	my	left	slept	a	band	of	mountaineers	from	the	Caucasus,	nearly	all	exiled

for	 brigandage,	 but	 condemned	 to	 different	 punishments.	 There	 were	 two

Lesghians,	a	Circassian,	and	three	Tartars	from	Daghestan.	The	Circassian	was	a

morose	 and	 sombre	 person.	 He	 scarcely	 ever	 spoke,	 and	 looked	 at	 you	 sideways with	 a	 sly,	 sulky,	 wild-beast-like	 expression.	 One	 of	 the	 Lesghians,	 an	 old	 man with	 an	 aquiline	 nose,	 tall	 and	 thin,	 seemed	 to	 be	 a	 true	 brigand;	 but	 the	 other

Lesghian,	 Nourra	 by	 name,	 made	 a	 most	 favourable	 impression	 upon	 me.	 Of middle	height,	still	young,	built	like	a	Hercules,	with	fair	hair	and	violet	eyes;	he

had	a	slightly	turned	up	nose,	while	his	features	were	somewhat	of	a	Finnish	cast.

Like	 all	 horsemen,	 he	 walked	 with	 his	 toes	 in.	 His	 body	 was	 striped	 with	 scars, ploughed	by	bayonet	wounds	and	bullets.	Although	he	belonged	to	the	conquered

part	 of	 the	 Caucasus,	 he	 had	 joined	 the	 rebels,	 with	 whom	 he	 used	 to	 make

continual	 incursions	 into	 our	 territory.	 Every	 one	 liked	 him	 in	 the	 prison	 by reason	 of	 his	 gaiety	 and	 affability.	 He	 worked	 without	 murmuring,	 always	 calm and	peaceful.	Thieving,	cheating,	and	drunkenness	filled	him	with	disgust,	or	put

him	in	a	rage—not	that	he	wished	to	quarrel	with	any	one;	he	simply	turned	away

with	 indignation.	 During	 his	 confinement	 he	 committed	 no	 breach	 of	 the	 rules.

Fervently	 pious,	 he	 said	 his	 prayers	 religiously	 every	 evening,	 observed	 all	 the Mohammedan	fasts	like	a	true	fanatic,	and	passed	whole	nights	in	prayer.	Every

one	 liked	 him,	 and	 looked	 upon	 him	 as	 a	 thoroughly	 honest	 man.	 “Nourra	 is	 a lion,”	 said	 the	 convicts;	 and	 the	 name	 of	 “Lion”	 stuck	 to	 him.	 He	 was	 quite convinced	 that	 as	 soon	 as	 he	 had	 finished	 his	 sentence	 he	 would	 be	 sent	 to	 the Caucasus.	Indeed,	he	only	lived	by	this	hope,	and	I	believe	he	would	have	died	had

he	been	deprived	of	it.	I	noticed	it	the	very	day	of	my	arrival.	How	was	it	possible

not	to	distinguish	this	calm,	honest	face	in	the	midst	of	so	many	sombre,	sardonic,

repulsive	countenances!

Before	 I	 had	 been	 half-an-hour	 in	 the	 prison,	 he	 passed	 by	 my	 side	 and

touched	me	gently	on	the	shoulder,	smiling	at	the	same	time	with	an	innocent	air.

I	did	not	at	first	understand	what	he	meant,	for	he	spoke	Russian	very	badly;	but

soon	afterwards	he	passed	again,	and,	with	a	friendly	smile,	again	touched	me	on

the	 shoulder.	 For	 three	 days	 running	 he	 repeated	 this	 strange	 proceeding.	 As	 I soon	 found	 out,	 he	 wanted	 to	 show	 me	 that	 he	 pitied	 me,	 and	 that	 he	 felt	 how painful	 the	 first	 moment	 of	 imprisonment	 must	 be.	 He	 wanted	 to	 testify	 his

sympathy,	 to	 keep	 up	 my	 spirits,	 and	 to	 assure	 me	 of	 his	 good-will.	 Kind	 and innocent	Nourra!

Of	 the	 three	 Tartars	 from	 Daghestan,	 all	 brothers,	 the	 two	 eldest	 were	 well-

developed	 men,	 while	 the	 youngest,	 Ali,	 was	 not	 more	 than	 twenty-two,	 and

looked	 younger.	 He	 slept	 by	 my	 side,	 and	 when	 I	 observed	 his	 frank,	 intelligent countenance,	thoroughly	natural,	I	was	at	once	attracted	to	him,	and	thanked	my

fate	that	I	had	him	for	a	neighbour	in	place	of	some	other	prisoner.	His	whole	soul

could	 be	 read	 in	 his	 beaming	 countenance.	 His	 confident	 smile	 had	 a	 certain

childish	 simplicity;	 his	 large	 black	 eyes	 expressed	 such	 friendliness,	 such	 tender feeling,	 that	 I	 always	 took	 a	 pleasure	 in	 looking	 at	 him.	 It	 was	 a	 relief	 to	 me	 in moments	 of	 sadness	 and	 anguish.	 One	 day	 his	 eldest	 brother—he	 had	 five,	 of

whom	 two	 were	 working	 in	 the	 mines	 of	 Siberia—had	 ordered	 him	 to	 take	 his

yataghan,	 to	 get	 on	 horseback,	 and	 follow	 him.	 The	 respect	 of	 the	 mountaineers for	 their	 elders	 is	 so	 great	 that	 young	 Ali	 did	 not	 dare	 to	 ask	 the	 object	 of	 the expedition.	 He	 probably	 knew	 nothing	 about	 it,	 nor	 did	 his	 brothers	 consider	 it necessary	to	tell	him.	They	were	going	to	plunder	the	caravan	of	a	rich	Armenian

merchant,	and	they	succeeded	in	their	enterprise.	They	assassinated	the	merchant

and	stole	his	goods.	Unhappily	for	them,	their	act	of	brigandage	was	discovered.

They	 were	 tried,	 flogged,	 and	 then	 sent	 to	 hard	 labour	 in	 Siberia.	 The	 Court admitted	 no	 extenuating	 circumstances,	 except	 in	 the	 case	 of	 Ali.	 He	 was

condemned	 to	 the	 minimum	 punishment—four	 years’	 confinement.	 These

brothers	 loved	 him,	 their	 affection	 being	 paternal	 rather	 than	 fraternal.	 He	 was the	only	consolation	of	their	exile.	Dull	and	sad	as	a	rule,	they	had	always	a	smile

for	him	when	they	spoke	to	him,	which	they	rarely	did—for	they	looked	upon	him

as	 a	 child	 to	 whom	 it	 would	 be	 useless	 to	 speak	 seriously—their	 forbidding

countenances	lightened	up.	I	fancied	they	always	spoke	to	him	in	a	jocular	tone,	as

to	an	infant.	When	he	replied,	the	brothers	exchanged	glances,	and	smiled	good-

naturedly.

He	 would	 not	 have	 dared	 to	 speak	 to	 them	 first	 by	 reason	 of	 his	 respect	 for them.	 How	 this	 young	 man	 preserved	 his	 tender	 heart,	 his	 native	 honesty,	 his frank	cordiality	without	getting	perverted	and	corrupted	during	his	period	of	hard

labour,	 is	 quite	 inexplicable.	 In	 spite	 of	 his	 gentleness,	 he	 had	 a	 strong	 stoical nature,	 as	 I	 afterwards	 saw.	 Chaste	 as	 a	 young	 girl,	 everything	 that	 was	 foul, cynical,	shameful,	or	unjust	filled	his	fine	black	eyes	with	indignation,	and	made

them	 finer	 than	 ever.	 Without	 being	 a	 coward,	 he	 would	 allow	 himself	 to	 be

insulted	 with	 impunity.	 He	 avoided	 quarrels	 and	 insults,	 and	 preserved	 all	 his dignity.	 With	 whom,	 indeed,	 was	 he	 to	 quarrel?	 Every	 one	 loved	 him,	 caressed him.

At	 first	 he	 was	 only	 polite	 to	 me;	 but	 little	 by	 little	 we	 got	 into	 the	 habit	 of talking	 together	 in	 the	 evening,	 and	 in	 a	 few	 months	 he	 had	 learnt	 to	 speak Russian	 perfectly,	 whereas	 his	 brothers	 never	 gained	 a	 correct	 knowledge	 of	 the language.	 He	 was	 intelligent,	 and	 at	 the	 same	 time	 modest	 and	 full	 of	 delicate feeling.

Ali	was	an	exceptional	being,	and	I	always	think	of	my	meeting	him	as	one	of the	 lucky	 things	 in	 my	 life.	 There	 are	 some	 natures	 so	 spontaneously	 good	 and endowed	by	God	with	such	great	qualities	that	the	idea	of	their	getting	perverted

seems	absurd.	One	is	always	at	ease	about	them.	Accordingly	I	had	never	any	fears

about	Ali.	Where	is	he	now?

One	 day,	 a	 considerable	 time	 after	 my	 arrival	 at	 the	 convict	 prison,	 I	 was

stretched	 out	 on	 my	 camp-bedstead	 agitated	 by	 painful	 thoughts.	 Ali,	 always

industrious,	 was	 not	 working	 at	 this	 moment.	 His	 time	 for	 going	 to	 bed	 had	 not arrived.	 The	 brothers	 were	 celebrating	 some	 Mussulman	 festival,	 and	 were	 not

working.	Ali	was	lying	down	with	his	head	between	his	hands	in	a	state	of	reverie.

Suddenly	he	said	to	me:

“Well,	you	are	very	sad!”

I	looked	at	him	with	curiosity.	Such	a	remark	from	Ali,	always	so	delicate,	so

full	of	tact,	seemed	strange.	But	I	looked	at	him	more	attentively,	and	saw	so	much

grief,	 so	 much	 repressed	 suffering	 in	 his	 countenance—of	 suffering	 caused	 no

doubt	 by	 sudden	 recollections—that	 I	 understood	 in	 what	 pain	 he	 must	 be,	 and said	so	to	him.	He	uttered	a	deep	sigh,	and	smiled	with	a	melancholy	air.	I	always

liked	his	graceful,	agreeable	smile.	When	he	laughed,	he	showed	two	rows	of	teeth

which	the	first	beauty	in	the	world	would	have	envied	him.

“You	were	probably	thinking,	Ali,	how	this	festival	is	celebrated	in	Daghestan.

Ah,	you	were	happy	there!”

“Yes,”	he	replied	with	enthusiasm,	and	his	eyes	sparkled.	“How	did	you	know

I	was	thinking	of	such	things?”

“How	was	I	not	to	know?	You	were	much	better	off	than	you	are	here.”

“Why	do	you	say	that?”

“What	 beautiful	 flowers	 there	 are	 in	 your	 country!	 Is	 it	 not	 so?	 It	 is	 a	 true paradise.”

“Be	silent,	please.”

He	was	much	agitated.

“Listen,	Ali.	Had	you	a	sister?”

“Yes;	why	do	you	ask	me?”

“She	must	have	been	very	beautiful	if	she	is	like	you?”

“Oh,	 there	 is	 no	 comparison	 to	 make	 between	 us.	 In	 all	 Daghestan	 no	 such

beautiful	girl	is	to	be	seen.	My	sister	is,	indeed,	charming.	I	am	sure	that	you	have

never	seen	any	one	like	her.	My	mother	also	is	very	handsome.”

“And	your	mother	was	fond	of	you?”

“What	are	you	saying?	Certainly	she	was.	I	am	sure	that	she	has	died	of	grief,

she	was	so	fond	of	me.	I	was	her	favourite	child.	Yes,	she	loved	me	more	than	my

sister,	 more	 than	 all	 the	 others.	 This	 very	 night	 she	 has	 appeared	 to	 me	 in	 a dream,	she	shed	tears	for	me.”

He	was	silent,	and	throughout	the	rest	of	the	night	did	not	open	his	mouth;

but	from	this	very	moment	he	sought	my	company	and	my	conversation;	although

very	respectful,	he	never	allowed	himself	to	address	me	first.	On	the	other	hand	he

was	 happy	 when	 I	 entered	 into	 conversation	 with	 him.	 He	 spoke	 often	 of	 the

Caucasus,	 and	 of	 his	 past	 life.	 His	 brothers	 did	 not	 forbid	 him	 to	 converse	 with me;	 I	 think	 even	 that	 they	 encouraged	 him	 to	 do	 so.	 When	 they	 saw	 that	 I	 had formed	an	attachment	to	him,	they	became	more	affable	towards	me.

Ali	 often	 helped	 me	 in	 my	 work.	 In	 the	 barrack	 he	 did	 whatever	 he	 thought

would	 be	 agreeable	 to	 me,	 and	 would	 save	 me	 trouble.	 In	 his	 attentions	 to	 me there	was	neither	servility	nor	the	hope	of	any	advantage,	but	only	a	warm,	cordial

feeling,	 which	 he	 did	 not	 try	 to	 hide.	 He	 had	 an	 extraordinary	 aptitude	 for	 the mechanical	arts.	He	had	learnt	to	sew	very	tolerably,	and	to	mend	boots;	he	even

understood	 a	 little	 carpentering—everything	 in	 short	 that	 could	 be	 learnt	 at	 the convict	prison.	His	brothers	were	proud	of	him.

“Listen,	Ali,”	I	said	to	him	one	day,	“why	don’t	you	learn	to	read	and	write	the

Russian	language,	it	might	be	very	useful	to	you	here	in	Siberia?”

“I	should	like	to	do	so,	but	who	would	teach	me?”

“There	are	plenty	of	people	here	who	can	read	and	write.	I	myself	will	teach

you	if	you	like.”

“Oh,	do	teach	me,	I	beg	of	you,”	said	Ali,	raising	himself	up	in	bed;	he	joined

his	hands	and	looked	at	me	with	a	suppliant	air.

We	went	to	work	the	very	next	evening.	I	had	with	me	a	Russian	translation

of	 the	 New	 Testament,	 the	 only	 book	 that	 was	 not	 forbidden	 in	 the	 prison.	 With

this	book	alone,	without	an	alphabet,	Ali	learnt	to	read	in	a	few	weeks,	and	after	a few	months	he	could	read	perfectly.	He	brought	to	his	studies	extraordinary	zeal

and	warmth.

One	day	we	were	reading	together	the	Sermon	on	the	Mount.	I	noticed	that	he

read	certain	passages	with	much	feeling;	and	I	asked	him	if	he	was	pleased	with

what	he	read.	He	glanced	at	me,	and	his	face	suddenly	lighted	up.

“Yes,	 yes,	 Jesus	 is	 a	 holy	 prophet.	 He	 speaks	 the	 language	 of	 God.	 How

beautiful	it	is!”

“But	tell	me	what	it	is	that	particularly	pleases	you.”

“The	 passage	 in	 which	 it	 is	 said,	 ‘Forgive	 those	 that	 hate	 you!’	 Ah!	 how

divinely	He	speaks!”

He	turned	towards	his	brothers,	who	were	listening	to	our	conversation,	and

said	 to	 them	 with	 warmth	 a	 few	 words.	 They	 talked	 together	 seriously	 for	 some time,	giving	their	approval	of	what	their	young	brother	had	said	by	a	nodding	of

the	 head.	 Then	 with	 a	 grave,	 kindly	 smile,	 quite	 a	 Mussulman	 smile	 (I	 liked	 the gravity	of	this	smile),	they	assured	me	that	Isu	Jesus	was	a	great	prophet.	He	had

done	great	miracles.	He	had	created	a	bird	with	a	little	clay	on	which	he	breathed

the	breath	of	life,	and	the	bird	had	then	flown	away.	That,	they	said,	was	written	in

their	 books.	 They	 were	 convinced	 that	 they	 would	 please	 me	 much	 by	 praising

Jesus.	As	for	Ali,	he	was	happy	to	see	that	his	brothers	approved	of	our	friendship,

and	 that	 they	 were	 giving	 me,	 what	 he	 thought	 would	 be,	 grateful	 words.	 The success	I	had	with	my	pupil	in	teaching	him	to	write,	was	really	extraordinary.	Ali

had	bought	paper	at	his	own	expense,	for	he	would	not	allow	me	to	purchase	any,

also	pens	and	ink;	and	in	less	than	two	months	he	had	learnt	to	write.	His	brothers

were	 astonished	 at	 such	 rapid	 progress.	 Their	 satisfaction	 and	 their	 pride	 were without	 bounds.	 They	 did	 not	 know	 how	 to	 show	 me	 enough	 gratitude.	 At	 the

workshop,	if	we	happened	to	be	together,	there	were	disputes	as	to	which	of	them

should	help	me.	I	do	not	speak	of	Ali,	he	felt	for	me	more	affection	than	even	for

his	brothers.	I	shall	never	forget	the	day	on	which	he	was	liberated.	He	went	with

me	 outside	 the	 barracks,	 threw	 himself	 on	 my	 neck	 and	 sobbed.	 He	 had	 never

embraced	me	before,	and	had	never	before	wept	in	my	presence.

“You	have	done	so	much	for	me,”	he	said;	“neither	my	father	nor	my	mother

have	 ever	 been	 kinder.	 You	 have	 made	 a	 man	 of	 me.	 God	 will	 bless	 you,	 I	 shall

never	forget	you,	never!”

Where	is	he	now,	where	is	my	good,	kind,	dear	Ali?

Besides	 the	 Circassians,	 we	 had	 a	 certain	 number	 of	 Poles,	 who	 formed	 a

separate	 group.	 They	 had	 scarcely	 any	 relations	 with	 the	 other	 convicts.	 I	 have already	 said	 that,	 thanks	 to	 their	 hatred	 for	 the	 Russian	 prisoners,	 they	 were detested	by	every	one.	They	were	of	a	restless,	morbid	disposition:	there	were	six

of	them,	some	of	them	men	of	education,	of	whom	I	shall	speak	in	detail	further

on.	It	was	from	them	that	during	the	last	days	of	my	imprisonment	I	obtained	a

few	books.	The	first	work	I	read	made	a	deep	impression	upon	me.	I	shall	speak

further	on	of	these	sensations,	which	I	look	upon	as	very	curious,	though	it	will	be

difficult	to	understand	them.	Of	this	I	am	certain,	for	there	are	certain	things	as	to

which	 one	 cannot	 judge	 without	 having	 experienced	 them	 oneself.	 It	 will	 be

enough	for	me	to	say	that	intellectual	privations	are	more	difficult	to	support	than

the	most	frightful,	physical	tortures.

A	common	man	sent	to	hard	labour	finds	himself	in	kindred	society,	perhaps

even	 in	 a	 more	 interesting	 society	 than	 he	 has	 been	 accustomed	 to.	 He	 loses	 his native	 place,	 his	 family;	 but	 his	 ordinary	 surroundings	 are	 much	 the	 same	 as before.	 A	 man	 of	 education,	 condemned	 by	 law	 to	 the	 same	 punishment	 as	 the

common	 man,	 suffers	 incomparably	 more.	 He	 must	 stifle	 all	 his	 needs,	 all	 his habits,	he	must	descend	into	a	lower	sphere,	must	breathe	another	air.	He	is	like	a

fish	 thrown	 upon	 the	 sand.	 The	 punishment	 that	 he	 undergoes,	 equal	 for	 all

criminals	according	to	the	law,	is	ten	times	more	severe	and	more	painful	for	him

than	for	the	common	man.	This	is	an	incontestable	truth,	even	if	one	thinks	only

of	the	material	habits	that	have	to	be	sacrificed.

I	 was	 saying	 that	 the	 Poles	 formed	 a	 group	 by	 themselves.	 They	 lived

together,	and	of	all	the	convicts	in	the	prison,	they	cared	only	for	a	Jew,	and	for	no

other	reason	than	because	he	amused	them.	Our	Jew	was	generally	liked,	although

every	one	laughed	at	him.	We	only	had	one,	and	even	now	I	cannot	think	of	him

without	 laughing.	 Whenever	 I	 looked	 at	 him	 I	 thought	 of	 the	 Jew	 Jankel,	 whom Gogol	describes	in	his	Tarass	Boulba,	and	who,	when	undressed	and	ready	to	go	to

bed	 with	 his	 Jewess	 in	 a	 sort	 of	 cupboard,	 resembled	 a	 fowl;	 but	 Isaiah	 Fomitch Bumstein	and	a	plucked	fowl	were	as	like	one	another	as	two	drops	of	water.	He

was	already	of	a	certain	age—about	fifty—small,	feeble,	cunning,	and,	at	the	same

time,	 very	 stupid,	 bold,	 and	 boastful,	 though	 a	 horrible	 coward.	 His	 face	 was

covered	with	wrinkles,	his	forehead	and	cheeks	were	scarred	from	the	burning	he had	 received	 in	 the	 pillory.	 I	 never	 understood	 how	 he	 had	 been	 able	 to	 support the	sixty	strokes	he	received.

He	 had	 been	 sentenced	 for	 murder.	 He	 carried	 on	 his	 person	 a	 medical

prescription	 which	 had	 been	 given	 to	 him	 by	 other	 Jews	 immediately	 after	 his exposure	 in	 the	 pillory.	 Thanks	 to	 the	 ointment	 prescribed,	 the	 scars	 were	 to disappear	in	less	than	a	fortnight.	He	had	been	afraid	to	use	it.	He	was	waiting	for

the	 expiration	 of	 his	 twenty	 years	 (after	 which	 he	 would	 become	 a	 colonist)	 in order	to	utilise	his	famous	remedy.

“Otherwise	 I	 shall	 not	 be	 able	 to	 get	 married,”	 he	 would	 say;	 “and	 I	 must

absolutely	marry.”

We	 were	 great	 friends:	 his	 good-humour	 was	 inexhaustible.	 The	 life	 of	 the

convict	 prison	 did	 not	 seem	 to	 disagree	 with	 him.	 A	 goldsmith	 by	 trade,	 he

received	more	orders	than	he	could	execute,	for	there	was	no	jeweller’s	shop	in	our

town.	 He	 thus	 escaped	 his	 hard	 labour.	 As	 a	 matter	 of	 course,	 he	 lent	 money	 on pledges	 to	 the	 convicts,	 who	 paid	 him	 heavy	 interest.	 He	 arrived	 at	 the	 prison before	 I	 did.	 One	 of	 the	 Poles	 related	 to	 me	 his	 triumphal	 entry.	 It	 is	 quite	 a history,	 which	 I	 shall	 relate	 further	 on,	 for	 I	 shall	 often	 have	 to	 speak	 of	 Isaiah Fomitch	Bumstein.

As	for	the	other	prisoners	there	were,	first	of	all,	four	“old	believers,”	among

whom	was	the	old	man	from	Starodoub,	two	or	three	Little	Russians,	very	morose

persons,	 and	 a	 young	 convict	 with	 delicate	 features	 and	 a	 finely-chiselled	 nose, about	 twenty-three	 years	 of	 age,	 who	 had	 already	 committed	 eight	 murders;

besides	 a	 band	 of	 coiners,	 one	 of	 whom	 was	 the	 buffoon	 of	 our	 barracks;	 and, finally,	some	sombre,	sour-tempered	convicts,	shorn	and	disfigured,	always	silent,

and	full	of	envy.	They	looked	askance	at	all	who	came	near	them,	and	must	have

continued	to	do	so	during	a	long	course	of	years.	I	saw	all	this	superficially	on	the

first	 night	 of	 my	 arrival,	 in	 the	 midst	 of	 thick	 smoke,	 in	 a	 mephitic	 atmosphere, amid	obscene	oaths,	accompanied	by	the	rattling	of	chains,	by	insults,	and	cynical

laughter.	I	stretched	myself	out	on	the	bare	planks,	my	head	resting	on	my	coat,

rolled	 up	 to	 do	 duty	 in	 lieu	 of	 a	 pillow,	 not	 yet	 supplied	 to	 me.	 Then	 I	 covered myself	with	my	sheepskin,	but,	thanks	to	the	painful	impression	of	this	evening,	I

was	unable	for	some	time	to	get	to	sleep.	My	new	life	was	only	just	beginning.	The

future	reserved	for	me	many	things	which	I	had	not	foreseen,	and	of	which	I	had

never	the	least	idea.





CHAPTER	6.





THE	FIRST	MONTH


Three	days	after	my	arrival	I	was	ordered	to	go	to	work.	The	impression	left

upon	 me	 to	 this	 day	 is	 still	 very	 clear,	 although	 there	 was	 nothing	 very

striking	 in	 it,	 unless	 one	 considers	 that	 my	 position	 was	 in	 itself

extraordinary.	The	first	sensations	count	for	a	good	deal,	and	I	as	yet	looked	upon

everything	with	curiosity.	My	first	three	days	were	certainly	the	most	painful	of	all

my	terms	of	imprisonment.

My	wandering	is	at	an	end,	I	said	to	myself	every	moment.	I	am	now	in	the

convict	prison,	my	resting-place	for	many	years.	Here	is	where	I	am	to	live.	I	come

here	 full	 of	 grief,	 who	 knows	 that	 when	 I	 leave	 it	 I	 shall	 not	 do	 so	 with	 regret?	 I said	this	to	myself	as	one	touches	a	wound,	the	better	to	feel	its	pain.	The	idea	that

I	 might	 regret	 my	 stay	 was	 terrible	 to	 me.	 Already	 I	 felt	 to	 what	 an	 intolerable degree	man	is	a	creature	of	habit,	but	this	was	a	matter	of	the	future.	The	present,

meanwhile,	was	terrible	enough.

The	 wild	 curiosity	 with	 which	 my	 convict	 companions	 examined	 me,	 their

harshness	 towards	 a	 former	 nobleman	 now	 entering	 into	 their	 corporation,	 a

harshness	 which	 sometimes	 took	 the	 form	 of	 hatred—all	 this	 tormented	 me	 to

such	 a	 degree	 that	 I	 felt	 obliged	 of	 my	 own	 accord	 to	 go	 to	 work	 in	 order	 to measure	 at	 one	 stroke	 the	 whole	 extent	 of	 my	 misfortune,	 that	 I	 might	 at	 once begin	to	live	like	the	others,	and	fall	with	them	into	the	same	abyss.

But	convicts	differ,	and	I	had	not	yet	disentangled	from	the	general	hostility

the	sympathy	here	and	there	manifested	towards	me.

After	a	time	the	affability	and	good-will	shown	to	me	by	certain	convicts	gave

me	a	little	courage,	and	restored	my	spirits.	Most	friendly	among	them	was	Akim

Akimitch.	 I	 soon	 noticed	 some	 kind,	 good-natured	 faces	 in	 the	 dark	 and	 hateful crowd.	 Bad	 people	 are	 to	 be	 found	 everywhere,	 but	 even	 among	 the	 worst	 there may	 be	 something	 good,	 I	 began	 to	 think,	 by	 way	 of	 consolation.	 Who	 knows?

These	 persons	 are	 perhaps	 not	 worse	 than	 others	 who	 are	 free.	 While	 making

these	 reflections	 I	 felt	 some	 doubts,	 and,	 nevertheless,	 how	 much	 I	 was	 in	 the right!

The	convict	Suchiloff,	for	example;	a	man	whose	acquaintance	I	did	not	make

until	long	afterwards,	although	he	was	near	me	during	nearly	the	whole	period	of my	confinement.	Whenever	I	speak	of	the	convicts	who	are	not	worse	than	other

men,	my	thoughts	turn	involuntarily	to	him.	He	acted	as	my	servant,	together	with

another	 prisoner	 named	 Osip,	 whom	 Akim	 Akimitch	 had	 recommended	 to	 me

immediately	after	my	arrival.	For	thirty	kopecks	a	month	this	man	agreed	to	cook

me	 a	 separate	 dinner,	 in	 case	 I	 should	 not	 be	 able	 to	 put	 up	 with	 the	 ordinary prison	fare,	and	should	be	able	to	pay	for	my	own	food.	Osip	was	one	of	the	four

cooks	chosen	by	the	prisoners	in	our	two	kitchens.	I	may	observe	that	they	were	at

liberty	to	refuse	these	duties,	and	give	them	up	whenever	they	might	think	fit.	The

cooks	 were	 men	 from	 whom	 hard	 labour	 was	 not	 expected.	 They	 had	 to	 bake

bread	 and	 prepare	 the	 cabbage	 soup.	 They	 were	 called	 “cook-maids,”	 not	 from

contempt,	for	the	men	chosen	were	always	the	most	intelligent,	but	merely	in	fun.

The	name	given	to	them	did	not	annoy	them.

For	 many	 years	 past	 Osip	 had	 been	 constantly	 selected	 as	 “cook-maid.”	 He

never	 refused	 the	 duty	 except	 when	 he	 was	 out	 of	 sorts,	 or	 when	 he	 saw	 an opportunity	of	getting	spirits	into	the	barracks.	Although	he	had	been	sent	to	the

convict	 prison	 as	 a	 smuggler,	 he	 was	 remarkably	 honest	 and	 good-tempered	 (I

have	 spoken	 of	 him	 before);	 at	 the	 same	 time	 he	 was	 a	 dreadful	 coward,	 and feared	 the	 rod	 above	 all	 things.	 Of	 a	 peaceful,	 patient	 disposition,	 affable	 with everybody,	he	never	got	into	quarrels;	but	he	could	never	resist	the	temptation	of

bringing	 spirits	 in,	 notwithstanding	 his	 cowardice,	 and	 simply	 from	 his	 love	 of smuggling.	Like	all	the	other	cooks	he	dealt	in	spirits,	but	on	a	much	less	extensive

scale	than	Gazin,	because	he	was	afraid	of	running	the	same	risks.	I	always	lived

on	good	terms	with	Osip.	To	have	a	separate	table	it	was	not	necessary	to	be	very

rich;	it	cost	me	only	one	rouble	a	month	apart	from	the	bread,	which	was	given	to

us.	 Sometimes	 when	 I	 was	 very	 hungry	 I	 made	 up	 my	 mind	 to	 eat	 the	 cabbage soup,	 in	 spite	 of	 the	 disgust	 with	 which	 it	 generally	 filled	 me.	 After	 a	 time	 this disgust	entirely	disappeared.	I	generally	bought	one	pound	of	meat	a	day,	which

cost	me	two	kopecks—[5	kopecks	=	2	pence.]

The	 old	 soldiers,	 who	 watched	 over	 the	 internal	 discipline	 of	 the	 barracks,

were	ready,	good-naturedly,	to	go	every	day	to	the	market	to	make	purchases	for

the	 convicts.	 For	 this	 they	 received	 no	 pay,	 except	 from	 time	 to	 time	 a	 trifling present.	 They	 did	 it	 for	 the	 sake	 of	 their	 peace;	 their	 life	 in	 the	 convict	 prison would	 have	 been	 a	 perpetual	 torment	 had	 they	 refused.	 They	 used	 to	 bring	 in tobacco,	tea,	meat—everything,	in	short,	that	was	desired,	always	excepting	spirits.

For	many	years	Osip	prepared	for	me	every	day	a	piece	of	roast	meat.	How	he managed	to	get	it	cooked	was	a	secret.	What	was	strangest	in	the	matter	was,	that

during	all	this	time	I	scarcely	exchanged	two	words	with	him.	I	tried	many	times

to	 make	 him	 talk,	 but	 he	 was	 incapable	 of	 keeping	 up	 a	 conversation.	 He	 would only	smile	and	answer	my	questions	by	“yes”	or	“no.”	He	was	a	Hercules,	but	he

had	no	more	intelligence	than	a	child	of	seven.

Suchiloff	was	also	one	of	those	who	helped	me.	I	had	never	asked	him	to	do

so,	he	attached	himself	to	me	on	his	own	account,	and	I	scarcely	remember	when

he	 began	 to	 do	 so.	 His	 principal	 duty	 consisted	 in	 washing	 my	 linen.	 For	 this purpose	 there	 was	 a	 basin	 in	 the	 middle	 of	 the	 court-yard,	 round	 which	 the

convicts	washed	their	clothes	in	prison	buckets.

Suchiloff	 had	 found	 means	 for	 rendering	 me	 a	 number	 of	 little	 services.	 He

boiled	my	tea-urn,	ran	right	and	left	to	perform	various	commissions	for	me,	got

me	 all	 kinds	 of	 things,	 mended	 my	 clothes,	 and	 greased	 my	 boots	 four	 times	 a month.	He	did	all	this	in	a	zealous	manner,	with	a	business-like	air,	as	if	he	felt	all

the	 weight	 of	 the	 duties	 he	 was	 performing.	 He	 seemed	 quite	 to	 have	 joined	 his fate	to	mine,	and	occupied	himself	with	all	my	affairs.	He	never	said:	“You	have	so

many	 shirts,	 or	 your	 waistcoat	 is	 torn;”	 but,	 “We	 have	 so	 many	 shirts,	 and	 our waistcoat	 is	 torn.”	 I	 had	 somehow	 inspired	 him	 with	 admiration,	 and	 I	 really believe	that	I	had	become	his	sole	care	in	life.	As	he	knew	no	trade	whatever	his

only	 source	 of	 income	 was	 from	 me,	 and	 it	 must	 be	 understood	 that	 I	 paid	 him very	little;	but	he	was	always	pleased,	whatever	he	might	receive.	He	would	have

been	 without	 means	 had	 he	 not	 been	 a	 servant	 of	 mine,	 and	 he	 gave	 me	 the

preference	 because	 I	 was	 more	 affable	 than	 the	 others,	 and,	 above	 all,	 more

equitable	in	money	matters.	He	was	one	of	those	beings	who	never	get	rich,	and

never	know	how	to	manage	their	affairs;	one	of	those	in	the	prison	who	were	hired

by	 the	 gamblers	 to	 watch	 all	 night	 in	 the	 ante-chamber,	 listening	 for	 the	 least noise	that	might	announce	the	arrival	of	the	Major.	If	there	was	a	night	visit	they

received	 nothing,	 indeed	 their	 back	 paid	 for	 their	 want	 of	 attention.	 One	 thing which	marks	this	kind	of	men	is	their	entire	absence	of	individuality,	which	they

seem	entirely	to	have	lost.

Suchiloff	was	a	poor,	meek	fellow;	all	the	courage	seemed	to	have	been	beaten

out	of	him,	although	he	had	in	reality	been	born	meek.	For	nothing	in	the	world

would	he	have	raised	his	hand	against	any	one	in	the	prison.	I	always	pitied	him

without	 knowing	 why.	 I	 could	 not	 look	 at	 him	 without	 feeling	 the	 deepest compassion	for	him.	If	asked	to	explain	this,	I	should	find	it	impossible	to	do	so.	I

could	never	get	him	to	talk,	and	he	never	became	animated,	except	when,	to	put

an	end	to	all	attempts	at	conversation,	I	gave	him	something	to	do,	or	told	him	to

go	somewhere	for	me.	I	soon	found	that	he	loved	to	be	ordered	about.	Neither	tall

nor	 short,	 neither	 ugly	 nor	 handsome,	 neither	 stupid	 nor	 intelligent,	 neither	 old nor	 young,	 it	 would	 be	 difficult	 to	 describe	 in	 any	 definite	 manner	 this	 man, except	 that	 his	 face	 was	 slightly	 pitted	 with	 the	 small-pox,	 and	 that	 he	 had	 fair hair.	 He	 belonged,	 as	 far	 as	 I	 could	 make	 out,	 to	 the	 same	 company	 as	 Sirotkin.

The	prisoners	sometimes	laughed	at	him	because	he	had	“exchanged.”	During	the

march	 to	 Siberia	 he	 had	 exchanged	 for	 a	 red	 shirt	 and	 a	 silver	 rouble.	 It	 was thought	comical	that	he	should	have	sold	himself	for	such	a	small	sum,	to	take	the

name	 of	 another	 prisoner	 in	 place	 of	 his	 own,	 and	 consequently	 to	 accept	 the other’s	sentence.	Strange	as	it	may	appear	it	was	nevertheless	true.	This	custom,

which	had	become	traditional,	and	still	existed	at	the	time	I	was	sent	to	Siberia,	I,

at	first,	refused	to	believe,	but	found	afterwards	that	it	really	existed.	This	is	how

the	exchange	was	effected:

A	company	of	prisoners	started	for	Siberia.	Among	them	there	are	exiles	of	all

kinds,	 some	 condemned	 to	 hard	 labour,	 others	 to	 labour	 in	 the	 mines,	 others	 to simple	colonisation.	On	the	way	out,	no	matter	at	what	stage	of	the	journey,	in	the

Government	 of	 Perm,	 for	 instance,	 a	 prisoner	 wishes	 to	 exchange	 with	 another

man,	 who—we	 will	 say	 he	 is	 named	 Mikhailoff—has	 been	 condemned	 to	 hard

labour	 for	 a	 capital	 offence,	 and	 does	 not	 like	 the	 prospect	 of	 passing	 long	 years without	 his	 liberty.	 He	 knows,	 in	 his	 cunning,	 what	 to	 do.	 He	 looks	 among	 his comrades	for	some	simple,	weak-minded	fellow,	whose	punishment	is	less	severe,

who	 has	 been	 condemned	 to	 a	 few	 years	 in	 the	 mines,	 or	 to	 hard	 labour,	 or	 has perhaps	been	simply	exiled.	At	last	he	finds	such	a	man	as	Suchiloff,	a	former	serf,

sentenced	 only	 to	 become	 a	 colonist.	 The	 man	 has	 made	 fifteen	 hundred	 versts

[about	one	thousand	miles]	without	a	kopeck,	for	the	good	reason	that	a	Suchiloff

is	 always	 without	 money;	 fatigued,	 exhausted,	 he	 can	 get	 nothing	 to	 eat	 beyond the	fixed	rations,	nothing	to	wear	in	addition	to	the	convict	uniform.

Mikhailoff	 gets	 into	 conversation	 with	 Suchiloff,	 they	 suit	 one	 another,	 and

they	strike	up	a	friendship.	At	last	at	some	station	Mikhailoff	makes	his	comrade

drunk,	then	he	will	ask	him	if	he	will	“exchange.”

“My	name	is	Mikhailoff,”	he	says	to	him,	“condemned	to	what	is	called	hard labour,	but	which,	in	my	own	case,	will	be	nothing	of	the	kind,	as	I	am	to	enter	a

particular	 special	 section.	 I	 am	 classed	 with	 the	 hard-labour	 men,	 but	 in	 my special	division	the	labour	is	not	so	severe.”

Before	the	special	section	was	abolished,	many	persons	in	the	official	world,

even	at	St.	Petersburg,	were	unaware	even	of	its	existence.	It	was	in	such	a	retired

corner	of	one	of	the	most	distant	regions	of	Siberia,	that	it	was	difficult	to	know

anything	 about	 it.	 It	 was	 insignificant,	 moreover,	 from	 the	 number	 of	 persons belonging	 to	 it.	 In	 my	 time	 they	 numbered	 altogether	 only	 seventy.	 I	 have	 since met	 men	 who	 have	 served	 in	 Siberia,	 and	 know	 the	 country	 well,	 and	 yet	 have never	heard	of	the	“special	section.”	In	the	rules	and	regulations	there	are	only	six

lines	 about	 this	 institution.	 Attached	 to	 the	 convict	 prison	 of	 ——	 is	 a	 special section	reserved	for	the	most	dangerous	criminals,	while	the	severest	labours	are

being	 prepared	 for	 them.	 The	 prisoners	 themselves	 knew	 nothing	 of	 this	 special section.	 Did	 it	 exist	 temporarily	 or	 constantly?	 Neither	 Suchiloff	 nor	 any	 of	 the prisoners	 being	 sent	 out,	 not	 Mikhailoff	 himself	 could	 guess	 the	 significance	 of those	two	words.	Mikhailoff,	however,	had	his	suspicion	as	to	the	true	character	of

this	section.	He	formed	his	opinion	from	the	gravity	of	the	crime	for	which	he	was

made	 to	 march	 three	 or	 four	 thousand	 versts	 on	 foot.	 It	 was	 certain	 that	 he	 was not	 being	 sent	 to	 a	 place	 where	 he	 would	 be	 at	 his	 ease.	 Suchiloff	 was	 to	 be	 a colonist.	What	could	Mikhailoff	desire	better	than	that?

“Won’t	you	change?”	he	asks.	Suchiloff	is	a	little	drunk,	he	is	a	simple-minded

man,	full	of	gratitude	to	the	comrade	who	entertains	him,	and	dare	not	refuse;	he

has	 heard,	 moreover,	 from	 other	 prisoners,	 that	 these	 exchanges	 are	 made,	 and understands,	 therefore,	 that	 there	 is	 nothing	 extraordinary,	 unheard-of,	 in	 the proposition	 made	 to	 him.	 An	 agreement	 is	 come	 to,	 the	 cunning	 Mikhailoff,

profiting	 by	 Suchiloff’s	 simplicity,	 buys	 his	 name	 for	 a	 red	 shirt,	 and	 a	 silver rouble,	which	are	given	before	witnesses.	The	next	day	Suchiloff	is	sober;	but	more

liquor	is	given	to	him.	Then	he	drinks	up	his	own	rouble,	and	after	a	while	the	red

shirt	has	the	same	fate.

“If	 you	 don’t	 like	 the	 bargain	 we	 made,	 give	 me	 back	 my	 money,”	 says

Mikhailoff.	But	where	is	Suchiloff	to	get	a	rouble?	If	he	does	not	give	it	back,	the

“artel”	 [ i.e. ,	 the	 association—in	 this	 case	 of	 convicts]	 will	 force	 him	 to	 keep	 his promise.	 The	 prisoners	 are	 very	 sensitive	 on	 such	 points:	 he	 must	 keep	 his

promise.	The	“artel”	requires	it,	and,	in	case	of	disobedience,	woe	to	the	offender!

He	 will	 be	 killed,	 or	 at	 least	 seriously	 intimidated.	 If	 indeed	 the	 “artel”	 once showed	mercy	to	the	men	who	had	broken	their	word,	there	would	be	an	end	to	its

existence.	If	the	given	word	can	be	recalled,	and	the	bargain	put	an	end	to	after	the

stipulated	sum	has	been	paid,	who	would	be	bound	by	such	an	agreement?	It	is	a

question	of	life	or	death	for	the	“artel.”	Accordingly	the	prisoners	are	very	severe

on	the	point.

Suchiloff	 then	 finds	 that	 it	 is	 impossible	 to	 go	 back,	 that	 nothing	 can	 save him,	and	he	accordingly	agrees	to	all	that	is	demanded	of	him.	The	bargain	is	then

made	 known	 to	 all	 the	 convoy,	 and	 if	 denunciations	 are	 feared,	 the	 men	 looked upon	as	suspicious	are	entertained.	What,	moreover,	does	it	matter	to	the	others

whether	 Mikhailoff	 or	 Suchiloff	 goes	 to	 the	 devil?	 They	 have	 had	 gratuitous

drinks,	they	have	been	feasted	for	nothing,	and	the	secret	is	kept	by	all.

At	 the	 next	 station	 the	 names	 are	 called.	 When	 Mikhailoff’s	 turn	 arrives,

Suchiloff	 answers	 “present,”	 Mikhailoff	 replies	 “present”	 for	 Suchiloff,	 and	 the journey	 is	 continued.	 The	 matter	 is	 not	 now	 even	 talked	 about.	 At	 Tobolsk	 the prisoners	are	told	off.	Mikhailoff	will	become	a	colonist,	while	Suchiloff	is	sent	to

the	 special	 section	 under	 a	 double	 escort.	 It	 would	 be	 useless	 now	 to	 cry	 out,	 to protest,	 for	 what	 proof	 could	 be	 given?	 How	 many	 years	 would	 it	 take	 to	 decide the	affair,	what	benefit	would	the	complainant	derive?	Where,	moreover,	are	the

witnesses?	They	would	deny	everything,	even	if	they	could	be	found.

That	is	how	Suchiloff,	for	a	silver	rouble	and	a	red	shirt,	came	to	be	sent	to	the

special	 section.	 The	 prisoners	 laughed	 at	 him,	 not	 because	 he	 had	 exchanged—

though	in	general	they	despised	those	who	had	been	foolish	enough	to	exchange	a

work	that	was	easy	for	a	work	that	was	hard—but	simply	because	he	had	received

nothing	 for	 the	 bargain	 except	 a	 red	 shirt	 and	 a	 rouble—certainly	 a	 ridiculous compensation.

Generally	speaking,	the	exchanges	are	made	for	relatively	large	sums;	several

ten-rouble	notes	sometimes	change	hands.	But	Suchiloff	was	so	characterless,	so

insignificant,	 so	 null,	 that	 he	 could	 scarcely	 even	 be	 laughed	 at.	 We	 lived	 a considerable	 time	 together,	 he	 and	 I;	 I	 had	 got	 accustomed	 to	 him,	 and	 he	 had formed	 an	 attachment	 for	 me.	 One	 day,	 however—I	 can	 never	 forgive	 myself	 for what	I	did—he	had	not	executed	my	orders,	and	when	he	came	to	ask	me	for	his

money	I	had	the	cruelty	to	say	to	him,	“You	don’t	forget	to	ask	for	your	money,	but

you	don’t	do	what	you	are	told.”	Suchiloff	remained	silent	and	hastened	to	do	as he	 was	 ordered,	 but	 he	 suddenly	 became	 very	 sad.	 Two	 days	 passed.	 I	 could	 not believe	that	what	I	had	said	to	him	could	affect	him	so	much.	I	knew	that	a	person

named	Vassilieff	was	claiming	from	him	in	a	morose	manner	payment	of	a	small

debt.	Suchiloff	was	probably	short	of	money,	and	did	not	dare	to	ask	me	for	any.

“Suchiloff,	you	wish,	I	think,	to	ask	me	for	some	money	to	pay	Vassilieff;	take





this.”

I	 was	 seated	 on	 my	 camp-bedstead.	 Suchiloff	 remained	 standing	 up	 before me,	much	astonished	that	I	myself	should	propose	to	give	him	money,	and	that	I

remembered	his	difficult	position;	the	more	so	as	latterly	he	had	asked	me	several times	 for	 money	 in	 advance,	 and	 could	 scarcely	 hope	 that	 I	 should	 give	 him	 any more.	He	looked	at	the	paper	I	held	out	to	him,	then	looked	at	me,	turned	sharply on	his	heel	and	went	out.	I	was	as	astonished	as	I	could	be.	I	went	out	after	him, and	 found	 him	 at	 the	 back	 of	 the	 barracks.	 He	 was	 standing	 up	 with	 his	 face against	the	palisade	and	his	arms	resting	on	the	stakes.

“What	is	the	matter,	Suchiloff?”	I	asked	him.

He	made	no	reply,	and	to	my	stupefaction	I	saw	that	he	was	on	the	point	of

bursting	into	tears.

“You	 think,	 Alexander	 Petrovitch,”	 he	 said,	 in	 a	 trembling	 voice,	 in

endeavouring	not	to	look	at	me,	“that	I	care	only	for	your	money,	but	I——”

He	 turned	 away	 from	 me,	 and	 struck	 the	 palisade	 with	 his	 forehead	 and began	 to	 sob.	 It	 was	 the	 first	 time	 in	 the	 convict	 prison	 that	 I	 had	 seen	 a	 man weep.	 I	 had	 much	 trouble	 in	 consoling	 him;	 and	 he	 afterwards	 served	 me,	 if possible,	 with	 more	 zeal	 than	 ever.	 He	 watched	 for	 my	 orders,	 but	 by	 almost imperceptible	indications	I	could	see	that	his	heart	would	never	forgive	me	for	my reproach.	 Meanwhile	 other	 men	 laughed	 at	 him	 and	 teased	 him	 whenever	 the opportunity	presented	itself,	and	even	insulted	him	without	his	losing	his	temper; on	the	contrary,	he	still	remained	on	good	terms	with	them.	It	is	indeed	difficult	to know	a	man,	even	after	having	lived	long	years	with	him.

The	convict	prison	had	not	at	first	for	me	the	significance	it	was	afterwards	to assume.	I	was	at	first,	in	spite	of	my	attention,	unable	to	understand	many	facts which	were	staring	me	in	the	face.	I	was	naturally	first	struck	by	the	most	salient points,	 but	 I	 saw	 them	 from	 a	 false	 point	 of	 view,	 and	 the	 only	 impression	 they made	upon	me	was	one	of	unmitigated	sadness.	What	contributed	above	all	to	this result	was	my	meeting	with	A——f,	the	convict	who	had	come	to	the	prison	before me,	 and	 who	 had	 astonished	 me	 in	 such	 a	 painful	 manner	 during	 the	 first	 few days.	 The	 effect	 of	 his	 baseness	 was	 to	 aggravate	 my	 moral	 suffering,	 already sufficiently	 cruel.	 He	 offered	 the	 most	 repulsive	 example	 of	 the	 kind	 of degradation	and	baseness	to	which	a	man	may	fall	when	all	feeling	of	honour	has perished	within	him.	This	young	man	of	noble	birth—I	have	spoken	of	him	before

—used	 to	 repeat	 to	 the	 Major	 all	 that	 was	 done	 in	 the	 barracks,	 and	 in	 doing	 so through	the	Major’s	body-servant	Fedka.	Here	is	the	man’s	history.

Arrived	 at	 St.	 Petersburg	 before	 he	 had	 finished	 his	 studies,	 after	 a	 quarrel with	his	parents,	whom	his	life	of	debauchery	had	terrified,	he	had	not	shrunk	for the	sake	of	money	from	doing	the	work	of	an	informer.	He	did	not	hesitate	to	sell the	 blood	 of	 ten	 men	 in	 order	 to	 satisfy	 his	 insatiable	 thirst	 for	 the	 grossest	 and most	 licentious	 pleasures.	 At	 last	 he	 became	 so	 completely	 perverted	 in	 the	 St.

Petersburg	taverns	and	houses	of	ill-fame,	that	he	did	not	hesitate	to	take	part	in an	 affair	 which	 he	 knew	 to	 be	 conceived	 in	 madness—for	 he	 was	 not	 without intelligence.	He	was	condemned	to	exile	and	ten	years’	hard	labour	in	Siberia.	One might	 have	 thought	 that	 such	 a	 frightful	 blow	 would	 have	 shocked	 him,	 that	 it would	have	caused	some	reaction	and	brought	about	a	crisis;	but	he	accepted	his new	fate	without	the	least	confusion.	It	did	not	frighten	him;	all	that	he	feared	in	it was	the	necessity	of	working,	and	of	giving	up	for	ever	his	habits	of	debauchery.

The	name	of	convict	had	no	effect	but	to	prepare	him	for	new	acts	of	baseness,	and more	hideous	villainies	than	any	he	had	previously	perpetrated.

“I	am	now	a	convict,	and	can	crawl	at	ease,	without	shame.”

That	 was	 the	 light	 in	 which	 he	 looked	 upon	 his	 new	 position.	 I	 think	 of	 this disgusting	creature	as	of	some	monstrous	phenomenon.	During	the	many	years	I have	lived	in	the	midst	of	murderers,	debauchees,	and	proved	rascals,	never	in	my life	did	I	meet	a	case	of	such	complete	moral	abasement,	determined	corruption, and	 shameless	 baseness.	 Among	 us	 there	 was	 a	 parricide	 of	 noble	 birth.	 I	 have already	 spoken	 of	 him;	 but	 I	 could	 see	 by	 several	 signs	 that	 he	 was	 much	 better and	more	humane	than	A——f.	During	the	whole	time	of	my	punishment,	he	was never	 anything	 more	 in	 my	 eyes	 than	 a	 piece	 of	 flesh	 furnished	 with	 teeth	 and	 a stomach,	greedy	for	the	most	offensive	and	ferocious	animal	enjoyments,	for	the satisfaction	 of	 which	 he	 was	 ready	 to	 assassinate	 anyone.	 I	 do	 not	 exaggerate	 in the	 least;	 I	 recognised	 in	 A——f	 one	 of	 the	 most	 perfect	 specimens	 of	 animality, restrained	 by	 no	 principles,	 no	 rule.	 How	 much	 I	 was	 disgusted	 by	 his	 eternal smile!	 He	 was	 a	 monster—a	 moral	 Quasimodo.	 He	 was	 at	 the	 same	 time intelligent,	cunning,	good-looking,	had	received	some	education,	and	possessed	a certain	capacity.	Fire,	plague,	famine,	no	matter	what	scourge,	is	preferable	to	the presence	of	such	a	man	in	human	society.	I	have	already	said	that	in	the	convict prison	 espionage	 and	 denunciation	 flourished	 as	 the	 natural	 product	 of degradation,	 without	 the	 convicts	 thinking	 much	 of	 it.	 On	 the	 contrary,	 they maintained	friendly	relations	with	A——f.	They	were	more	affable	with	him	than

with	 any	 one	 else.	 The	 kindly	 attitude	 towards	 him	 of	 our	 drunken	 friend,	 the Major,	gave	him	a	certain	importance,	and	even	a	certain	worth	in	the	eyes	of	the convicts.	 Later	 on,	 this	 cowardly	 wretch	 ran	 away	 with	 another	 convict	 and	 the soldier	 in	 charge	 of	 them;	 but	 of	 this	 I	 shall	 speak	 in	 proper	 time	 and	 place.	 At first,	 he	 hung	 about	 me,	 thinking	 I	 did	 not	 know	 his	 history.	 I	 repeat	 that	 he poisoned	the	first	days	of	my	imprisonment	so	as	to	drive	me	nearly	to	despair.	I was	terrified	by	the	mass	of	baseness	and	cowardice	in	the	midst	of	which	I	had been	thrown.	I	imagined	that	every	one	else	was	as	foul	and	cowardly	as	he.	But	I made	a	mistake	in	supposing	that	every	one	resembled	A——f.

During	the	first	three	days	I	did	nothing	but	wander	about	the	convict	prison,

when	 I	 did	 not	 remain	 stretched	 out	 on	 my	 camp-bedstead.	 I	 entrusted	 to	 a prisoner	of	whom	I	was	sure,	the	piece	of	linen	which	had	been	delivered	to	me	by the	 administration,	 in	 order	 that	 he	 might	 make	 me	 some	 shirts.	 Always	 on	 the advice	 of	 Akim	 Akimitch,	 I	 got	 myself	 a	 folding	 mattress.	 It	 was	 in	 felt,	 covered with	 linen,	 as	 thin	 as	 a	 pancake,	 and	 very	 hard	 to	 any	 one	 who	 was	 not accustomed	to	it.	Akim	Akimitch	promised	to	get	me	all	the	most	essential	things, and	 with	 his	 own	 hands	 made	 me	 a	 blanket	 out	 of	 a	 piece	 of	 old	 cloth,	 cut	 and sewn	 together	 from	 all	 the	 old	 trousers	 and	 waistcoats	 which	 I	 had	 bought	 from various	 prisoners.	 The	 clothes	 delivered	 to	 them,	 when	 they	 have	 been	 worn	 the regulation	time,	become	the	property	of	the	prisoners.	They	at	once	sell	them,	for however	 much	 worn	 an	 article	 of	 clothing	 may	 be,	 it	 always	 possesses	 a	 certain value.	 I	 was	 very	 much	 astonished	 by	 all	 this,	 above	 all	 at	 the	 outset,	 during	 my first	 relations	 with	 this	 world.	 I	 became	 as	 low	 as	 my	 companions,	 as	 much	 a convict	as	they.	Their	customs,	their	habits,	their	ideas	influenced	me	thoroughly, and	externally	became	my	own,	without	affecting	my	inner	self.	I	was	astonished and	 confused	 as	 though	 I	 had	 never	 heard	 or	 suspected	 anything	 of	 the	 kind before,	and	yet	I	knew	what	to	expect,	or	at	least	what	had	been	told	me.	The	thing itself,	however,	produced	on	me	a	different	impression	from	the	mere	description of	it.	How	could	I	suppose,	for	instance,	that	old	rags	possessed	still	some	value?

And,	nevertheless,	my	blanket	was	made	up	entirely	of	tatters.	It	would	be	difficult to	describe	the	cloth	out	of	which	the	clothes	of	the	convicts	were	made.	It	was	like the	 thick,	 gray	 cloth	 manufactured	 for	 the	 soldiers,	 but	 as	 soon	 as	 it	 had	 been worn	 some	 little	 time	 it	 showed	 the	 threads	 and	 tore	 with	 abominable	 ease.	 The uniform	ought	to	have	lasted	for	a	whole	year,	but	it	never	went	so	long	as	that.

The	 prisoner	 labours,	 carries	 heavy	 burdens,	 and	 the	 cloth	 naturally	 wears	 out, and	 gets	 into	 holes	 very	 quickly.	 Our	 sheepskins	 were	 intended	 to	 be	 worn	 for three	years.	During	the	whole	of	that	time	they	served	as	outer	garments,	blankets, and	pillows,	but	they	were	very	solid.	Nevertheless,	at	the	end	of	the	third	year,	it was	 not	 rare	 to	 see	 them	 mended	 with	 ordinary	 linen.	 Although	 they	 were	 now very	much	worn,	it	was	always	possible	to	sell	them	at	the	rate	of	forty	kopecks	a piece,	the	best	preserved	ones	even	at	the	price	of	sixty	kopecks,	which	was	a	great sum	for	the	convict	prison.

Money,	 as	 I	 have	 before	 said,	 has	 a	 sovereign	 value	 in	 such	 a	 place.	 It	 is certain	 that	 a	 prisoner	 who	 has	 some	 pecuniary	 resources	 suffers	 ten	 times	 less than	the	one	who	has	nothing.

“When	the	Government	supplies	all	the	wants	of	the	convict,	what	need	can

he	have	for	money?”	reasoned	our	chief.

Nevertheless,	 I	 repeat	 that	 if	 the	 prisoners	 had	 been	 deprived	 of	 the opportunity	 of	 possessing	 something	 of	 their	 own,	 they	 would	 have	 lost	 their reason,	 or	 would	 have	 died	 like	 flies.	 They	 would	 have	 committed	 unheard-of crimes;	 some	 from	 wearisomeness	 or	 grief,	 the	 others,	 in	 order	 to	 get	 sooner punished,	and,	according	to	their	expression,	“have	a	change.”	If	the	convict	who has	gained	some	kopecks	by	the	sweat	of	his	brow,	who	has	embarked	in	perilous

undertakings	 in	 order	 to	 conquer	 them,	 if	 he	 spends	 this	 money	 recklessly,	 with childish	stupidity,	that	does	not	the	least	in	the	world	prove	that	he	does	not	know its	value,	as	might	at	first	sight	be	thought.	The	convict	is	greedy	for	money,	to	the point	of	losing	his	reason,	and,	if	he	throws	it	away,	he	does	so	in	order	to	procure what	he	places	far	above	money—liberty,	or	at	least	a	semblance	of	liberty.

Convicts	are	great	dreamers;	I	will	speak	of	that	further	on	with	more	detail.

At	 present	 I	 will	 confine	 myself	 to	 saying	 that	 I	 have	 heard	 men,	 who	 had	 been condemned	 to	 twenty	 years’	 hard	 labour,	 say,	 with	 a	 quiet	 air,	 “when	 I	 have finished	my	time,	if	God	wishes,	then——”	The	very	words	hard	labour,	or	forced labour,	indicate	that	the	man	has	lost	his	freedom;	and	when	this	man	spends	his money	he	is	carrying	out	his	own	will.

In	 spite	 of	 the	 branding	 and	 the	 chains,	 in	 spite	 of	 the	 palisade	 which	 hides from	his	eyes	the	free	world,	and	encloses	him	in	a	cage	like	a	wild	beast,	he	can get	 himself	 spirits	 and	 other	 delights;	 sometimes	 even	 (not	 always),	 corrupt	 his immediate	superintendents,	the	old	soldiers	and	non-commissioned	officers,	and get	 them	 to	 close	 their	 eyes	 to	 his	 infractions	 of	 discipline	 within	 the	 prison.	 He can,	moreover—what	he	adores—swagger;	that	is	to	say,	impress	his	companions and	 persuade	 himself	 for	 a	 time,	 that	 he	 enjoys	 more	 liberty	 than	 he	 really possesses.	The	poor	devil	wishes,	in	a	word,	to	convince	himself	of	what	he	knows to	 be	 impossible.	 This	 is	 why	 the	 prisoners	 take	 such	 pleasure	 in	 boasting	 and exaggerating	in	burlesque	fashion	their	own	unhappy	personality.

Finally,	they	run	some	risk	when	they	give	themselves	up	to	this	boasting;	in

which	again	they	find	a	semblance	of	life	and	liberty—the	only	thing	they	care	for.

Would	 not	 a	 millionaire	 with	 a	 rope	 round	 his	 neck	 give	 all	 his	 millions	 for	 one breath	 of	 air?	 A	 prisoner	 has	 lived	 quietly	 for	 several	 years	 in	 succession,	 his conduct	has	been	so	exemplary	that	he	has	been	rewarded	by	special	exemptions.

Suddenly,	 to	 the	 great	 astonishment	 of	 his	 chiefs,	 this	 man	 becomes	 mutinous, plays	the	very	devil,	and	does	not	recoil	from	a	capital	crime	such	as	assassination, violation,	etc.	Every	one	is	astounded	at	the	cause	of	this	unexpected	explosion	on the	 part	 of	 a	 man	 thought	 incapable	 of	 such	 a	 thing.	 It	 is	 the	 convulsive manifestation	 of	 his	 personality,	 an	 instinctive	 melancholia,	 an	 uncontrollable desire	 for	 self-assertion,	 all	 of	 which	 obscures	 his	 reason.	 It	 is	 a	 sort	 of	 epileptic attack,	 a	 spasm.	 A	 man	 buried	 alive	 who	 suddenly	 wakes	 up	 must	 strike	 in	 a similar	 manner	 against	 the	 lid	 of	 his	 coffin.	 He	 tries	 to	 rise	 up,	 to	 push	 it	 from him,	although	his	reason	must	convince	him	of	the	uselessness	of	his	efforts.

Reason,	 however,	 has	 nothing	 to	 do	 with	 this	 convulsion.	 It	 must	 not	 be forgotten	 that	 almost	 every	 voluntary	 manifestation	 on	 the	 part	 of	 a	 convict	 is looked	upon	as	a	crime.	Accordingly,	it	is	a	perfect	matter	of	indifference	to	them whether	 this	 manifestation	 be	 important	 or	 insignificant,	 debauch	 for	 debauch, danger	for	danger.	It	is	just	as	well	to	go	to	the	end,	even	as	far	as	a	murder.	The only	difficulty	is	the	first	step.	Little	by	little	the	man	becomes	excited,	intoxicated, and	can	no	longer	contain	himself.	For	that	reason	it	would	be	better	not	to	drive him	to	extremities.	Everybody	would	be	much	better	for	it.

But	how	can	this	be	managed?





CHAPTER	7.

THE	FIRST	MONTH	( CONTINUED) When	I	entered	the	convict	prison	I	possessed	a	small	sum	of	money;	but

I	carried	very	little	of	it	about	with	me,	lest	it	should	be	confiscated.	I

had	gummed	some	banknotes	into	the	binding	of	my	New	Testament—

the	 only	 book	 authorised	 in	 the	 convict	 prison.	 This	 New	 Testament	 had	 been given	 to	 me	 at	 Tobolsk,	 by	 a	 person	 who	 had	 been	 exiled	 some	 dozens	 of	 years, and	who	had	got	accustomed	to	see	in	other	“unfortunates”	a	brother.

There	are	in	Siberia	people	who	pass	their	lives	in	giving	brotherly	assistance to	the	“unfortunates.”	They	feel	the	same	sympathy	for	them	that	they	would	have for	 their	 own	 children.	 Their	 compassion	 is	 something	 sacred	 and	 quite disinterested.	I	cannot	help	here	relating	in	some	words	a	meeting	which	I	had	at this	time.

In	 the	 town	 where	 we	 were	 then	 imprisoned	 lived	 a	 widow,	 Nastasia

Ivanovna.	Naturally,	none	of	us	were	in	direct	relations	with	this	woman.	She	had made	it	the	object	of	her	life	to	come	to	the	assistance	of	all	the	exiles;	but,	above all,	 of	 us	 convicts.	 Had	 there	 been	 some	 misfortune	 in	 her	 family?	 Had	 some person	dear	to	her	undergone	a	punishment	similar	to	ours?	I	do	not	know.	In	any case,	she	did	for	us	whatever	she	could.	It	is	true	she	could	do	very	little,	for	she was	 very	 poor.	 But	 we	 felt	 when	 we	 were	 shut	 up	 in	 the	 convict	 prison	 that, outside,	we	had	a	devoted	friend.	She	often	brought	us	news,	which	we	were	very glad	to	hear,	for	nothing	of	the	kind	reached	us.

When	I	left	the	prison	to	be	taken	to	another	town,	I	had	the	opportunity	of

calling	upon	her	and	making	her	acquaintance.	She	lived	in	one	of	the	suburbs,	at the	house	of	a	near	relation.

Nastasia	Ivanovna	was	neither	old	nor	young,	neither	pretty	nor	ugly.	It	was

difficult,	impossible	even,	to	know	whether	she	was	intelligent	and	well-bred.	But in	her	actions	could	be	seen	infinite	compassion,	an	irresistible	desire	to	please,	to solace,	to	be	in	some	way	agreeable.	All	this	could	be	read	in	the	sweetness	of	her smile.

I	 passed	 an	 entire	 evening	 at	 her	 house,	 with	 other	 companions	 of	 my imprisonment.	 She	 looked	 us	 straight	 in	 the	 face,	 laughed	 when	 we	 laughed,	 did everything	we	asked	her,	in	conversation	was	always	of	our	opinion,	and	did	her best	 in	 every	 way	 to	 entertain	 us.	 She	 gave	 us	 tea	 and	 various	 little	 delicacies.	 If she	had	been	rich	we	felt	sure	she	would	have	been	pleased,	if	only	to	be	able	to entertain	us	better	and	offer	for	us	some	solid	consolation.

When	 we	 wished	 her	 “good-bye,”	 she	 gave	 us	 each	 a	 present	 of	 a	 cardboard cigar-case	 as	 a	 souvenir.	 She	 had	 made	 them	 herself—Heaven	 knows	 how—with coloured	 paper,	 the	 paper	 with	 which	 school-boys’	 copy-books	 are	 covered.	 All round	this	cardboard	cigar-case	she	had	gummed,	by	way	of	ornamentation,	a	thin edge	of	gilt	paper.

“As	you	smoke,	these	cigar-cases	will	perhaps	be	of	use	to	you,”	she	said,	as	if excusing	herself	for	making	such	a	present.

There	are	people	who	say,	as	I	have	read	and	heard,	that	a	great	love	for	one’s neighbour	 is	 only	 a	 form	 of	 selfishness.	 What	 selfishness	 could	 there	 be	 in	 this?

That	I	could	never	understand.

Although	 I	 had	 not	 much	 money	 when	 I	 entered	 the	 convict	 prison,	 I	 could not	 nevertheless	 feel	 seriously	 annoyed	 with	 convicts	 who,	 immediately	 on	 my arrival,	 after	 having	 deceived	 me	 once,	 came	 to	 borrow	 of	 me	 a	 second,	 a	 third time,	 and	 even	 oftener.	 But	 I	 admitted	 frankly	 that	 what	 did	 annoy	 me	 was	 the thought	that	all	these	people,	with	their	smiling	knavery,	must	take	me	for	a	fool, and	 laugh	 at	 me	 just	 because	 I	 lent	 the	 money	 for	 the	 fifth	 time.	 It	 must	 have seemed	 to	 them	 that	 I	 was	 the	 dupe	 of	 their	 tricks	 and	 their	 deceit.	 If,	 on	 the contrary,	 I	 had	 refused	 them	 and	 sent	 them	 away,	 I	 am	 certain	 that	 they	 would have	had	much	more	respect	for	me.	Still,	though	it	vexed	me	very	much,	I	could not	refuse	them.

I	was	rather	anxious	during	the	first	days	to	know	what	footing	I	should	hold

in	 the	 convict	 prison,	 and	 what	 rule	 of	 conduct	 I	 should	 follow	 with	 my companions.	I	felt	and	perfectly	understood	that	the	place	being	in	every	way	new to	me,	I	was	walking	in	darkness,	and	it	would	be	impossible	for	me	to	live	for	ten years	 in	 darkness.	 I	 decided	 to	 act	 frankly,	 according	 to	 the	 dictates	 of	 my conscience	 and	 my	 personal	 feeling.	 But	 I	 also	 knew	 that	 this	 decision	 might	 be very	 well	 in	 theory,	 and	 that	 I	 should,	 in	 practice,	 be	 governed	 by	 unforeseen events.	 Accordingly,	 in	 addition	 to	 all	 the	 petty	 annoyances	 caused	 to	 me	 by	 my confinement	 in	 the	 convict	 prison,	 one	 terrible	 anguish	 laid	 hold	 of	 me	 and tormented	me	more	and	more.

“The	 dead-house!”	 I	 said	 to	 myself	 when	 night	 fell,	 and	 I	 looked	 from	 the threshold	 of	 our	 barracks	 at	 the	 prisoners	 just	 returned	 from	 their	 labours	 and walking	about	in	the	court-yard,	from	the	kitchen	to	the	barracks,	and	 vice	versâ.

As	I	examined	their	movements	and	their	physiognomies	I	endeavoured	to	guess

what	sort	of	men	they	were,	and	what	their	disposition	might	be.

They	 lounged	 about	 in	 front	 of	 me,	 some	 with	 lowered	 brows,	 others	 full	 of gaiety—one	 of	 these	 expressions	 was	 seen	 on	 every	 convict’s	 face—exchanged insults	or	talked	on	indifferent	matters.	Sometimes,	too,	they	wandered	about	in solitude,	 occupied	 apparently	 with	 their	 own	 reflections;	 some	 of	 them	 with	 a worn-out,	pathetic	look,	others	with	a	conceited	air	of	superiority.	Yes,	here,	even here!—their	 cap	 balanced	 on	 the	 side	 of	 their	 head,	 their	 sheepskin	 coat picturesquely	over	the	shoulder,	insolence	in	their	eyes	and	mockery	on	their	lips.

“Here	is	the	world	to	which	I	am	condemned,	in	which,	in	spite	of	myself,	I

must	somehow	live,”	I	said	to	myself.

I	endeavoured	to	question	Akim	Akimitch,	with	whom	I	liked	to	take	my	tea,

in	 order	 not	 to	 be	 alone,	 for	 I	 wanted	 to	 know	 something	 about	 the	 different convicts.	 In	 parenthesis	 I	 must	 say	 that	 the	 tea,	 at	 the	 beginning	 of	 my imprisonment,	was	almost	my	only	food.	Akim	Akimitch	never	refused	to	take	tea

with	me,	and	he	himself	heated	our	tin	tea-urns,	made	in	the	convict	prison	and let	out	to	me	by	M——.

Akim	 Akimitch	 generally	 drank	 a	 glass	 of	 tea	 (he	 had	 glasses	 of	 his	 own) calmly	and	silently,	then	thanked	me	when	he	had	finished,	and	at	once	went	to

work	on	my	blanket;	but	he	had	not	been	able	to	tell	me	what	I	wanted	to	know,

and	 did	 not	 even	 understand	 my	 desire	 to	 know	 the	 dispositions	 of	 the	 people surrounding	me.	He	listened	to	me	with	a	cunning	smile	which	I	have	still	before my	 eyes.	 No,	 I	 thought,	 I	 must	 find	 out	 for	 myself;	 it	 is	 useless	 to	 interrogate others.

The	 fourth	 day,	 the	 convicts	 were	 drawn	 up	 in	 two	 ranks,	 early	 in	 the morning,	 in	 the	 court-yard	 before	 the	 guard-house,	 close	 to	 the	 prison	 gates.

Before	and	behind	them	were	soldiers	with	loaded	muskets	and	fixed	bayonets.

The	soldier	has	the	right	to	fire	on	the	convict	if	he	tries	to	escape.	But,	on	the other	 hand,	 he	 is	 answerable	 for	 his	 shot,	 if	 there	 was	 no	 absolute	 necessity	 for him	 to	 fire.	 The	 same	 thing	 applies	 to	 revolts.	 But	 who	 would	 think	 of	 openly taking	to	flight?

The	 Engineer	 officer	 arrived	 accompanied	 by	 the	 so-called	 “conductor”	 and by	 some	 non-commissioned	 officers	 of	 the	 Line,	 together	 with	 sappers	 and soldiers	told	off	to	superintend	the	labours	of	the	convicts.

The	roll	was	called.	Then	the	convicts	who	were	going	to	the	tailors’	workshop

started	 first.	 These	 men	 worked	 inside	 the	 prison,	 and	 made	 clothes	 for	 all	 the inmates.	The	other	exiles	went	into	the	outer	workshops,	until	at	last	arrived	the turn	 of	 the	 prisoners	 destined	 for	 field	 labour.	 I	 was	 of	 this	 number—there	 were altogether	 twenty	 of	 us.	 Behind	 the	 fortress	 on	 the	 frozen	 river	 were	 two	 barges belonging	to	the	Government,	which	were	not	worth	anything,	but	which	had	to	be taken	to	pieces	in	order	that	the	wood	might	not	be	lost.	The	wood	was	in	itself	all but	 valueless,	 for	 firewood	 can	 be	 bought	 in	 the	 town	 at	 a	 nominal	 price.	 The whole	country	is	covered	with	forests.

This	work	was	given	to	us	in	order	that	we	might	not	remain	with	our	arms

crossed.	 This	 was	 understood	 on	 both	 sides.	 Accordingly,	 we	 went	 to	 it apathetically;	 though	 just	 the	 contrary	 happened	 when	 work	 had	 to	 be	 done, which	would	be	profitable,	or	when	a	fixed	task	was	assigned	to	us.	In	this	latter case,	although	prisoners	were	to	derive	no	profit	from	their	work,	they	tried	to	get it	over	as	soon	as	possible,	and	took	a	pride	in	doing	it	quickly.	When	such	work	as I	am	speaking	of	had	to	be	done	as	a	matter	of	form,	rather	than	because	it	was necessary,	task	work	could	not	be	asked	for.	We	had	to	go	on	until	the	beating	of the	drum	at	eleven	o’clock	called	back	the	convicts.

The	 day	 was	 warm	 and	 foggy,	 the	 snow	 was	 on	 the	 point	 of	 melting.	 Our entire	 band	 walked	 towards	 the	 bank	 behind	 the	 fortress,	 shaking	 lightly	 their chains	hid	beneath	their	garments:	the	sound	came	forth	clear	and	ringing.	Two	or three	convicts	went	to	get	their	tools	from	the	dépôt.

I	walked	on	with	the	others.	I	had	become	a	little	animated,	for	I	wanted	to

see	 and	 know	 in	 what	 this	 field	 labour	 consisted,	 to	 what	 sort	 of	 work	 I	 was condemned,	and	how	I	should	do	it	for	the	first	time	in	my	life.

I	 remember	 the	 smallest	 particulars.	 We	 met,	 as	 we	 were	 walking	 along,	 a townsman	with	a	long	beard,	who	stopped	and	slipped	his	hand	into	his	pocket.	A prisoner	 left	 our	 party,	 took	 off	 his	 cap	 and	 received	 alms—to	 the	 extent	 of	 five kopecks—then	 came	 back	 hurriedly	 towards	 us.	 The	 townsman	 made	 the	 sign	 of the	 cross	 and	 went	 his	 way.	 The	 five	 kopecks	 were	 spent	 the	 same	 morning	 in buying	 cakes	 of	 white	 bread	 which	 were	 shared	 equally	 among	 us.	 In	 my	 squad some	were	gloomy	and	taciturn,	others	indifferent	and	indolent.	There	were	some who	talked	in	an	idle	manner.	One	of	these	men	was	extremely	gay,	heaven	knows

why.	He	sang	and	danced	as	we	went	along,	shaking	and	ringing	his	chains	at	each step.	This	fat	and	corpulent	convict	was	the	very	one	who,	on	the	very	day	of	my arrival	 during	 the	 general	 washing,	 had	 a	 quarrel	 with	 one	 of	 his	 companions about	the	water,	and	had	ventured	to	compare	him	to	some	sort	of	bird.	His	name was	Scuratoff.	He	finished	by	shouting	out	a	lively	song	of	which	I	remember	the burden:

They	married	me	without	my	consent,

When	I	was	at	the	mill.

Nothing	was	wanting	but	a	balalaika	[the	Russian	banjo].

His	 extraordinary	 good-humour	 was	 justly	 reproved	 by	 several	 of	 the

prisoners,	who	were	offended	by	it.

“Listen	to	his	hallooing,”	said	one	of	the	convicts,	“though	it	doesn’t	become

him.”

“The	wolf	has	but	one	song;	this	Tuliak	[inhabitant	of	Tula]	is	stealing	it	from him,”	said	another,	who	could	be	recognised	by	his	accent	as	a	Little	Russian.

“Of	course	I	am	from	Tula,”	replied	Scuratoff;	“but	we	don’t	stuff	ourselves	to bursting	as	you	do	in	your	Pultava.”

“Liar!	what	did	you	eat	yourself?	Bark	shoes	and	cabbage	soup?”

“You	talk	as	if	the	devil	fed	you	on	sweet	almonds,”	broke	in	a	third.

“I	 admit,	 my	 friend,	 that	 I	 am	 an	 effeminate	 man,”	 said	 Scuratoff	 with	 a gentle	 sigh,	 as	 though	 he	 were	 really	 reproaching	 himself	 for	 his	 effeminacy.

“From	 my	 most	 tender	 infancy	 I	 was	 brought	 up	 in	 luxury,	 fed	 on	 plums	 and delicate	cakes.	My	brothers	even	now	have	a	large	business	at	Moscow.	They	are

wholesale	 dealers	 in	 the	 wind	 that	 blows;	 immensely	 rich	 men,	 as	 you	 may imagine.”

“And	what	did	you	sell?”

“I	was	very	successful,	and	when	I	received	my	first	two	hundred——”

“Roubles?	 impossible!”	 interrupted	 one	 of	 the	 prisoners,	 struck	 with amazement	at	hearing	of	so	large	a	sum.

“No,	 my	 good	 fellow,	 not	 two	 hundred	 roubles,	 two	 hundred	 blows	 of	 the stick.	Luka;	I	say	Luka!”

“Some	 have	 the	 right	 to	 call	 me	 Luka,	 but	 for	 you	 I	 am	 Luka	 Kouzmitch,”

replied	rather	ill-temperedly	a	small,	feeble	convict	with	a	pointed	nose.

“The	devil	take	you,	you	are	really	not	worth	speaking	to;	yet	I	wanted	to	be

civil	 to	 you.	 But	 to	 continue	 my	 story;	 this	 is	 how	 it	 happened	 that	 I	 did	 not remain	any	longer	at	Moscow.	I	received	my	fifteen	last	strokes	and	was	then	sent off,	and	was	at——”

“But	 what	 were	 you	 sent	 for?”	 asked	 a	 convict	 who	 had	 been	 listening attentively.

“Don’t	ask	stupid	questions.	I	was	explaining	to	you	how	it	was	I	did	not	make

my	fortune	at	Moscow;	and	yet	how	anxious	I	was	to	be	rich,	you	could	scarcely

imagine	how	much.”

Many	 of	 the	 prisoners	 began	 to	 laugh.	 Scuratoff	 was	 one	 of	 those	 lively persons,	 full	 of	 animal	 spirits,	 who	 take	 a	 pleasure	 in	 amusing	 their	 graver companions,	and	who,	as	a	matter	of	course,	received	no	reward	except	insults.	He belonged	 to	 a	 type	 of	 men,	 to	 whose	 characteristics	 I	 shall,	 perhaps,	 have	 to return.

“And	what	a	fellow	he	is	now!”	observed	Luka	Kouzmitch.	“His	clothes	alone

must	be	worth	a	hundred	roubles.”

Scuratoff	 had	 the	 oldest	 and	 greasiest	 sheepskin	 that	 could	 be	 seen.	 It	 was mended	 in	 many	 different	 places	 with	 pieces	 that	 scarcely	 hung	 together.	 He looked	at	Luka	attentively	from	head	to	foot.

“It	is	my	head,	friend,”	he	said,	“my	head	that	is	worth	money.	When	I	took

farewell	of	Moscow,	I	was	half	consoled,	because	my	head	was	to	make	the	journey on	 my	 shoulders.	 Farewell,	 Moscow,	 I	 shall	 never	 forget	 your	 free	 air,	 nor	 the tremendous	flogging	I	got.	As	for	my	sheepskin,	you	are	not	obliged	to	look	at	it.”

“You	would	like	me,	perhaps,	to	look	at	your	head?”

“If	 it	 was	 really	 his	 own	 natural	 property,	 but	 it	 was	 given	 him	 in	 charity,”

cried	Luka	Kouzmitch.	“It	was	a	gift	made	to	him	at	Tumen,	when	the	convoy	was

passing	through	the	town.”

“Scuratoff,	had	you	a	workshop?”

“What	 workshop	 could	 he	 have?	 He	 was	 only	 a	 cobbler,”	 said	 one	 of	 the convicts.

“It	is	true,”	said	Scuratoff,	without	noticing	the	caustic	tone	of	the	speaker.	“I tried	to	mend	boots,	but	I	never	got	beyond	a	single	pair.”

“And	were	you	paid	for	them?”

“Well,	I	found	a	fellow	who	certainly	neither	feared	God	nor	honoured	either

his	father	or	his	mother,	and	as	a	punishment,	Providence	made	him	buy	the	work of	my	hands.”

The	men	around	Scuratoff	burst	into	a	laugh.

“I	 also	 worked	 once	 at	 the	 convict	 prison,”	 continued	 Scuratoff,	 with imperturbable	coolness.	“I	did	up	the	boots	of	Stepan	Fedoritch,	the	lieutenant.”

“And	was	he	satisfied?”

“No,	my	dear	fellows,	indeed	he	was	not;	he	blackguarded	me	enough	to	last

me	for	the	rest	of	my	life.	He	also	pushed	me	from	behind	with	his	knee.	What	a rage	 he	 was	 in!	 Ah!	 my	 life	 has	 deceived	 me.	 I	 see	 no	 fun	 in	 the	 convict	 prison whatever.”	He	began	to	sing	again.

Akolina’s	husband	is	in	the	court-yard.

There	he	waits.

Again	he	sang,	and	again	he	danced	and	leaped.

“Most	 unbecoming!”	 murmured	 the	 Little	 Russian,	 who	 was	 walking	 by	 my side.

“Frivolous	man!”	said	another	in	a	serious,	decided	tone.

I	 could	 not	 make	 out	 why	 they	 insulted	 Scuratoff,	 nor	 why	 they	 despised those	convicts	who	were	light-hearted,	as	they	seemed	to	do.	I	attributed	the	anger of	the	Little	Russian	and	the	others	to	a	feeling	of	personal	hostility,	but	in	this	I was	 wrong.	 They	 were	 vexed	 that	 Scuratoff	 had	 not	 that	 puffed-up	 air	 of	 false dignity	with	which	the	whole	of	the	convict	prison	was	impregnated.

They	did	not,	however,	get	annoyed	with	all	the	jokers,	nor	treat	them	all	like Scuratoff.	Some	of	them	were	men	who	would	stand	no	nonsense,	and	forgive	no one	voluntarily	or	involuntarily.	It	was	necessary	to	treat	them	with	respect.	There was	in	our	band	a	convict	of	this	very	kind,	a	good-natured,	lively	fellow,	whom	I did	not	see	in	his	true	light	until	later	on.	He	was	a	tall	young	fellow,	with	pleasant manners,	 and	 not	 without	 good	 looks.	 There	 was	 at	 the	 same	 time	 a	 very	 comic expression	on	his	face.

He	 was	 called	 the	 Sapper,	 because	 he	 had	 served	 in	 the	 Engineers.	 He belonged	to	the	special	section.

But	 all	 the	 serious-minded	 convicts	 were	 not	 so	 particular	 as	 the	 Little Russian,	who	could	not	bear	to	see	people	gay.

We	had	in	our	prison	several	men	who	aimed	at	a	certain	preeminence,	either

in	 virtue	 of	 skill	 at	 their	 work,	 of	 their	 general	 ingenuity,	 of	 their	 character,	 or their	wit.	Many	of	them	were	intelligent	and	energetic,	and	reached	the	point	they were	 aiming	 at—preeminence,	 that	 is	 to	 say,	 and	 moral	 influence	 over	 their companions.	 They	 often	 hated	 one	 another,	 and	 they	 excited	 general	 envy.	 They looked	 upon	 other	 convicts	 with	 a	 dignified	 air,	 that	 was	 full	 of	 condescension; and	 they	 never	 quarrelled	 without	 a	 cause.	 Favourably	 looked	 upon	 by	 the administration,	they	in	some	measure	directed	the	work,	and	none	of	them	would

have	 lowered	 himself	 so	 far	 as	 to	 quarrel	 with	 a	 man	 about	 his	 songs.	 All	 these men	were	very	polite	to	me	during	the	whole	time	of	my	imprisonment,	but	not	at all	communicative.

At	 last	 we	 reached	 the	 bank;	 a	 little	 lower	 down	 was	 the	 old	 hulk,	 which	 we were	to	break	up,	stuck	fast	in	the	ice.	On	the	other	side	of	the	water	was	the	blue steppe	 and	 the	 sad	 horizon.	 I	 expected	 to	 see	 every	 one	 go	 to	 work	 at	 once.

Nothing	of	the	kind.	Some	of	the	convicts	sat	down	negligently	on	wooden	beams

that	 were	 lying	 near	 the	 shore,	 and	 nearly	 all	 took	 from	 their	 pockets	 pouches containing	native	tobacco—which	was	sold	in	leaf	at	the	market	at	the	rate	of	three kopecks	 a	 pound—and	 short	 wooden	 pipes.	 They	 lighted	 them	 while	 the	 soldiers formed	a	circle	around	them,	and	began	to	watch	us	with	a	tired	look.

“Who	the	devil	had	the	idea	of	sinking	this	barque?”	asked	one	of	the	convicts

in	a	loud	voice,	without	speaking	to	any	one	in	particular.

“Were	they	very	anxious,	then,	to	have	it	broken	up?”

“The	people	were	not	afraid	to	give	us	work,”	said	another.

“Where	 are	 all	 those	 peasants	 going	 to	 work?”	 said	 the	 first,	 after	 a	 short silence.

He	had	not	even	heard	his	companion’s	answer.	He	pointed	with	his	finger	to

the	 distance,	 where	 a	 troop	 of	 peasants	 were	 marching	 in	 file	 across	 the	 virgin snow.

All	 the	 convicts	 turned	 negligently	 towards	 this	 side,	 and	 began	 from	 mere idleness	to	laugh	at	the	peasants	as	they	approached	them.	One	of	them,	the	last	of the	line,	walked	very	comically	with	his	arms	apart,	and	his	head	on	one	side.	He wore	a	tall	pointed	cap.	His	shadow	threw	itself	in	clear	lines	on	the	white	snow.

“Look	 how	 our	 brother	 Petrovitch	 is	 dressed,”	 said	 one	 of	 my	 companions, imitating	 the	 pronunciation	 of	 the	 peasants	 of	 the	 locality.	 One	 amusing	 thing— the	 convicts	 looked	 down	 on	 peasants,	 although	 they	 were	 for	 the	 most	 part peasants	by	origin.

“The	last	one,	too,	above	all,	looks	as	if	he	were	planting	radishes.”

“He	is	an	important	personage,	he	has	lots	of	money,”	said	a	third.

They	all	began	to	laugh	without,	however,	seeming	genuinely	amused.

During	 this	 time	 a	 woman	 selling	 cakes	 came	 up.	 She	 was	 a	 brisk,	 lively person,	 and	 it	 was	 with	 her	 that	 the	 five	 kopecks	 given	 by	 the	 townsman	 were spent.

The	young	fellow	who	sold	white	bread	in	the	convict	prison	took	two	dozen

of	her	cakes,	and	had	a	long	discussion	with	the	woman	in	order	to	get	a	reduction in	price.	She	would	not,	however,	agree	to	his	terms.

At	 last	 the	 non-commissioned	 officer	 appointed	 to	 superintend	 the	 work came	up	with	a	cane	in	his	hand.

“What	are	you	sitting	down	for?	Begin	at	once.”

“Give	us	our	tasks,	Ivan	Matveitch,”	said	one	of	the	“foremen”	among	us,	as

he	slowly	got	up.

“What	more	do	you	want?	Take	out	the	barque,	that	is	your	task.”

Then	 ultimately	 the	 convicts	 got	 up	 and	 went	 to	 the	 river,	 but	 very	 slowly.

Different	“directors”	appeared,	“directors,”	at	least,	in	words.	The	barque	was	not to	 be	 broken	 up	 anyhow.	 The	 latitudinal	 and	 longitudinal	 beams	 were	 to	 be preserved,	and	this	was	not	an	easy	thing	to	manage.

“Draw	 this	 beam	 out,	 that	 is	 the	 first	 thing	 to	 do,”	 cried	 a	 convict	 who	 was neither	a	director	nor	a	foreman,	but	a	simple	workman.	This	man,	very	quiet	and a	little	stupid,	had	not	previously	spoken.	He	now	bent	down,	took	hold	of	a	heavy beam	 with	 both	 hands,	 and	 waited	 for	 some	 one	 to	 help	 him.	 No	 one,	 however, seemed	inclined	to	do	so.

“Not	 you,	 indeed,	 you	 will	 never	 manage	 it;	 not	 even	 your	 grandfather,	 the bear,	could	do	it,”	muttered	some	one	between	his	teeth.

“Well,	 my	 friend,	 are	 we	 to	 begin?	 As	 for	 me,	 I	 can	 do	 nothing	 alone,”	 said, with	a	morose	air,	the	man	who	had	put	himself	forward,	and	who	now,	quitting the	beam,	held	himself	upright.

“Unless	you	are	going	to	do	all	the	work	by	yourself,	what	are	you	in	such	a

hurry	about?”

“I	 was	 only	 speaking,”	 said	 the	 poor	 fellow,	 excusing	 himself	 for	 his forwardness.

“Must	you	have	blankets	to	keep	yourselves	warm,	or	are	you	to	be	heated	for

the	winter?”	cried	a	non-commissioned	officer	to	the	twenty	men	who	seemed	to

loathe	to	begin	work.	“Go	on	at	once.”

“It	is	never	any	use	being	in	a	hurry,	Ivan	Matveitch.”

“But	 you	 are	 doing	 nothing	 at	 all,	 Savelieff.	 What	 are	 you	 casting	 your	 eyes about	for?	Are	they	for	sale,	by	chance?	Come,	go	on.”

“What	can	I	do	alone?”

“Set	us	tasks,	Ivan	Matveitch.”

“I	told	you	before	that	I	had	no	task	to	give	you.	Attack	the	barque,	and	when

you	have	finished	we	will	go	back	to	the	house.	Come,	begin.”

The	 prisoners	 began	 work,	 but	 with	 no	 good-will,	 and	 very	 indolently.	 The irritation	of	the	chief	at	seeing	these	vigorous	men	remain	so	idle	was	intelligible enough.	While	the	first	rivet	was	being	removed	it	suddenly	snapped.

“It	 broke	 to	 pieces,”	 said	 the	 convict	 in	 self-justification.	 It	 was	 impossible, then,	 they	 suggested,	 to	 work	 in	 such	 a	 manner.	 What	 was	 to	 be	 done?	 A	 long discussion	 took	 place	 between	 the	 prisoners,	 and	 little	 by	 little	 they	 came	 to insults;	 nor	 did	 this	 seem	 likely	 to	 be	 the	 end	 of	 it.	 The	 under	 officer	 cried	 out again	 as	 he	 agitated	 his	 stick,	 but	 the	 second	 rivet	 snapped	 like	 the	 first.	 It	 was then	agreed	that	hatchets	were	of	no	use,	and	that	other	tools	must	be	procured.

Accordingly,	two	prisoners	were	sent	under	escort	to	the	fortress	to	get	the	proper instruments.	 Waiting	 their	 return,	 the	 other	 convicts	 sat	 down	 on	 the	 bank	 as calmly	 as	 possible,	 pulled	 out	 their	 pipes	 and	 began	 again	 to	 smoke.	 Finally,	 the under	officer	spat	with	contempt.

“Well,”	 he	 exclaimed,	 “the	 work	 you	 are	 doing	 will	 not	 kill	 you.	 Oh,	 what people,	 what	 people!”	 he	 grumbled,	 with	 an	 ill-natured	 air.	 He	 then	 made	 a gesture,	and	went	away	to	the	fortress,	brandishing	his	cane.

After	an	hour	the	“conductor”	arrived.	He	listened	quietly	to	what	the	convicts had	to	say,	declared	that	the	task	he	gave	them	was	to	get	off	four	rivets	unbroken, and	to	demolish	a	good	part	of	the	barque.	As	soon	as	this	was	done	the	prisoners could	go	back	to	the	house.	The	task	was	a	considerable	one,	but,	good	heavens!

how	the	convicts	now	went	to	work!	Where	now	was	their	idleness,	their	want	of

skill?	The	hatchets	soon	began	to	dance,	and	soon	the	rivets	were	sprung.	Those who	had	no	hatchets	made	use	of	thick	sticks	to	push	beneath	the	rivets,	and	thus in	 due	 time	 and	 in	 artistic	 fashion,	 they	 got	 them	 out.	 The	 convicts	 seemed suddenly	 to	 have	 become	 intelligent	 in	 their	 conversation.	 No	 more	 insults	 were heard.	 Every	 one	 knew	 perfectly	 what	 to	 say,	 to	 do,	 to	 advise.	 Just	 half-an-hour before	 the	 beating	 of	 the	 drum,	 the	 appointed	 task	 was	 executed,	 and	 the prisoners	returned	to	the	convict	prison	fatigued,	but	pleased	to	have	gained	half-an-hour	from	the	working	time	fixed	by	the	regulations.

As	regards	myself,	I	have	only	one	thing	to	say.	Wherever	I	stood	to	help	the

workers	 I	 was	 never	 in	 my	 place;	 they	 always	 drove	 me	 away,	 and	 generally insulted	 me.	 Any	 one	 of	 the	 ragged	 lot,	 any	 miserable	 workman	 who	 would	 not have	 dared	 to	 say	 a	 syllable	 to	 the	 other	 convicts,	 all	 more	 intelligent	 and	 skilful than	 he,	 assumed	 the	 right	 of	 swearing	 at	 me	 if	 I	 went	 near	 him,	 under	 pretext that	I	interfered	with	him	in	his	work.	At	last	one	of	the	best	of	them	said	to	me frankly,	but	coarsely:

“What	 do	 you	 want	 here?	 Be	 off	 with	 you!	 Why	 do	 you	 come	 when	 no	 one calls	you?”

“That	is	it,”	added	another.

“You	would	do	better	to	take	a	pitcher,”	said	a	third,	“and	carry	water	to	the house	that	is	being	built,	or	go	to	the	tobacco	factory.	You	are	no	good	here.”

I	was	obliged	to	keep	apart.	To	remain	idle	while	others	were	working	seemed

a	shame;	but	when	I	went	to	the	other	end	of	the	barque	I	was	insulted	anew.

“What	men	we	have	to	work!”	was	the	cry.	“What	can	be	done	with	fellows	of

this	kind?”

All	 this	 was	 said	 spitefully.	 They	 were	 pleased	 to	 have	 the	 opportunity	 of laughing	at	a	gentleman.

It	will	now	be	understood	that	my	first	thought	on	entering	the	convict	prison

was	to	ask	myself	how	I	should	ever	get	on	with	such	people.	I	foresaw	that	such incidents	would	often	be	repeated;	but	I	resolved	not	to	change	my	conduct	in	any way,	whatever	might	be	the	result.	I	had	decided	to	live	simply	and	intelligently, without	manifesting	the	least	desire	to	approach	my	companions;	but	also	without repelling	them,	if	they	themselves	desired	to	approach	me;	in	no	way	to	fear	their threats	or	their	hatred;	and	to	pretend	as	much	as	possible	not	to	be	affected	by them.	 Such	 was	 my	 plan.	 I	 saw	 from	 the	 first	 that	 they	 would	 despise	 me,	 if	 I adopted	any	other	course.

When	 I	 returned	 in	 the	 evening	 to	 the	 convict	 prison,	 having	 finished	 my afternoon’s	 work,	 fatigued	 and	 harassed,	 a	 deep	 sadness	 took	 possession	 of	 me.

“How	 many	 thousands	 of	 days	 have	 I	 to	 pass	 like	 this	 one?”	 Always	 the	 same thought.	 I	 walked	 about	 alone	 and	 meditated	 as	 night	 fell,	 when,	 suddenly,	 near the	palisade	behind	the	barracks,	I	saw	my	friend,	Bull,	who	ran	towards	me.

Bull	 was	 the	 dog	 of	 the	 prison;	 for	 the	 prison	 has	 its	 dog	 as	 companies	 of infantry,	batteries	of	artillery,	and	squadrons	of	cavalry	have	theirs.	He	had	been there	 for	 a	 long	 time,	 belonged	 to	 no	 one,	 looked	 upon	 every	 one	 as	 his	 master, and	lived	on	the	remains	from	the	kitchen.	He	was	a	good-sized	black	dog,	spotted with	 white,	 not	 very	 old,	 with	 intelligent	 eyes,	 and	 a	 bushy	 tail.	 No	 one	 caressed him	 or	 paid	 the	 least	 attention	 to	 him.	 As	 soon	 as	 I	 arrived	 I	 made	 friends	 with him	by	giving	him	a	piece	of	bread.	When	I	patted	him	on	the	back	he	remained motionless,	looked	at	me	with	a	pleased	expression,	and	gently	wagged	his	tail.

That	evening,	not	having	seen	me	the	whole	day—me,	the	first	person	who	in

so	 many	 years	 had	 thought	 of	 caressing	 him—he	 ran	 towards	 me,	 leaping	 and barking.	It	had	such	an	effect	on	me	that	I	could	not	help	embracing	him.	I	placed his	head	against	my	body.	He	placed	his	paws	on	my	shoulders	and	looked	me	in the	face.

“Here	is	a	friend	sent	to	me	by	destiny,”	I	said	to	myself,	and	during	the	first weeks,	 so	 full	 of	 pain,	 every	 time	 that	 I	 came	 back	 from	 work	 I	 hastened,	 before doing	anything	else,	to	go	to	the	back	of	the	barracks	with	Bull,	who	leaped	with joy	 before	 me.	 I	 took	 his	 head	 in	 my	 hands	 and	 kissed	 it.	 At	 the	 same	 time	 a troubled,	 bitter	 feeling	 pressed	 my	 heart.	 I	 well	 remember	 thinking—and	 taking pleasure	 in	 the	 thought—that	 this	 was	 my	 one,	 my	 only	 friend	 in	 the	 world—my faithful	dog,	Bull.





CHAPTER	8.

NEW	ACQUAINTANCES—PETROFF

Time	went	on,	and	little	by	little	I	accustomed	myself	to	my	new	life.	The

scenes	I	had	daily	before	me	no	longer	afflicted	me	so	much.	In	a	word,	the

convict	prison,	its	inhabitants,	and	its	manners,	left	me	indifferent.	To	get

reconciled	to	this	life	was	impossible,	but	I	had	to	accept	it	as	an	inevitable	fact.	I had	 driven	 entirely	 away	 from	 me	 all	 the	 anxiety	 by	 which	 I	 had	 at	 first	 been troubled.	I	no	longer	wandered	through	the	convict	prison	like	a	lost	soul,	and	no longer	 allowed	 myself	 to	 be	 subjugated	 by	 my	 anxiety.	 The	 wild	 curiosity	 of	 the convicts	 had	 had	 its	 edge	 taken	 off,	 and	 I	 was	 no	 longer	 looked	 upon	 with	 that affectation	or	insolence	previously	displayed.	They	had	become	indifferent	to	me, and	I	was	very	glad	of	it.	I	began	to	feel	at	home	in	the	barracks.	I	knew	where	to go	 and	 sleep	 at	 night;	 gradually	 I	 became	 accustomed	 to	 things	 the	 very	 idea	 of which	would	formerly	have	been	repugnant	to	me.	I	went	every	week	regularly	to have	 my	 head	 shaved.	 We	 were	 called	 every	 Saturday	 one	 after	 another	 to	 the guard-house.	The	regimental	barbers	lathered	our	skulls	with	cold	water	and	soap, and	scraped	us	afterwards	with	their	saw-like	razors.

Merely	the	thought	of	this	torture	gives	me	a	shudder.	I	soon	found	a	remedy

for	it—Akim	Akimitch	pointed	it	out	to	me—a	prisoner	in	the	military	section	who for	one	kopeck	shaved	those	who	paid	for	it	with	his	own	razor.	This	was	his	trade.

Many	of	the	prisoners	were	his	customers	merely	to	avoid	the	military	barbers,	yet these	 were	 not	 men	 of	 weak	 nerves.	 Our	 barber	 was	 called	 the	 “major,”	 why,	 I cannot	 say.	 As	 far	 as	 I	 know	 he	 possessed	 no	 points	 of	 resemblance	 with	 any major.	As	I	write	these	lines	I	see	clearly	before	me	the	“major”	and	his	thin	face.

He	was	a	tall	fellow,	silent,	rather	stupid,	absorbed	entirely	by	his	business;	he	was never	to	be	seen	without	a	strop	in	his	hand,	on	which	day	and	night	he	sharpened a	 razor,	 which	 was	 always	 in	 admirable	 condition.	 He	 had	 certainly	 made	 this work	the	supreme	object	of	his	life;	he	was	really	happy	when	his	razor	was	quite sharp	 and	 his	 services	 were	 in	 request;	 his	 soap	 was	 always	 warm,	 and	 he	 had	 a very	light	hand—a	hand	of	velvet.	He	was	proud	of	his	skill,	and	used	to	take	with a	careless	air	the	kopeck	he	received;	one	might	have	thought	that	he	worked	from love	of	his	art,	and	not	in	order	to	gain	money.

A——f	was	soundly	corrected	by	our	real	Major	one	day,	because	he	had	the

misfortune	 to	 say	 the	 “major”	 when	 he	 was	 speaking	 of	 the	 barber	 who	 shaved him.	The	real	Major	was	in	a	violent	rage.

“Blackguard,”	he	cried,	“do	you	know	what	a	major	is?”	and	according	to	his

habit	 he	 shook	 A——f	 violently.	 “The	 idea	 of	 calling	 a	 scoundrel	 of	 a	 convict	 a ‘major’	in	my	presence.”

From	the	first	day	of	my	imprisonment	I	began	to	dream	of	my	liberation.	My

favourite	 occupation	 was	 to	 count	 thousands	 and	 thousands	 of	 times	 in	 a thousand	 different	 manners	 the	 number	 of	 days	 that	 I	 should	 have	 to	 pass	 in prison.	I	thought	of	that	only,	and	every	one	deprived	of	his	liberty	for	a	fixed	time does	the	same;	of	that	I	am	certain.	I	cannot	say	that	all	the	convicts	had	the	same degree	 of	 hopefulness,	 but	 their	 sanguine	 character	 often	 astonished	 me.	 The hopefulness	 of	 a	 prisoner	 differs	 essentially	 from	 that	 of	 a	 free	 man.	 The	 latter may	 desire	 an	 amelioration	 in	 his	 position,	 or	 a	 realisation	 of	 some	 enterprise which	he	has	undertaken,	but	meanwhile	he	lives,	he	acts;	he	is	swept	away	in	the whirlwind	of	real	life.	Nothing	of	the	kind	takes	place	in	the	case	of	the	convict	for life.	He	lives	also	in	a	way,	but	not	being	condemned	to	a	fixed	number	of	years,	he takes	a	vaguer	view	of	his	situation	than	the	one	who	is	imprisoned	for	a	definite term.	The	man	condemned	for	a	comparatively	short	period	feels	that	he	is	not	at home;	he	looks	upon	himself,	so	to	say,	as	on	a	visit;	he	regards	the	twenty	years of	 his	 punishment	 as	 two	 years	 at	 most;	 he	 is	 sure	 that	 at	 fifty,	 when	 he	 has finished	his	sentence,	he	will	be	as	young	and	as	lively	as	at	thirty-five.	“We	have time	 before	 us,”	 he	 thinks,	 and	 he	 strives	 obstinately	 to	 dispel	 discouraging thoughts.	Even	a	man	sentenced	for	life	thinks	that	some	day	an	order	may	arrive from	St.	Petersburg—“Transport	such	a	one	to	the	mines	at	Nertchinsk	and	fix	a

term	for	his	detention.”	It	would	be	famous,	first	because	it	takes	six	months	to	get to	Nertchinsk,	and	the	life	on	the	road	is	a	hundred	times	preferable	to	the	convict prison.	 He	 would	 finish	 his	 time	 at	 Nertchinsk,	 and	 then—more	 than	 one	 gray-haired	old	man	speculates	in	this	way.

At	Tobolsk	I	have	seen	men	fastened	to	the	wall	by	a	chain	about	two	yards

long;	 by	 their	 side	 they	 have	 their	 bed.	 They	 are	 thus	 chained	 for	 some	 terrible crime	committed	after	their	transportation	to	Siberia;	they	are	kept	chained	up	for five,	 ten	 years.	 They	 are	 nearly	 all	 brigands,	 and	 I	 only	 saw	 one	 of	 them	 who looked	 like	 a	 man	 of	 good	 breeding;	 he	 had	 been	 in	 some	 branch	 of	 the	 Civil Service,	and	spoke	in	a	soft,	lisping	way;	his	smile	was	sweet	but	sickly;	he	showed us	 his	 chain,	 and	 pointed	 out	 to	 us	 the	 most	 convenient	 way	 of	 lying	 down.	 He must	have	been	a	nice	person!	All	these	poor	wretches	are	perfectly	well-behaved; they	all	seem	satisfied,	and	yet	their	desire	to	finish	their	period	of	chains	devours them.	Why?	it	will	be	asked.	Because	then	they	will	leave	their	low,	damp,	stifling cells	 for	 the	 court-yard	 of	 the	 convict	 prison,	 that	 is	 all.	 These	 last	 places	 of confinement	 they	 will	 never	 leave;	 they	 know	 that	 those	 who	 have	 once	 been chained	up	will	never	be	liberated,	and	they	will	die	in	irons.	They	know	all	this, and	yet	they	are	very	anxious	to	be	no	longer	chained	up.	Without	this	hope	could they	remain	five	or	six	years	fastened	to	a	wall,	and	not	die	or	go	mad?

I	soon	understood	that	work	alone	could	save	me,	by	fortifying	my	health	and

my	body,	whereas	incessant	restlessness	of	mind,	nervous	irritation,	and	the	close air	of	the	barracks	would	ruin	them	completely.	I	should	go	out	vigorous	and	full of	elasticity.	I	did	not	deceive	myself,	work	and	movement	were	very	useful	to	me.

I	 saw	 one	 of	 my	 comrades,	 to	 my	 terror,	 melt	 away	 like	 a	 piece	 of	 wax;	 and yet,	 when	 he	 was	 with	 me	 in	 the	 convict	 prison,	 he	 was	 young,	 handsome,	 and vigorous;	when	he	left	his	health	was	ruined,	and	his	legs	could	no	longer	support him.	His	chest,	too,	was	oppressed	by	asthma.

“No,”	I	said	to	myself,	as	I	gazed	upon	him;	“I	wish	to	live,	and	I	will	live.”

My	 love	 for	 work	 exposed	 me	 in	 the	 first	 place	 to	 the	 contempt	 and	 bitter laughter	of	my	comrades;	but	I	paid	no	attention	to	them,	and	went	away	with	a

light	 heart	 wherever	 I	 was	 sent.	 Sometimes,	 for	 instance,	 to	 break	 and	 pound alabaster.	This	work,	the	first	that	was	given	to	me,	is	easy.	The	engineers	did	their utmost	to	lighten	the	task-work	of	all	the	gentlemen;	this	was	not	indulgence,	but simple	 justice.	 Would	 it	 not	 have	 been	 strange	 to	 require	 the	 same	 work	 from	 a labourer	 as	 from	 a	 man	 whose	 strength	 was	 less	 by	 half,	 and	 who	 had	 never worked	with	his	hands?	But	we	were	not	“spoilt”	in	this	way	for	ever,	and	we	were only	spared	in	secret,	for	we	were	severely	watched.	As	real	severe	work	was	by	no means	rare,	it	often	happened	that	the	task	given	to	us	was	beyond	the	strength	of the	gentlemen,	who	thus	suffered	twice	as	much	as	their	comrades.

Generally	 three	 or	 four	 men	 were	 sent	 to	 pound	 the	 alabaster,	 and	 nearly always	 old	 men	 or	 feeble	 ones	 were	 chosen.	 We	 were	 of	 the	 latter	 class.	 A	 man skilled	 in	 this	 particular	 kind	 of	 work	 was	 sent	 with	 us.	 For	 several	 years	 it	 was always	 the	 same	 man,	 Almazoff	 by	 name.	 He	 was	 severe,	 already	 in	 years, sunburnt,	and	very	thin,	by	no	means	communicative,	moreover,	and	difficult	to

get	on	with.	He	despised	us	profoundly;	but	he	was	of	such	a	reserved	disposition that	he	never	broke	it	sufficient	to	call	us	names.	The	shed	in	which	we	calcined the	alabaster	was	built	on	a	sloping	and	deserted	bank	of	the	river.	In	winter,	on	a foggy	day,	the	view	was	sad,	both	on	the	river	and	on	the	opposite	shore,	even	to	a great	 distance.	 There	 was	 something	 heartrending	 in	 this	 dull,	 naked	 landscape, but	it	was	still	sadder	when	a	brilliant	sun	shone	above	the	boundless	white	plain.

How	 one	 would	 have	 liked	 to	 fly	 away	 beyond	 this	 steppe,	 which	 began	 on	 the opposite	 shore	 and	 stretched	 out	 for	 fifteen	 hundred	 versts	 to	 the	 south	 like	 an immense	table-cloth.

Almazoff	went	to	work	silently,	with	a	disagreeable	air.	We	were	ashamed	not

to	 be	 able	 to	 help	 him	 more	 effectually,	 but	 he	 managed	 to	 do	 his	 work	 without our	 assistance,	 and	 seemed	 to	 wish	 to	 make	 us	 understand	 that	 we	 were	 acting unjustly	 towards	 him,	 and	 that	 we	 ought	 to	 repent	 our	 uselessness.	 Our	 work consisted	 in	 heating	 the	 oven	 in	 order	 to	 calcine	 the	 alabaster	 that	 we	 had	 got together	in	a	heap.

The	day	following,	when	the	alabaster	was	entirely	calcined,	we	turned	it	out.

Each	one	filled	a	box	of	alabaster,	which	he	afterwards	crushed.	This	work	was	not disagreeable.	 The	 fragile	 alabaster	 soon	 became	 a	 white,	 brilliant	 dust.	 We brandished	 our	 heavy	 hammers,	 and	 dealt	 such	 formidable	 blows,	 that	 we admired	 our	 own	 strength.	 When	 we	 were	 tired	 we	 felt	 lighter,	 our	 cheeks	 were red,	the	blood	circulated	more	rapidly	in	our	veins.	Almazoff	would	then	look	at	us in	a	condescending	manner,	as	he	would	have	looked	at	little	children.	He	smoked his	 pipe	 with	 an	 indulgent	 air,	 unable,	 however,	 to	 prevent	 himself	 from grumbling.	 When	 he	 opened	 his	 mouth	 he	 was	 never	 otherwise,	 and	 he	 was	 the same	with	every	one.	At	bottom	I	believe	he	was	a	kind	man.

They	gave	me	another	kind	of	labour,	which	consisted	in	working	the	turning

wheel.	This	wheel	was	high	and	heavy,	and	great	efforts	were	necessary	to	make	it go	round,	above	all	when	the	workmen	from	the	workshop	of	the	engineers	used

to	 make	 the	 balustrade	 of	 a	 staircase	 or	 the	 foot	 of	 a	 large	 table,	 which	 required almost	 the	 whole	 trunk.	 No	 one	 man	 could	 have	 done	 the	 work	 alone.	 To	 two convicts,	 B——	 (formerly	 gentleman)	 and	 myself,	 this	 work	 was	 given	 nearly always	 for	 several	 years,	 whenever	 there	 was	 anything	 to	 turn.	 B——	 was	 weak, even	 still	 young,	 and	 somewhat	 sympathetic.	 He	 had	 been	 sent	 to	 prison	 a	 year before	me,	with	two	companions	who	were	also	of	noble	birth.	One	of	them,	an	old man,	 used	 to	 pray	 day	 and	 night.	 The	 prisoners	 respected	 him	 greatly	 for	 it.	 He died	in	prison.	The	other	one	was	quite	a	young	man,	fresh-coloured,	strong,	and courageous.	 He	 had	 carried	 his	 companion	 B——	 for	 several	 hundred	 versts, seeing	that	at	the	end	of	the	first	half-stage	he	had	fallen	down	from	fatigue.	Their friendship	for	one	another	was	something	to	see.

B——	 was	 a	 perfectly	 well-bred	 man,	 of	 noble	 and	 generous	 disposition,	 but spoiled	and	irritated	by	illness.	We	used	to	turn	the	wheel	well	together,	and	the work	interested	us.	As	for	me,	I	found	the	exercise	most	salutary.

I	 was	 very—too—fond	 of	 shovelling	 away	 the	 snow,	 which	 we	 generally	 did after	 the	 hurricanes,	 so	 frequent	 in	 the	 winter.	 When	 the	 hurricane	 had	 been raging	for	an	entire	day,	more	than	one	house	would	be	buried	up	to	the	windows, even	if	it	was	not	covered	over	entirely.	The	hurricane	ceased,	the	sun	reappeared, and	we	were	ordered	to	disengage	the	houses,	barricaded	as	they	were	by	heaps	of snow.

We	 were	 sent	 in	 large	 bands,	 sometimes	 the	 whole	 of	 the	 convicts	 together.

Each	of	us	received	a	shovel	and	had	an	appointed	task	to	do,	which	it	sometimes seemed	impossible	to	get	through.	But	we	all	went	to	work	with	a	good-will.	The light	dust-like	snow	had	not	yet	congealed,	and	was	frozen	only	on	the	surface.	We removed	it	in	enormous	shovelfuls,	which	were	dispersed	around	us.	In	the	air	the snow-dust	 was	 as	 brilliant	 as	 diamonds.	 The	 shovel	 sank	 easily	 into	 the	 white glittering	 mass.	 The	 convicts	 did	 this	 work	 almost	 always	 with	 gaiety,	 the	 cold winter	air	and	the	exercise	animated	them.	Every	one	felt	himself	in	better	spirits, laughter	 and	 jokes	 were	 heard,	 snowballs	 were	 exchanged,	 which	 after	 a	 time excited	the	indignation	of	the	serious-minded	convicts,	who	liked	neither	laughter nor	gaiety.	Accordingly	these	scenes	finished	almost	always	in	showers	of	insults.

Little	 by	 little	 the	 circle	 of	 my	 acquaintances	 increased,	 although	 I	 never thought	 of	 making	 new	 ones.	 I	 was	 always	 restless,	 morose,	 and	 mistrustful.

Acquaintances,	however,	were	made	involuntarily.	The	first	who	came	to	visit	me was	the	convict	Petroff.	I	say	visit,	and	I	retain	the	word,	for	he	lived	in	the	special division	which	was	at	the	farthest	end	of	the	barracks	from	mine.	It	seemed	as	if no	relations	could	exist	between	him	and	me,	for	we	had	nothing	in	common.

Nevertheless,	during	the	first	period	of	my	stay,	Petroff	thought	it	his	duty	to come	towards	me	nearly	every	day,	or	at	least	to	stop	me	when,	after	work,	I	went for	 a	 stroll	 at	 the	 back	 of	 the	 barracks	 as	 far	 as	 possible	 from	 observation.	 His persistence	was	disagreeable	to	me;	but	he	managed	so	well	that	his	visits	became at	 last	 a	 pleasing	 diversion,	 although	 he	 was	 by	 no	 means	 of	 a	 communicative disposition.	 He	 was	 short,	 strongly	 built,	 agile,	 and	 skilful.	 He	 had	 rather	 an agreeable	 voice,	 and	 high	 cheek-bones,	 a	 bold	 look,	 and	 white,	 regular	 teeth.	 He had	 always	 a	 quid	 of	 tobacco	 in	 his	 mouth	 between	 the	 lower	 lip	 and	 the	 gums.

Many	of	the	convicts	had	the	habit	of	chewing.	He	seemed	to	me	younger	than	he

really	was,	for	he	did	not	appear	to	be	more	than	thirty,	and	he	was	really	forty.	He spoke	 to	 me	 without	 any	 ceremony,	 and	 behaved	 to	 me	 on	 a	 footing	 of	 equality with	 civility	 and	 attention.	 If,	 for	 instance,	 he	 saw	 that	 I	 wished	 to	 be	 alone,	 he would	 talk	 to	 me	 for	 about	 two	 minutes	 and	 then	 go	 away.	 He	 thanked	 me, moreover,	each	time	for	my	kindness	in	conversing	with	him,	which	he	never	did

to	any	one	else.	I	must	add	that	his	relations	underwent	no	change	not	only	during the	first	period	of	my	story,	but	for	several	years,	and	that	they	never	became	more intimate,	 although	 he	 was	 really	 my	 friend.	 I	 never	 could	 say	 exactly	 what	 he looked	 for	 in	 my	 society,	 nor	 why	 he	 came	 every	 day	 to	 see	 me.	 He	 robbed	 me sometimes,	 but	 almost	 involuntarily.	 He	 never	 came	 to	 me	 to	 borrow	 money;	 so that	what	attracted	him	was	not	personal	interest.

It	seemed	to	me,	I	know	not	why,	that	this	man	did	not	live	in	the	same	prison

with	me,	but	in	another	house	in	the	town,	far	away.	It	appeared	as	though	he	had come	to	the	convict	prison	by	chance	in	order	to	pick	up	news,	to	inquire	for	me, in	short,	to	see	how	I	was	getting	on.	He	was	always	in	a	hurry,	as	though	he	had left	some	one	for	a	moment	who	was	waiting	for	him,	or	as	if	he	had	given	up	for	a time	 some	 matter	 of	 business.	 And	 yet	 he	 never	 hurried	 himself.	 His	 look	 was strongly	fixed,	with	a	slight	air	of	levity	and	irony.	He	had	a	habit	of	looking	into the	 distance	 above	 the	 objects	 near	 him,	 as	 though	 he	 were	 endeavouring	 to distinguish	 something	 behind	 the	 person	 to	 whom	 he	 was	 talking.	 He	 always seemed	absent-minded.	I	sometimes	asked	myself	where	he	went	when	he	left	me,

where	 could	 Petroff	 be	 so	 anxiously	 expected?	 He	 would	 simply	 go	 with	 a	 light step	 to	 one	 of	 the	 barracks	 or	 to	 the	 kitchen,	 and	 sit	 down	 to	 hear	 the conversation.	He	listened	attentively,	and	joined	in	with	animation;	after	which	he would	 suddenly	 become	 silent.	 But	 whether	 he	 spoke	 or	 kept	 silent,	 one	 could always	 see	 on	 his	 countenance	 that	 he	 had	 business	 somewhere	 else,	 and	 that some	 one	 was	 waiting	 for	 him	 in	 the	 town,	 not	 very	 far	 away.	 The	 most astonishing	thing	was	that	he	never	had	any	business—apart,	of	course,	from	the hard	labour	assigned	to	him.	He	knew	no	trade,	and	had	scarcely	ever	any	money.

But	 that	 did	 not	 seem	 to	 grieve	 him.	 Why	 did	 he	 speak	 to	 me?	 His	 conversation was	 as	 strange	 as	 he	 himself	 was	 singular.	 When	 he	 noticed	 that	 I	 was	 walking alone	 at	 the	 back	 of	 the	 barracks	 he	 made	 a	 stand,	 and	 turned	 towards	 me.	 He walked	very	fast,	and	when	I	turned	he	was	suddenly	on	his	heel.	He	approached me	walking,	but	so	quickly	that	he	seemed	to	be	going	at	a	run.

“Good-morning.”

“Good-morning.”

“I	am	not	disturbing	you?”

“No.”

“I	wish	to	ask	you	something	about	Napoleon.	I	wanted	to	ask	you	if	he	is	not

a	relation	of	the	one	who	came	to	us	in	the	year	1812.”

Petroff	was	a	soldier’s	son,	and	knew	how	to	read	and	write.

“Of	course	he	is.”

“People	say	he	is	President.	What	President—and	of	what?”

His	questions	were	always	rapid	and	abrupt,	as	though	he	wished	to	know	as

soon	 as	 possible	 what	 he	 asked.	 I	 explained	 to	 him	 of	 what	 Napoleon	 was President,	and	I	added	that	perhaps	he	would	become	Emperor.

“How	will	that	be?”

I	 explained	 it	 to	 him	 as	 well	 as	 I	 could;	 Petroff	 listened	 with	 attention.	 He understood	perfectly	all	I	told	him,	and	added,	as	he	leant	his	ear	towards	me: “Hem!	 Ah,	 I	 wished	 to	 ask	 you,	 Alexander	 Petrovitch,	 if	 there	 are	 really monkeys	who	have	hands	instead	of	feet,	and	are	as	tall	as	a	man?”

“Yes.”

“What	are	they	like?”

I	described	them	to	him,	and	told	him	what	I	knew	on	the	subject.

“And	where	do	they	live?”

“In	warm	climates.	There	are	some	to	be	found	in	the	island	of	Sumatra.”

“Is	 that	 in	 America?	 I	 have	 heard	 that	 people	 there	 walk	 with	 their	 heads downwards.”

“No,	 no;	 you	 are	 thinking	 of	 the	 Antipodes.”	 I	 explained	 to	 him	 as	 well	 as	 I could	what	America	was,	and	what	the	Antipodes.	He	listened	to	me	as	attentively as	if	the	question	of	the	Antipodes	had	alone	caused	him	to	approach	me.

“Ah,	ah!	I	read	last	year	the	story	of	the	Countess	de	la	Vallière.	Arevieff	had bought	this	book	from	the	Adjutant.	Is	it	true	or	is	it	an	invention?	The	work	is	by Dumas.”

“It	is	an	invention,	no	doubt.”

“Ah,	indeed.	Good-bye.	I	am	much	obliged	to	you.”

And	 Petroff	 disappeared.	 The	 above	 may	 be	 taken	 as	 a	 specimen	 of	 our ordinary	conversation.

I	made	inquiries	about	him.	M——	thought	he	had	better	speak	to	me	on	the

subject,	when	he	learnt	what	an	acquaintance	I	had	made.	He	told	me	that	many

convicts	 had	 excited	 his	 horror	 on	 their	 arrival;	 but	 not	 one	 of	 them,	 not	 even Gazin,	had	produced	upon	him	such	a	frightful	impression	as	this	Petroff.

“He	 is	 the	 most	 resolute,	 most	 to	 be	 feared	 of	 all	 the	 convicts,”	 said	 M——.

“He	 is	 capable	 of	 anything,	 nothing	 stops	 him	 if	 he	 has	 a	 caprice.	 He	 will assassinate	 you,	 if	 the	 fancy	 takes	 him,	 without	 hesitation	 and	 without	 the	 least remorse.	I	often	think	he	is	not	in	his	right	senses.”

This	declaration	interested	me	extremely;	but	M——	was	never	able	to	tell	me

why	he	had	such	an	opinion	of	Petroff.	Strangely	enough,	for	many	years	together I	 saw	 this	 man	 and	 talked	 with	 him	 nearly	 every	 day.	 He	 was	 always	 my	 sincere friend,	though	I	could	not	at	the	time	tell	why,	and	during	the	whole	time	he	lived very	 quietly,	 and	 did	 nothing	 extreme.	 I	 am	 moreover	 convinced	 that	 M——	 was right,	 and	 that	 he	 was	 perhaps	 a	 most	 intrepid	 man	 and	 the	 most	 difficult	 to restrain	in	the	whole	prison.	And	why	so,	I	can	scarcely	explain.

This	Petroff	was	that	very	convict	who,	when	he	was	called	up	to	receive	his

punishment,	had	wished	to	kill	the	Major.	I	have	told	you	the	latter	was	saved	by	a miracle—that	he	had	gone	away	one	minute	before	the	punishment	was	inflicted.

Once	when	he	was	still	a	soldier—before	his	arrival	at	the	convict	prison—his

Colonel	had	struck	him	on	parade.	Probably	he	had	often	been	beaten	before,	but that	 day	 he	 was	 not	 in	 a	 humour	 to	 bear	 an	 insult,	 in	 open	 day,	 before	 the battalion	drawn	up	in	line.	He	killed	his	Colonel.	I	don’t	know	all	the	details	of	the story,	 for	 he	 never	 told	 it	 to	 me	 himself.	 It	 must	 be	 understood	 that	 these explosions	only	took	place	when	the	nature	within	him	spoke	too	loudly,	and	these occasions	 were	 rare;	 as	 a	 rule	 he	 was	 serious	 and	 even	 quiet.	 His	 strong,	 ardent passions	were	not	burnt	out,	but	smouldering,	like	burning	coals	beneath	ashes.

I	 never	 noticed	 that	 he	 was	 vain,	 or	 given	 to	 bragging	 like	 so	 many	 other convicts.	He	hardly	ever	quarrelled,	but	he	was	on	friendly	relations	with	scarcely any	one,	except,	perhaps,	Sirotkin,	and	then	only	when	he	had	need	of	him.	I	saw him,	however,	one	day	seriously	irritated.	Some	one	had	offended	him	by	refusing him	 something	 he	 wanted.	 He	 was	 disputing	 on	 the	 point	 with	 a	 tall	 convict,	 as vigorous	 as	 an	 athlete,	 named	 Vassili	 Antonoff,	 known	 for	 his	 nagging,	 spiteful disposition.	The	man,	however,	who	belonged	to	the	class	of	civil	convicts,	was	far from	being	a	coward.	They	shouted	at	one	another	for	some	time,	and	I	thought

the	 quarrel	 would	 finish	 like	 so	 many	 others	 of	 the	 same	 kind,	 by	 simple interchange	 of	 abuse.	 The	 affair	 took	 an	 unexpected	 turn.	 Petroff	 only	 suddenly turned	 pale,	 his	 lips	 trembled,	 and	 turned	 blue,	 his	 respiration	 became	 difficult.

He	got	up,	and	slowly,	very	slowly,	and	with	imperceptible	steps—he	liked	to	walk about	 with	 his	 feet	 naked—approached	 Antonoff;	 at	 once	 the	 noise	 of	 shouting gave	 place	 to	 a	 death-like	 silence—a	 fly	 passing	 through	 the	 air	 might	 have	 been heard—every	one	anxiously	awaited	the	event.	Antonoff	pointed	to	his	adversary.

His	 face	 was	 no	 longer	 human.	 I	 was	 unable	 to	 endure	 the	 scene,	 and	 I	 left	 the prison.	I	was	certain	that	before	I	got	to	the	staircase	I	should	hear	the	shrieks	of	a man	who	was	being	murdered;	but	nothing	of	the	kind	took	place.	Before	Petroff

had	succeeded	in	getting	up	to	Antonoff,	the	latter	threw	him	the	object	which	had caused	the	quarrel—a	miserable	rag,	a	worn-out	piece	of	lining.

Of	course	afterwards,	Antonoff	did	not	fail	to	call	Petroff	names,	merely	as	a

matter	of	conscience,	and	from	a	feeling	of	what	was	right,	in	order	to	show	that he	had	not	been	too	much	afraid;	but	Petroff	paid	no	attention	to	his	insults,	he did	not	even	answer	him.	Everything	had	ended	to	his	advantage,	and	the	insults scarcely	affected	him;	he	was	glad	to	have	got	his	piece	of	rag.

A	 quarter	 of	 an	 hour	 later	 he	 was	 strolling	 about	 the	 barracks	 quite unoccupied,	looking	for	some	group	whose	conversation	might	possibly	gratify	his curiosity.	 Everything	 seemed	 to	 interest	 him,	 and	 yet	 he	 remained	 apparently indifferent	 to	 all	 he	 heard.	 He	 might	 have	 been	 compared	 to	 a	 workman,	 a vigorous	workman,	whom	the	work	fears;	but	who,	for	the	moment,	has	nothing	to

do,	 and	 condescends	 meanwhile	 to	 put	 out	 his	 strength	 in	 playing	 with	 his children.	I	did	not	understand	why	he	remained	in	prison,	why	he	did	not	escape.

He	would	not	have	hesitated	to	get	away	if	he	had	really	desired	to	do	so.	Reason has	no	power	on	people	like	Petroff	unless	they	are	spurred	on	by	will.	When	they desire	something	there	are	no	obstacles	in	their	way.	I	am	certain	that	he	would have	been	clever	enough	to	escape,	that	he	would	have	deceived	every	one,	that	he would	have	remained	for	a	time	without	eating,	hid	in	a	forest,	or	in	the	bulrushes of	the	river;	but	the	idea	had	evidently	not	occurred	to	him.	I	never	noticed	in	him much	 judgment	 or	 good	 sense.	 People	 like	 him	 are	 born	 with	 one	 idea,	 which, without	being	aware	of	it,	pursues	them	all	their	life.	They	wander	until	they	meet with	some	object	which	apparently	excites	their	desire,	and	then	they	do	not	mind risking	their	head.	I	was	sometimes	astonished	that	a	man	who	had	assassinated

his	Colonel	for	having	been	struck,	would	lie	down	without	opposition	beneath	the rods,	for	he	was	always	flogged	when	he	was	detected	introducing	spirits	into	the prison.	Like	all	those	who	had	no	settled	occupation,	he	smuggled	in	spirits;	then, if	 caught,	 he	 would	 allow	 himself	 to	 be	 whipped	 as	 though	 he	 consented	 to	 the punishment,	 and	 confessed	 himself	 in	 the	 wrong.	 Otherwise	 they	 would	 have killed	him	rather	than	make	him	lie	down.	More	than	once	I	was	astonished	to	see that	he	was	robbing	me	in	spite	of	his	affection	for	me;	but	he	did	so	from	time	to time.	Thus	he	stole	my	Bible,	which	I	had	asked	him	to	carry	to	its	place.	He	had only	a	few	steps	to	go;	but	on	his	way	he	met	with	a	purchaser,	to	whom	he	sold the	book,	at	once	spending	the	money	he	had	received	on	vodka.	Probably	he	felt that	 day	 a	 violent	 desire	 for	 drink,	 and	 when	 he	 desired	 something	 it	 was necessary	 that	 he	 should	 have	 it.	 A	 man	 like	 Petroff	 will	 assassinate	 any	 one	 for twenty-five	kopecks,	simply	to	get	himself	a	pint	of	vodka.	On	any	other	occasion he	will	disdain	hundreds	and	thousands	of	roubles.	He	told	me	the	same	evening

of	the	theft	he	had	committed,	but	without	showing	the	least	sign	of	repentance	or confusion,	 in	 a	 perfectly	 indifferent	 tone,	 as	 though	 he	 were	 speaking	 of	 an ordinary	incident.	I	endeavoured	to	reprove	him	as	he	deserved,	for	I	regretted	the loss	of	my	Bible.	He	listened	to	me	without	hesitation	very	calmly.	He	agreed	that the	 Bible	 was	 a	 very	 useful	 book,	 and	 sincerely	 regretted	 that	 I	 had	 it	 no	 longer; but	 he	 was	 not	 for	 one	 moment	 sorry,	 though	 he	 had	 stolen	 it.	 He	 looked	 at	 me with	such	assurance	that	I	gave	up	scolding	him.	He	bore	my	reproaches	because he	thought	I	could	not	do	otherwise	than	I	was	doing.	He	knew	that	he	ought	to	be punished	 for	 such	 an	 action,	 and	 consequently	 thought	 I	 ought	 to	 abuse	 him	 for my	own	satisfaction,	and	to	console	myself	for	my	loss.	But	in	his	inner	heart	he considered	that	it	was	all	nonsense,	to	which	a	serious	man	ought	to	be	ashamed to	descend.	I	believe	even	that	he	looked	upon	me	as	a	child,	an	infant,	who	does not	yet	understand	the	simplest	things	in	the	world.	If	I	spoke	to	him	of	anything, except	 books	 and	 matters	 of	 knowledge,	 he	 would	 answer	 me,	 but	 only	 from politeness,	 and	 in	 laconic	 phrases.	 I	 wondered	 what	 made	 him	 question	 me	 so much	on	the	subject	of	books.	I	looked	at	him	carefully	during	our	conversation	to assure	 myself	 that	 he	 was	 not	 laughing	 at	 me;	 but	 no,	 he	 listened	 seriously,	 and with	 an	 attention	 which	 was	 genuine,	 though	 not	 always	 maintained.	 This	 latter circumstance	irritated	me	sometimes.	The	questions	he	put	to	me	were	clear	and precise,	and	he	always	seemed	prepared	for	the	answer.	He	had	made	up	his	mind

once	for	all	that	it	was	no	use	speaking	to	me	as	to	other	matters,	and	that,	apart from	 books,	 I	 understood	 nothing.	 I	 am	 certain	 that	 he	 was	 attached	 to	 me,	 and much	 that	 fact	 astonished	 me;	 but	 he	 looked	 upon	 me	 as	 a	 child,	 or	 as	 an imperfect	man.	He	felt	for	me	that	sort	of	compassion	which	every	stronger	being feels	for	a	weaker;	he	took	me	for—I	do	not	know	what	he	took	me	for.	Although

this	compassion	did	not	prevent	him	from	robbing	me,	I	am	sure	that	in	doing	so he	pitied	me.

“What	a	strange	person!”	he	must	have	said	to	himself,	as	he	lay	hands	on	my

property;	“he	does	not	even	know	how	to	take	care	of	what	he	possesses.”	That,	I think,	is	why	he	liked	me.	One	day	he	said	to	me	as	if	involuntarily:

“You	are	too	good-natured,	you	are	so	simple,	so	simple	that	one	cannot	help

pitying	 you.	 Do	 not	 be	 offended	 at	 what	 I	 was	 saying	 to	 you,	 Alexander Petrovitch,”	he	added	a	minute	afterwards,	“it	is	not	ill-meant.”

People	 like	 Petroff	 will	 sometimes,	 in	 times	 of	 trouble	 and	 excitement, manifest	themselves	in	a	forcible	manner;	then	they	find	the	kind	of	activity	which suits	them;	they	are	not	men	of	words;	they	could	not	be	instigators	and	chiefs	of insurrections,	but	they	are	the	men	who	execute	and	act;	they	act	simply	without any	fuss,	and	run	just	to	throw	themselves	against	an	obstacle	with	bared	breast, neither	thinking	nor	fearing.	Every	one	follows	them	to	the	foot	of	the	wall,	where they	generally	leave	their	life.	I	do	not	think	Petroff	can	have	ended	well,	he	was marked	 for	 a	 violent	 end;	 and	 if	 he	 is	 not	 yet	 dead,	 that	 only	 means	 that	 the opportunity	has	not	yet	presented	itself.	Who	knows,	however?	He	will,	perhaps, die	of	extreme	old	age,	quite	quietly,	after	having	wandered	through	life,	here	and there,	 without	 an	 object;	 but	 I	 believe	 M——	 was	 right,	 and	 that	 Petroff	 was	 the most	determined	man	in	the	whole	convict	prison.





CHAPTER	9.

MEN	OF	DETERMINATION—LUKA

It	is	difficult	to	speak	of	these	men	of	determination.	In	the	convict	prison,	as elsewhere,	they	are	rare.	They	can	be	known	by	the	fear	they	inspire;	people

beware	of	them.	An	irresistible	feeling	urged	me	first	of	all	to	turn	away	from them,	 but	 I	 afterwards	 changed	 my	 point	 of	 view,	 even	 in	 regard	 to	 the	 most frightful	 murderers.	 There	 are	 men	 who	 have	 never	 killed	 any	 one,	 and	 who, nevertheless,	are	more	atrocious	than	those	who	have	assassinated	six	persons.	It is	impossible	to	form	an	idea	of	certain	crimes,	of	so	strange	a	nature	are	they.

A	 type	 of	 murderers	 that	 one	 often	 meets	 with	 is	 the	 following:	 A	 man	 lives calmly	 and	 peacefully.	 His	 fate	 is	 a	 hard	 one,	 but	 he	 puts	 up	 with	 it.	 He	 is	 a peasant	attached	to	the	soil,	a	domestic	serf,	a	shopkeeper,	or	a	soldier.	Suddenly he	finds	something	give	way	within	him;	what	he	has	hitherto	suffered	he	can	bear no	longer,	and	he	plunges	his	knife	into	the	breast	of	his	oppressor	or	his	enemy.

He	then	goes	beyond	all	measure.	He	has	killed	his	oppressor,	his	enemy.	That	can be	 understood—there	 was	 cause	 for	 that	 crime;	 but	 afterwards	 he	 does	 not assassinate	his	enemies	alone,	but	the	first	person	he	happens	to	meet	he	kills	for the	pleasure	of	killing—for	an	abusive	word,	for	a	look,	to	make	an	equal	number, or	only	because	some	one	is	standing	in	his	way.	He	behaves	like	a	drunken	man— a	 man	 in	 a	 delirium.	 When	 once	 he	 has	 passed	 the	 fatal	 line,	 he	 is	 himself astonished	to	find	that	nothing	sacred	exists	for	him.	He	breaks	through	all	laws, defies	all	powers,	and	gives	himself	boundless	license.	He	enjoys	the	agitation	of his	 own	 heart	 and	 the	 terror	 that	 he	 inspires.	 He	 knows	 all	 the	 same	 that	 a frightful	punishment	awaits	him.	His	sensations	are	probably	like	those	of	a	man who,	looking	down	from	a	high	tower	on	to	the	abyss	yawning	at	his	feet,	would	be happy	 to	 throw	 himself	 head	 first	 into	 it	 in	 order	 to	 bring	 everything	 to	 an	 end.

That	 is	 what	 happens	 with	 even	 the	 most	 quiet,	 the	 most	 commonplace

individuals.	There	are	some	even	who	give	themselves	airs	in	this	extremity.	The more	they	were	quiet,	self-effacing	before,	the	more	they	now	swagger	and	seek	to inspire	fear.	The	desperate	men	enjoy	the	horror	they	cause;	they	take	pleasure	in the	 disgust	 they	 excite;	 they	 perform	 acts	 of	 madness	 from	 despair,	 and	 care nothing	 how	 it	 must	 all	 end,	 or	 seem	 impatient	 that	 it	 should	 end	 as	 soon	 as possible.	The	most	curious	thing	is	that	their	excitement,	their	exaltation,	will	last until	 the	 pillory.	 After	 that	 the	 thread	 is	 cut,	 the	 moment	 is	 fatal,	 and	 the	 man becomes	suddenly	calm,	or,	rather,	he	becomes	extinct,	a	thing	without	feeling.	In the	pillory	all	his	strength	fails	him,	and	he	begs	pardon	of	the	people.	Once	at	the convict	 prison,	 he	 is	 quite	 different.	 No	 one	 would	 ever	 imagine	 that	 this	 white-livered	chicken	had	killed	five	or	six	men.

There	 are	 some	 men	 whom	 the	 convict	 prison	 does	 not	 easily	 subdue.	 They preserve	a	certain	swagger,	a	spirit	of	bravado.

“I	say,	I	am	not	what	you	take	me	for;	I	have	sent	six	fellows	out	of	the	world,”

you	will	hear	them	boast;	but	sooner	or	later	they	have	all	to	submit.	From	time	to time,	 the	 murderer	 will	 amuse	 himself	 by	 recalling	 his	 audacity,	 his	 lawlessness when	 he	 was	 in	 a	 state	 of	 despair.	 He	 likes	 at	 these	 moments	 to	 have	 some	 silly fellow	before	whom	he	can	brag,	and	to	whom	he	will	relate	his	heroic	deeds,	by pretending	not	to	have	the	least	wish	to	astonish	him.	“That	is	the	sort	of	man	I am,”	he	says.

And	 with	 what	 a	 refinement	 of	 prudent	 conceit	 he	 watches	 him	 while	 he	 is delivering	his	narrative!	In	his	accent,	in	every	word,	this	can	be	perceived.	Where did	he	acquire	this	particular	kind	of	artfulness?

During	 the	 long	 evening	 of	 one	 of	 the	 first	 days	 of	 my	 confinement,	 I	 was listening	 to	 one	 of	 these	 conversations.	 Thanks	 to	 my	 inexperience	 I	 took	 the narrator	for	the	malefactor,	a	man	with	an	iron	character,	a	man	to	whom	Petroff was	nothing.	The	narrator,	Luka	Kouzmitch,	had	“knocked	over”	a	Major,	for	no

other	 reason	 but	 that	 it	 pleased	 him	 to	 do	 so.	 This	 Luka	 Kouzmitch	 was	 the smallest	 and	 thinnest	 man	 in	 all	 the	 barracks.	 He	 was	 from	 the	 South.	 He	 had been	a	serf,	one	of	those	not	attached	to	the	soil,	but	who	serve	their	masters	as domestics.	There	was	something	cutting	and	haughty	in	his	demeanour.	He	was	a

little	bird,	but	had	a	beak	and	nails.	The	convicts	sum	up	a	man	instinctively.	They thought	nothing	of	this	one,	he	was	too	susceptible	and	too	full	of	conceit.

That	evening	he	was	stitching	a	shirt,	seated	on	his	camp-bedstead.	Close	to

him	was	a	narrow-minded,	stupid,	but	good-natured	and	obliging	fellow,	a	sort	of Colossus,	Kobylin	by	name.	Luka	often	quarrelled	with	him	in	a	neighbourly	way, and	treated	him	with	a	haughtiness	which,	thanks	to	his	good-nature,	Kobylin	did not	notice	in	the	least.	He	was	knitting	a	stocking,	and	listening	to	Luka	with	an indifferent	air.	Luka	spoke	in	a	loud	voice	and	very	distinctly.	He	wished	every	one to	hear	him,	though	he	was	apparently	speaking	only	to	Kobylin.

“I	was	sent	away,”	said	Luka,	sticking	his	needle	in	the	shirt,	“as	a	brigand.”

“How	long	ago?”	asked	Kobylin.

“When	the	peas	are	ripe	it	will	be	just	a	year.	Well,	we	got	to	K——v,	and	I	was put	into	the	convict	prison.	Around	me	there	were	a	dozen	men	from	Little	Russia, well-built,	 solid,	 robust	 fellows,	 like	 oxen,	 and	 how	 quiet!	 The	 food	 was	 bad,	 the Major	of	the	prison	did	what	he	liked.	One	day	passed,	then	another,	and	I	soon saw	that	all	these	fellows	were	cowards.

“‘You	are	afraid	of	such	an	idiot?’	I	said	to	them.

“‘Go	 and	 talk	 to	 him	 yourself,’	 and	 they	 burst	 out	 laughing	 like	 brutes	 that they	were.	I	held	my	tongue.

“There	 was	 one	 fellow	 so	 droll,	 so	 droll,”	 added	 the	 narrator,	 now	 leaving Kobylin	to	address	all	who	chose	to	listen.

“This	droll	fellow	was	telling	them	how	he	had	been	tried,	what	he	had	said,

and	how	he	had	wept	with	hot	tears.

“‘There	 was	 a	 dog	 of	 a	 clerk	 there,’	 he	 said,	 ‘who	 did	 nothing	 but	 write	 and take	down	every	word	I	said.	I	told	him	I	wished	him	at	the	devil,	and	he	actually wrote	that	down.	He	troubled	me	so,	that	I	quite	lost	my	head.’”

“Give	me	some	thread,	Vasili;	the	house	thread	is	bad,	rotten.”

“There	is	some	from	the	tailor’s	shop,”	replied	Vasili,	handing	it	over	to	him.

“Well,	but	about	this	Major?”	said	Kobylin,	who	had	been	quite	forgotten.

Luka	 was	 only	 waiting	 for	 that.	 He	 did	 not	 go	 on	 at	 once	 with	 his	 story,	 as though	Kobylin	were	not	worth	such	a	mark	of	attention.	He	threaded	his	needle quietly,	bent	his	legs	lazily	beneath	him,	and	at	last	continued	as	follows:

“I	 excited	 the	 fellows	 to	 such	 an	 extent	 that	 they	 all	 called	 out	 against	 the Major.	 That	 same	 morning	 I	 had	 borrowed	 the	 ‘rascal’	 [prison	 slang	 for	 knife]

from	my	neighbour,	and	had	hid	it,	so	as	to	be	ready	for	anything.	When	the	Major arrived,	 he	 was	 as	 furious	 as	 a	 madman.	 ‘Come	 now,	 you	 Little	 Russians,’	 I whispered	 to	 them,	 ‘this	 is	 not	 the	 time	 for	 fear.’	 But,	 dear	 me,	 all	 their	 courage had	slipped	down	to	the	soles	of	their	feet,	they	trembled!	The	Major	came	in,	he was	quite	drunk.

“‘What	is	this,	how	do	you	dare?	I	am	your	Tzar,	your	God,’	he	cried.

“When	he	said	that	he	was	the	Tzar	and	God,	I	went	up	to	him	with	my	knife in	my	sleeve.

“‘No,’	I	said	to	him,	‘your	high	nobility,’	and	I	got	nearer	and	nearer	to	him, ‘that	cannot	be.	Your	“high	nobility”	cannot	be	our	Tzar	and	our	God.’

“‘Ah,	you	are	the	man,	it	is	you,’	cried	the	Major;	‘you	are	the	leader	of	them.’

“‘No,’	 I	 answered,	 and	 I	 got	 still	 nearer	 to	 him;	 ‘no,	 your	 “high	 nobility,”	 as every	 one	 knows,	 and	 as	 you	 yourself	 know,	 the	 all-powerful	 God	 present everywhere	is	alone	in	heaven.	And	we	have	only	one	Tzar	placed	above	every	one else	 by	 God	 himself.	 He	 is	 our	 monarch,	 your	 “high	 nobility.”	 And,	 your	 “high nobility,”	you	are	as	yet	only	Major,	and	you	are	our	chief	only	by	the	grace	of	the Tzar,	and	by	your	merits.’

“‘How?	how?	how?’	stammered	the	Major.	He	could	not	speak,	so	astounded

was	he.

“This	 is	 how	 I	 answered,	 and	 I	 threw	 myself	 upon	 him	 and	 thrust	 my	 knife into	 his	 belly	 up	 to	 the	 hilt.	 It	 had	 been	 done	 very	 quickly;	 the	 Major	 tottered, turned,	and	fell.

“I	had	thrown	my	life	away.

“‘Now,	you	fellows,’	I	cried,	‘it	is	for	you	to	pick	him	up.’”

I	 will	 here	 make	 a	 digression	 from	 my	 narrative.	 The	 expression,	 “I	 am	 the Tzar!	 I	 am	 God!”	 and	 other	 similar	 ones	 were	 once,	 unfortunately,	 too	 often employed	 in	 the	 good	 old	 times	 by	 many	 commanders.	 I	 must	 admit	 that	 their number	 has	 seriously	 diminished,	 and	 perhaps	 even	 the	 last	 has	 already disappeared.	Let	me	observe	that	those	who	spoke	in	this	way	were,	above	all,	men promoted	 from	 the	 ranks.	 The	 grade	 of	 officer	 had	 turned	 their	 brain	 upside down.	 After	 having	 laboured	 long	 years	 beneath	 the	 knapsack,	 they	 suddenly found	themselves	officers,	commanders,	and	nobles	above	all.	Thanks	to	their	not being	accustomed	to	it,	and	to	the	first	excitement	caused	by	their	promotion,	they contracted	 an	 exaggerated	 idea	 of	 their	 power	 and	 importance	 relatively	 to	 their subordinates.	 Before	 their	 superiors	 such	 men	 are	 revoltingly	 servile.	 The	 most fawning	 of	 them	 will	 even	 say	 to	 their	 superiors	 that	 they	 have	 been	 common soldiers,	 and	 that	 they	 do	 not	 forget	 their	 place.	 But	 towards	 their	 inferiors	 they are	despots	without	mercy.	Nothing	irritates	the	convicts	so	much	as	such	abuses.

These	overweening	opinions	of	their	own	greatness;	this	exaggerated	idea	of	their immunity,	causes	hatred	in	the	hearts	of	the	most	submissive	men,	and	drives	the most	 patient	 to	 excesses.	 Fortunately,	 all	 this	 dates	 from	 a	 time	 that	 is	 almost forgotten,	 and	 even	 then	 the	 superior	 authorities	 used	 to	 deal	 very	 severely	 with abuses	 of	 power.	 I	 know	 more	 than	 one	 example	 of	 it.	 What	 exasperates	 the convicts	above	all	is	disdain	or	repugnance	manifested	by	any	one	in	dealing	with them.	 Those	 who	 think	 that	 it	 is	 only	 necessary	 to	 feed	 and	 clothe	 the	 prisoner, and	 to	 act	 towards	 him	 in	 all	 things	 according	 to	 the	 law,	 are	 much	 mistaken.

However	 much	 debased	 he	 may	 be,	 a	 man	 exacts	 instinctively	 respect	 for	 his character	 as	 a	 man.	 Every	 prisoner	 knows	 perfectly	 that	 he	 is	 a	 convict	 and	 a reprobate,	 and	 knows	 the	 distance	 which	 separates	 him	 from	 his	 superiors;	 but neither	the	branding	irons	nor	chains	will	make	him	forget	that	he	is	a	man.	He must,	therefore,	be	treated	with	humanity.	Humane	treatment	may	raise	up	one	in whom	the	divine	image	has	long	been	obscured.	It	is	with	the	“unfortunate,”	above all,	 that	 humane	 conduct	 is	 necessary.	 It	 is	 their	 salvation,	 their	 only	 joy.	 I	 have met	 with	 some	 chiefs	 of	 a	 kind	 and	 noble	 character,	 and	 I	 have	 seen	 what	 a beneficent	 influence	 they	 exercised	 over	 the	 poor,	 humiliated	 men	 entrusted	 to their	care.	A	few	affable	words	have	a	wonderful	moral	effect	upon	the	prisoners.

They	render	them	as	happy	as	children,	and	make	them	sincerely	grateful	towards their	chiefs.	One	other	remark—they	do	not	like	their	chiefs	to	be	familiar	and	too much	hail-fellow-well-met	with	them.	They	wish	to	respect	them,	and	familiarity would	prevent	this.	The	prisoners	will	feel	proud,	for	instance,	if	their	chief	has	a number	 of	 decorations;	 if	 he	 has	 good	 manners;	 if	 he	 is	 well-considered	 by	 a powerful	 superior;	 if	 he	 is	 severe,	 but	 at	 the	 same	 time	 just,	 and	 possesses	 a consciousness	of	dignity.	The	convicts	prefer	such	a	man	to	all	others.	He	knows what	he	is	worth,	and	does	not	insult	others.	Everything	then	is	for	the	best.

“You	got	well	skinned	for	that,	I	suppose,”	asked	Kobylin.

“As	for	being	skinned,	indeed,	there	is	no	denying	it.	Ali,	give	me	the	scissors.

But,	what	next;	are	we	not	going	to	play	at	cards	to-night?”

“The	cards	we	drank	up	long	ago,”	remarked	Vassili.	“If	we	had	not	sold	them

to	get	drink	they	would	be	here	now.”

“If!——	Ifs	fetch	a	hundred	roubles	a	piece	on	the	Moscow	market.”

“Well,	Luka,	what	did	you	get	for	sticking	him?”	asked	Kobylin.

“It	brought	me	five	hundred	strokes,	my	friend.	It	did	indeed.	They	did	all	but kill	me,”	said	Luka,	once	more	addressing	the	assembly	and	without	heeding	his neighbour	Kobylin.	“When	they	gave	me	those	five	hundred	strokes,	I	was	treated with	 great	 ceremony.	 I	 had	 never	 before	 been	 flogged.	 What	 a	 mass	 of	 people came	to	see	me!	The	whole	town	had	assembled	to	see	the	brigand,	the	murderer, receive	 his	 punishment.	 How	 stupid	 the	 populace	 is!—I	 cannot	 tell	 you	 to	 what extent.	Timoshka	the	executioner	undressed	me	and	laid	me	down	and	cried	out, ‘Look	out,	I	am	going	to	grill	you!’	I	waited	for	the	first	stroke.	I	wanted	to	cry	out, but	could	not.	It	was	no	use	opening	my	mouth,	my	voice	had	gone.	When	he	gave me	the	second	stroke—you	need	not	believe	me	unless	you	please—I	did	not	hear

when	 they	 counted	 two.	 I	 returned	 to	 myself	 and	 heard	 them	 count	 seventeen.

Four	times	they	took	me	down	from	the	board	to	let	me	breathe	for	half-an-hour, and	to	souse	me	with	cold	water.	I	stared	at	them	with	my	eyes	starting	from	my head,	and	said	to	myself,	‘I	shall	die	here.’”

“But	you	did	not	die,”	remarked	Kobylin	innocently.

Luka	looked	at	him	with	disdain,	and	every	one	burst	out	laughing.

“What	an	idiot!	Is	he	wrong	in	the	upper	storey?”	said	Luka,	as	if	he	regretted that	he	had	condescended	to	speak	to	such	an	idiot.

“He	is	a	little	mad,”	said	Vassili	on	his	side.

Although	 Luka	 had	 killed	 six	 persons,	 no	 one	 was	 ever	 afraid	 of	 him	 in	 the prison.	He	wished,	however,	to	be	looked	upon	as	a	terrible	person.





CHAPTER	10.

ISAIAH	FOMITCH—THE	BATH—BAKLOUCHIN.

But	the	Christmas	holidays	were	approaching,	and	the	convicts	looked

forward	to	them	with	solemnity.	From	their	mere	appearance	it	was	easy

to	see	that	something	extraordinary	was	about	to	arrive.	Four	days	before

the	 holidays	 they	 were	 to	 be	 taken	 to	 the	 bath;	 every	 one	 was	 pleased,	 and	 was making	preparations.	We	were	to	go	there	after	dinner.	On	this	occasion	there	was no	 work	 in	 the	 afternoon,	 and	 of	 all	 the	 convicts	 the	 one	 who	 was	 most	 pleased, and	showed	the	greatest	activity,	was	a	certain	Isaiah	Fomitch	Bumstein,	a	Jew,	of whom	I	spoke	in	my	fifth	chapter.	He	liked	to	remain	stewing	in	the	bath	until	he became	unconscious.	Whenever	I	think	of	the	prisoner’s	bath,	which	is	a	thing	not to	be	forgotten,	the	first	thought	that	presents	itself	to	my	memory	is	of	that	very glorious	 and	 eternally	 to	 be	 remembered,	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 Bumstein,	 my	 prison companion.	 Good	 Lord!	 what	 a	 strange	 man	 he	 was!	 I	 have	 already	 said	 a	 few words	 about	 his	 face.	 He	 was	 fifty	 years	 of	 age,	 his	 face	 wrinkled,	 with	 frightful scars	 on	 his	 cheeks	 and	 on	 his	 forehead,	 and	 the	 thin,	 weak	 body	 of	 a	 fowl.	 His face	 expressed	 perpetual	 confidence	 in	 himself,	 and,	 I	 may	 almost	 say,	 perfect happiness.	I	do	not	think	he	was	at	all	sorry	to	be	condemned	to	hard	labour.	He was	 a	 jeweller	 by	 trade,	 and	 as	 there	 was	 no	 other	 in	 the	 town,	 he	 had	 always plenty	 of	 work	 to	 do,	 and	 was	 more	 or	 less	 well	 paid.	 He	 wanted	 nothing,	 and lived,	 so	 to	 say,	 sumptuously,	 without	 spending	 all	 that	 he	 gained,	 for	 he	 saved money	and	lent	it	out	to	the	other	convicts	at	interest.	He	possessed	a	tea-urn,	a mattress,	a	tea-cup,	and	a	blanket.	The	Jews	of	the	town	did	not	refuse	him	their patronage.	 Every	 Saturday	 he	 went	 under	 escort	 to	 the	 synagogue	 (which	 was authorised	by	the	law);	and	he	lived	like	a	fighting	cock.	Nevertheless,	he	looked forward	to	the	expiration	of	his	term	of	imprisonment	in	order	to	get	married.	He was	 the	 most	 comic	 mixture	 of	 simplicity,	 stupidity,	 cunning,	 timidity,	 and bashfulness;	 but	 the	 strangest	 thing	 was	 that	 the	 convicts	 never	 laughed,	 or seriously	mocked	him—they	only	teased	him	for	amusement.	Isaiah	Fomitch	was	a

subject	of	distraction	and	amusement	for	every	one.

“We	 have	 only	 one	 Isaiah	 Fomitch,	 we	 will	 take	 care	 of	 him,”	 the	 convicts seemed	to	say;	and	as	if	he	understood	this,	he	was	proud	of	his	own	importance.

From	the	account	given	to	me	it	appeared	he	had	entered	the	convict	prison	in	the most	laughable	manner	(it	took	place	before	my	arrival).	Suddenly	one	evening	a report	was	spread	in	the	convict	prison	that	a	Jew	had	been	brought	there,	who	at that	moment	was	being	shaved	in	the	guard-house,	and	that	he	was	immediately

afterwards	to	be	taken	to	the	barracks.	As	there	was	not	a	single	Jew	in	the	prison, the	convicts	looked	forward	to	his	entry	with	impatience,	and	surrounded	him	as soon	 as	 he	 passed	 the	 great	 gates.	 The	 officer	 on	 service	 took	 him	 to	 the	 civil prison,	and	pointed	out	the	place	where	his	plank	bedstead	was	to	be.

Isaiah	Fomitch	held	in	his	hand	a	bag	containing	the	things	given	to	him,	and

some	 other	 things	 of	 his	 own.	 He	 put	 down	 his	 bag,	 took	 his	 place	 at	 the	 plank bedstead,	 and	 sat	 down	 there	 with	 his	 legs	 crossed,	 without	 daring	 to	 raise	 his eyes.	People	were	laughing	all	round	him.	The	convicts	ridiculed	him	by	reason	of his	Jewish	origin.	Suddenly	a	young	convict	left	the	others,	and	came	up	to	him, carrying	in	his	hand	an	old	pair	of	summer	trousers,	dirty,	torn,	and	mended	with old	 rags.	 He	 sat	 down	 by	 the	 side	 of	 Isaiah	 Fomitch,	 and	 struck	 him	 on	 the shoulder.

“Well,	 my	 dear	 fellow,”	 said	 he,	 “I	 have	 been	 waiting	 for	 the	 last	 six	 years; look	 up	 and	 tell	 me	 how	 much	 you	 will	 give	 for	 this	 article,”	 holding	 up	 his	 rags before	him.

Isaiah	 Fomitch	 was	 so	 dumbfounded	 that	 he	 did	 not	 dare	 to	 look	 at	 the mocking	crowd,	with	mutilated	and	frightful	countenances,	now	grouped	around

him,	and	did	not	speak	a	single	word,	so	frightened	was	he.	When	he	saw	who	was speaking	to	him	he	shuddered,	and	began	to	examine	the	rags	carefully.	Every	one waited	to	hear	his	first	words.

“Well,	 cannot	 you	 give	 me	 a	 silver	 rouble	 for	 it?	 It	 is	 certainly	 worth	 that,”

said	 the	 would-be	 vendor	 smiling,	 and	 looking	 towards	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 with	 a wink.

“A	silver	rouble!	no;	but	I	will	give	you	seven	kopecks.”

These	 were	 the	 first	 words	 pronounced	 by	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 in	 the	 convict prison.	A	loud	laugh	was	heard	from	all	sides.

“Seven	kopecks!	Well,	give	them	to	me;	you	are	lucky,	you	are	indeed.	Look!

Take	care	of	the	pledge,	you	answer	for	it	with	your	head.”

“With	three	kopecks	for	interest;	that	will	make	ten	kopecks	you	will	owe	me,”

said	the	Jew,	at	the	same	time	slipping	his	hand	into	his	pocket	to	get	out	the	sum agreed	upon.

“Three	kopecks	interest—for	a	year?”

“No,	not	for	a	year,	for	a	month.”

“You	are	a	terrible	screw,	what	is	your	name?”

“Isaiah	Fomitch.”

“Well,	Isaiah	Fomitch,	you	ought	to	get	on.	Good-bye.”

The	 Jew	 examined	 once	 more	 the	 rags	 on	 which	 he	 had	 lent	 seven	 kopecks, folded	them	up,	and	put	them	carefully	away	in	his	bag.	The	convicts	continued	to laugh	at	him.

In	 reality	 every	 one	 laughed	 at	 him,	 but,	 although	 every	 prisoner	 owed	 him money,	 no	 one	 insulted	 him;	 and	 when	 he	 saw	 that	 every	 one	 was	 well	 disposed towards	 him,	 he	 gave	 himself	 haughty	 airs,	 but	 so	 comic	 that	 they	 were	 at	 once forgiven.

Luka,	 who	 had	 known	 many	 Jews	 when	 he	 was	 at	 liberty,	 often	 teased	 him, less	from	malice	than	for	amusement,	as	one	plays	with	a	dog	or	a	parrot.	Isaiah Fomitch	knew	this	and	did	not	take	offence.

“You	will	see,	Jew,	how	I	will	flog	you.”

“If	 you	 give	 me	 one	 blow	 I	 will	 return	 you	 ten,”	 replied	 Isaiah	 Fomitch valiantly.

“Scurvy	Jew.”

“As	scurvy	as	you	like;	I	have	in	any	case	plenty	of	money.”

“Bravo!	 Isaiah	 Fomitch.	 We	 must	 take	 care	 of	 you.	 You	 are	 the	 only	 Jew	 we have;	but	they	will	send	you	to	Siberia	all	the	same.”

“I	am	already	in	Siberia.”

“They	will	send	you	farther	on.”

“Is	not	the	Lord	God	there?”

“Of	course,	he	is	everywhere.”

“Well,	then!	With	the	Lord	God,	and	money,	one	has	all	that	is	necessary.”

“What	a	fellow	he	is!”	cries	every	one	around	him.

The	Jew	sees	that	he	is	being	laughed	at,	but	does	not	lose	courage.	He	gives himself	airs.	The	flattery	addressed	to	him	causes	him	much	pleasure,	and	with	a high,	squealing	falsetto,	which	is	heard	throughout	the	barracks,	he	begins	to	sing, “la,	la,	la,	la,”	to	an	idiotic	and	ridiculous	tune;	the	only	song	he	was	heard	to	sing during	his	stay	at	the	convict	prison.	When	he	made	my	acquaintance,	he	assured me	 solemnly	 that	 it	 was	 the	 song,	 and	 the	 very	 air,	 that	 was	 sung	 by	 600,000

Jews,	small	and	great,	when	they	crossed	the	Red	Sea,	and	that	every	Israelite	was ordered	to	sing	it	after	a	victory	gained	over	an	enemy.

The	eve	of	each	Saturday	the	convicts	came	from	the	other	barracks	to	ours,

expressly	 to	 see	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 celebrating	 his	 Sabbath.	 He	 was	 so	 vain,	 so innocently	 conceited,	 that	 this	 general	 curiosity	 flattered	 him	 immensely.	 He covered	 the	 table	 in	 his	 little	 corner	 with	 a	 pedantic	 air	 of	 importance,	 opened	 a book,	lighted	two	candles,	muttered	some	mysterious	words,	and	clothed	himself in	a	kind	of	chasuble,	striped,	and	with	sleeves,	which	he	preserved	carefully	at	the bottom	 of	 his	 trunk.	 He	 fastened	 to	 his	 hands	 leather	 bracelets,	 and	 finally attached	to	his	forehead,	by	means	of	a	ribbon,	a	little	box,	which	made	it	seem	as if	 a	 horn	 were	 starting	 from	 his	 head.	 He	 then	 began	 to	 pray.	 He	 read	 in	 a drawling	 voice,	 cried	 out,	 spat,	 and	 threw	 himself	 about	 with	 wild	 and	 comic gestures.	 All	 this	 was	 prescribed	 by	 the	 ceremonies	 of	 his	 religion.	 There	 was nothing	 laughable	 or	 strange	 in	 it,	 except	 the	 airs	 which	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 gave himself	 before	 us	 in	 performing	 his	 ceremonies.	 Then	 he	 suddenly	 covered	 his head	with	both	hands,	and	began	to	read	with	many	sobs.	His	tears	increased,	and in	 his	 grief	 he	 almost	 lay	 down	 upon	 the	 book	 his	 head	 with	 the	 ark	 upon	 it, howling	as	he	did	so;	but	suddenly	in	the	midst	of	his	despondent	sobs	he	burst into	 a	 laugh,	 and	 recited	 with	 a	 nasal	 twang	 a	 hymn	 of	 triumph,	 as	 if	 he	 were overcome	by	an	excess	of	happiness.

“Impossible	 to	 understand	 it,”	 the	 convicts	 would	 sometimes	 say	 to	 one another.	 One	 day	 I	 asked	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 what	 these	 sobs	 signified,	 and	 why	 he passed	 so	 suddenly	 from	 despair	 to	 triumphant	 happiness.	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 was very	pleased	when	I	asked	him	these	questions.	He	explained	to	me	directly	that the	 sobs	 and	 tears	 were	 provoked	 by	 the	 loss	 of	 Jerusalem,	 and	 that	 the	 law ordered	 the	 pious	 Jew	 to	 groan	 and	 strike	 his	 breast;	 but	 at	 the	 moment	 of	 his most	 acute	 grief	 he	 was	 suddenly	 to	 remember	 that	 a	 prophecy	 had	 foretold	 the return	of	the	Jews	to	Jerusalem,	and	he	was	then	to	manifest	overflowing	joy,	to sing,	 to	 laugh,	 and	 to	 recite	 his	 prayers	 with	 an	 expression	 of	 happiness	 in	 his voice	 and	 on	 his	 countenance.	 This	 sudden	 passage	 from	 one	 phase	 of	 feeling	 to another	 delighted	 Isaiah	 Fomitch,	 and	 he	 explained	 to	 me	 this	 ingenious prescription	of	his	faith	with	the	greatest	satisfaction.

One	evening,	in	the	midst	of	his	prayers,	the	Major	entered,	followed	by	the

officer	 of	 the	 guard	 and	 an	 escort	 of	 soldiers.	 All	 the	 prisoners	 got	 immediately into	 line	 before	 their	 camp-bedsteads.	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 alone	 continued	 to	 shriek and	gesticulate.	He	knew	that	his	worship	was	authorised,	and	that	no	one	could interrupt	 him,	 so	 that	 in	 howling	 in	 the	 presence	 of	 the	 Major	 he	 ran	 no	 risk.	 It pleased	him	to	throw	himself	about	beneath	the	eyes	of	the	chief.

The	Major	approached	within	a	few	steps.	Isaiah	Fomitch	turned	his	back	to

the	 table,	 and	 just	 in	 front	 of	 the	 officer	 began	 to	 sing	 his	 hymn	 of	 triumph, gesticulating	and	drawling	out	certain	syllables.	When	he	came	to	the	part	where he	had	to	assume	an	expression	of	extreme	happiness,	he	did	so	by	blinking	with his	 eyes,	 at	 the	 same	 time	 laughing	 and	 nodding	 his	 head	 in	 the	 direction	 of	 the Major.	The	latter	was	at	first	much	astonished;	then	he	burst	into	a	laugh,	called out,	“Idiot!”	and	went	away,	while	the	Jew	still	continued	to	shriek.	An	hour	later, when	he	had	finished,	I	asked	him	what	he	would	have	done	if	the	Major	had	been wicked	enough	and	foolish	enough	to	lose	his	temper.

“What	Major?”

“What	Major!	Did	you	not	see	him?	He	was	only	two	steps	from	you,	and	was

looking	 at	 you	 all	 the	 time.”	 But	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 assured	 me	 as	 seriously	 as possible	that	he	had	not	seen	the	Major,	for	while	he	was	saying	his	prayers	he	was in	such	a	state	of	ecstasy	that	he	neither	saw	nor	heard	anything	that	was	taking place	around	him.

I	can	see	Isaiah	Fomitch	wandering	about	on	Saturday	throughout	the	prison,

endeavouring	to	do	nothing,	as	the	law	prescribes	to	every	Jew.	What	improbable anecdotes	 he	 told	 me!	 Every	 time	 he	 returned	 from	 the	 synagogue	 he	 always brought	 me	 some	 news	 of	 St.	 Petersburg,	 and	 the	 most	 absurd	 rumours

imaginable	from	his	fellow	Jews	of	the	town,	who	themselves	had	received	them	at first	hand.	But	I	have	already	spoken	too	much	of	Isaiah	Fomitch.

In	the	whole	town	there	were	only	two	public	baths.	The	first,	kept	by	a	Jew,

was	 divided	 into	 compartments,	 for	 which	 one	 paid	 fifty	 kopecks.	 It	 was frequented	by	the	aristocracy	of	the	town.

The	other	bath,	old,	dirty,	and	close,	was	destined	for	the	people.	It	was	there that	 the	 convicts	 were	 taken.	 The	 air	 was	 cold	 and	 clear.	 The	 prisoners	 were delighted	to	get	out	of	the	fortress	and	have	a	walk	through	the	town.	During	the walk	 their	 laughter	 and	 jokes	 never	 ceased.	 A	 platoon	 of	 soldiers,	 with	 muskets loaded,	accompanied	us.	It	was	quite	a	sight	for	the	town’s-people.	When	we	had reached	our	destination,	the	bath	was	so	small	that	it	did	not	permit	us	all	to	enter at	 once.	 We	 were	 divided	 into	 two	 bands,	 one	 of	 which	 waited	 in	 the	 cold	 room while	the	other	one	bathed	in	the	hot	one.	Even	then,	so	narrow	was	the	room	that it	was	difficult	for	us	to	understand	how	half	of	the	convicts	could	stand	together in	it.

Petroff	kept	close	to	me.	He	remained	by	my	side	without	my	having	begged

him	 to	 do	 so,	 and	 offered	 to	 rub	 me	 down.	 Baklouchin,	 a	 convict	 of	 the	 special section,	offered	me	at	the	same	time	his	services.	I	recollect	this	prisoner,	who	was called	 the	 “Sapper,”	 as	 the	 gayest	 and	 most	 agreeable	 of	 all	 my	 companions.	 We had	 become	 intimate	 friends.	 Petroff	 helped	 me	 to	 undress,	 because	 I	 was generally	 a	 long	 time	 getting	 my	 things	 off,	 not	 being	 yet	 accustomed	 to	 the operation;	and	it	was	almost	as	cold	in	the	dressing-room	as	outside	the	doors.

It	is	very	difficult	for	a	convict	who	is	still	a	novice	to	get	his	things	off,	for	he must	 know	 how	 to	 undo	 the	 leather	 straps	 which	 fasten	 on	 the	 chains.	 These leather	straps	are	buckled	over	the	shirt,	just	beneath	the	ring	which	encloses	the leg.	 One	 pair	 of	 straps	 costs	 sixty	 kopecks,	 and	 each	 convict	 is	 obliged	 to	 get himself	a	pair,	for	it	would	be	impossible	to	walk	without	their	assistance.	The	ring does	not	enclose	the	leg	too	tightly.	One	can	pass	the	finger	between	the	iron	and the	flesh;	but	the	ring	rubs	against	the	calf,	so	that	in	a	single	day	the	convict	who walks	without	leather	straps,	gets	his	skin	broken.

To	 take	 off	 the	 straps	 presents	 no	 difficulty.	 It	 is	 not	 the	 same	 with	 the clothes.	 To	 get	 the	 trousers	 off	 is	 in	 itself	 a	 prodigious	 operation,	 and	 the	 same may	 be	 said	 of	 the	 shirt	 whenever	 it	 has	 to	 be	 changed.	 The	 first	 who	 gave	 us lessons	 in	 this	 art	 was	 Koreneff,	 a	 former	 chief	 of	 brigands,	 condemned	 to	 be chained	 up	 for	 five	 years.	 The	 convicts	 are	 very	 skilful	 at	 the	 work,	 and	 do	 it readily.

I	 gave	 a	 few	 kopecks	 to	 Petroff	 to	 buy	 soap	 and	 a	 bunch	 of	 the	 twigs	 with which	 one	 rubs	 oneself	 in	 the	 bath.	 Bits	 of	 soap	 were	 given	 to	 the	 convicts,	 but they	 were	 not	 larger	 than	 pieces	 of	 two	 kopecks.	 The	 soap	 was	 sold	 in	 the dressing-room,	as	well	as	mead,	cakes	of	white	flour,	and	boiling	water;	for	each convict	 received	 but	 one	 pailful,	 according	 to	 the	 agreement	 made	 between	 the proprietor	 of	 the	 bath	 and	 the	 administration	 of	 the	 prison.	 The	 convicts	 who wished	to	make	themselves	thoroughly	clean,	could	for	two	kopecks	buy	another pailful,	which	the	proprietor	handed	to	them	through	a	window	pierced	in	the	wall for	 that	 purpose.	 As	 soon	 as	 I	 was	 undressed,	 Petroff	 took	 me	 by	 the	 arm	 and observed	to	me	that	I	should	find	it	difficult	to	walk	with	my	chains.

“Drag	them	up	on	to	your	calves,”	he	said	to	me,	holding	me	by	the	arms	at

the	same	time,	as	if	I	were	an	old	man.	I	was	ashamed	at	his	care,	and	assured	him that	I	could	walk	well	enough	by	myself,	but	he	did	not	believe	me.	He	paid	me	the same	 attention	 that	 one	 gives	 to	 an	 awkward	 child.	 Petroff	 was	 not	 a	 servant	 in any	sense	of	the	word.	If	I	had	offended	him,	he	would	have	known	how	to	deal with	me.	I	had	promised	him	nothing	for	his	assistance,	nor	had	he	asked	me	for anything.	What	inspired	him	with	so	much	solicitude	for	me?

Represent	to	yourself	a	room	of	twelve	feet	long	by	as	many	broad,	in	which	a

hundred	 men	 are	 all	 crowded	 together,	 or	 at	 least	 eighty,	 for	 we	 were	 in	 all	 two hundred	divided	into	two	sections.	The	steam	blinded	us;	the	sweat,	the	dirt,	the want	 of	 space,	 were	 such	 that	 we	 did	 not	 know	 where	 to	 put	 a	 foot	 down.	 I	 was frightened	 and	 wished	 to	 go	 out.	 Petroff	 hastened	 to	 reassure	 me.	 With	 great trouble	we	succeeded	in	raising	ourselves	on	to	the	benches,	by	passing	over	the heads	of	the	convicts,	whom	we	begged	to	bend	down,	in	order	to	let	us	pass;	but all	 the	 benches	 were	 already	 occupied.	 Petroff	 informed	 me	 that	 I	 must	 buy	 a place,	 and	 at	 once	 entered	 into	 negotiations	 with	 the	 convict	 who	 was	 near	 the window.	For	a	kopeck	this	man	consented	to	cede	me	his	place.	After	receiving	the money,	which	Petroff	held	tight	in	his	hand,	and	which	he	had	prudently	provided himself	 with	 beforehand,	 the	 man	 crept	 just	 beneath	 me	 into	 a	 dark	 and	 dirty corner.	 There	 was	 there,	 at	 least,	 half	 an	 inch	 of	 filth;	 even	 the	 places	 above	 the benches	 were	 occupied,	 the	 convicts	 swarmed	 everywhere.	 As	 for	 the	 floor	 there was	 not	 a	 place	 as	 big	 as	 the	 palm	 of	 the	 hand	 which	 was	 not	 occupied	 by	 the convicts.	They	sent	the	water	in	spouts	out	of	their	pails.	Those	who	were	standing up	washed	themselves	pail	in	hand,	and	the	dirty	water	ran	all	down	their	body	to fall	on	the	shaved	heads	of	those	who	were	sitting	down.	On	the	upper	bench,	and the	 steps	 which	 led	 to	 it,	 were	 heaped	 together	 other	 convicts	 who	 washed themselves	more	thoroughly,	but	these	were	in	small	number.	The	populace	does

not	care	to	wash	with	soap	and	water,	it	prefers	stewing	in	a	horrible	manner,	and then	inundating	itself	with	cold	water.	That	is	how	the	common	people	take	their bath.	On	the	floor	could	be	seen	fifty	bundles	of	rods	rising	and	falling	at	the	same time,	the	holders	were	whipping	themselves	into	a	state	of	intoxication.	The	steam became	 thicker	 and	 thicker	 every	 minute,	 so	 that	 what	 one	 now	 felt	 was	 not	 a warm	 but	 a	 burning	 sensation,	 as	 from	 boiling	 pitch.	 The	 convicts	 shouted	 and howled	to	the	accompaniment	of	the	hundred	chains	shaking	on	the	floor.	Those who	 wished	 to	 pass	 from	 one	 place	 to	 another	 got	 their	 chains	 mixed	 up	 with those	 of	 their	 neighbours,	 and	 knocked	 against	 the	 heads	 of	 the	 men	 who	 were lower	down	than	they.	Then	there	were	volleys	of	oaths	as	those	who	fell	dragged down	 the	 ones	 whose	 chains	 had	 become	 entangled	 in	 theirs.	 They	 were	 all	 in	 a state	of	intoxication	of	wild	exultation.	Cries	and	shrieks	were	heard	on	all	sides.

There	 was	 much	 crowding	 and	 crushing	 at	 the	 window	 of	 the	 dressing-room through	which	the	hot	water	was	delivered,	and	much	of	it	got	spilt	over	the	heads of	 those	 who	 were	 seated	 on	 the	 floor	 before	 it	 arrived	 at	 its	 destination.	 We seemed	to	be	fully	at	liberty;	and	yet	from	time	to	time,	behind	the	window	of	the dressing-room,	or	through	the	open	door,	could	be	seen	the	moustached	face	of	a soldier,	with	his	musket	at	his	feet,	watching	that	no	serious	disorder	took	place.

The	shaved	heads	of	the	convicts,	and	their	red	bodies,	which	the	steam	made

the	 colour	 of	 blood,	 seemed	 more	 monstrous	 than	 ever.	 On	 their	 backs,	 made scarlet	by	the	steam,	stood	out	in	striking	relief	the	scars	left	by	the	whips	and	the rods,	made	long	before,	but	so	thoroughly	that	the	flesh	seemed	to	have	been	quite recently	 torn.	 Strange	 scars.	 A	 shudder	 passed	 through	 me	 at	 the	 mere	 sight	 of them.	Again	the	volume	of	steam	increased,	and	the	bath-room	was	now	covered with	 a	 thick,	 burning	 cloud,	 covering	 agitation	 and	 cries.	 From	 this	 cloud	 stood out	 torn	 backs,	 shaved	 heads;	 and,	 to	 complete	 the	 picture,	 Isaiah	 Fomitch howling	 with	 joy	 on	 the	 highest	 of	 the	 benches.	 He	 was	 saturating	 himself	 with steam.	Any	other	man	would	have	fainted	away,	but	no	temperature	is	too	high	for him;	he	engages	the	services	of	a	rubber	for	a	kopeck,	but	after	a	few	moments	the latter	is	unable	to	continue,	throws	away	his	bunch	of	twigs,	and	runs	to	inundate himself	 with	 cold	 water.	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 does	 not	 lose	 courage,	 he	 runs	 to	 hire	 a second	rubber,	then	a	third;	on	these	occasions	he	thinks	nothing	of	expense,	and changes	his	rubber	four	or	five	times.	“He	stews	well,	the	gallant	Isaiah	Fomitch,”

cry	the	convicts	from	below.	The	Jew	feels	that	he	goes	beyond	all	the	others,	he has	 beaten	 them;	 he	 triumphs	 with	 his	 hoarse	 falsetto	 voice,	 and	 sings	 out	 his favourite	air	which	rises	above	the	general	hubbub.	It	seemed	to	me	that	if	ever	we met	in	hell	we	should	be	reminded	of	the	place	where	we	then	were.	I	could	not resist	 a	 wish	 to	 communicate	 this	 idea	 to	 Petroff.	 He	 looked	 all	 round	 him,	 but made	no	answer.

I	wished	to	buy	a	place	for	him	on	the	bench	by	my	side;	but	he	sat	down	at

my	feet	and	declared	that	he	felt	quite	at	his	ease.	Baklouchin	meanwhile	bought us	 some	 hot	 water	 which	 he	 would	 bring	 to	 us	 as	 soon	 as	 we	 wanted	 it.	 Petroff offered	 to	 clean	 me	 from	 head	 to	 foot,	 and	 he	 begged	 me	 to	 go	 through	 the preliminary	stewing	process.	I	could	not	make	up	my	mind	to	it.	At	last	he	rubbed me	all	over	with	soap.	I	wished	to	make	him	understand	that	I	could	wash	myself, but	it	was	no	use	contradicting	him	and	I	gave	myself	up	to	him.

When	 he	 had	 done	 with	 me	 he	 took	 me	 back	 to	 the	 dressing-room,	 holding me	up,	and	telling	me	at	each	step	to	take	care,	as	if	I	had	been	made	of	porcelain.

He	helped	me	to	put	on	my	clothes,	and	when	he	had	finished	his	kindly	work	he

rushed	back	to	the	bath	to	have	a	thorough	stewing.

When	we	got	back	to	the	barracks	I	offered	him	a	glass	of	tea,	which	he	did

not	refuse.	He	drank	it	and	thanked	me.	I	wished	to	go	to	the	expense	of	a	glass	of vodka	 in	 his	 honour,	 and	 I	 succeeded	 in	 getting	 it	 on	 the	 spot.	 Petroff	 was exceedingly	 pleased.	 He	 swallowed	 his	 vodka	 with	 a	 murmur	 of	 satisfaction, declared	that	I	had	restored	him	to	life,	and	then	suddenly	rushed	to	the	kitchen, as	 if	 the	 people	 who	 were	 talking	 there	 could	 not	 decide	 anything	 important without	him.

Now	another	man	came	up	for	a	talk.	This	was	Baklouchin,	of	whom	I	have

already	spoken,	and	whom	I	had	also	invited	to	take	tea.

I	never	knew	a	man	of	a	more	agreeable	disposition	than	Baklouchin.	It	must

be	admitted	that	he	never	forgave	a	wrong,	and	that	he	often	got	into	quarrels.	He could	 not,	 above	 all,	 endure	 people	 interfering	 with	 his	 affairs.	 He	 knew,	 in	 a word,	how	to	take	care	of	himself;	but	his	quarrels	never	lasted	long,	and	I	believe that	all	the	convicts	liked	him.	Wherever	he	went	he	was	well	received.	Even	in	the town	he	was	looked	upon	as	the	most	amusing	man	in	the	world.	He	was	a	man	of

lofty	 stature,	 thirty	 years	 old,	 with	 a	 frank,	 determined	 countenance,	 and	 rather good-looking,	 with	 his	 tuft	 of	 hair	 on	 his	 chin.	 He	 possessed	 the	 art	 of	 changing his	face	in	such	a	comic	manner	by	imitating	the	first	person	he	happened	to	see, that	 the	 people	 around	 him	 were	 constantly	 in	 a	 roar.	 He	 was	 a	 professed	 joker, but	 he	 never	 allowed	 himself	 to	 be	 slighted	 by	 those	 who	 did	 not	 enjoy	 his	 fun.

Accordingly,	 no	 one	 spoke	 disparagingly	 of	 him.	 He	 was	 full	 of	 life	 and	 fire.	 He made	my	acquaintance	at	the	very	beginning	of	my	imprisonment,	and	related	to me	his	military	career,	when	he	was	a	sapper	in	the	Engineers,	where	he	had	been placed	 as	 a	 favour	 by	 people	 of	 influence.	 He	 put	 a	 number	 of	 questions	 to	 me about	St.	Petersburg;	he	even	read	books	when	he	came	to	take	tea	with	me.	He amused	 the	 whole	 company	 by	 relating	 how	 roughly	 Lieutenant	 K——	 had	 that morning	handled	the	Major.	He	told	me,	moreover,	with	a	satisfied	air,	as	he	took his	 seat	 by	 my	 side,	 that	 we	 should	 probably	 have	 a	 theatrical	 representation	 in the	prison.	The	convicts	proposed	to	get	up	a	play	during	the	Christmas	holidays.

The	 necessary	 actors	 were	 found,	 and,	 little	 by	 little,	 the	 scenery	 was	 prepared.

Some	 persons	 in	 the	 town	 had	 promised	 to	 lend	 women’s	 clothes	 for	 the performance.	 Some	 hopes	 were	 even	 entertained	 of	 obtaining,	 through	 the medium	of	an	officer’s	servant,	a	uniform	with	epaulettes,	provided	only	the	Major did	 not	 take	 it	 into	 his	 head	 to	 forbid	 the	 performance,	 as	 he	 had	 done	 the previous	year.	He	was	at	that	time	in	ill-humour	through	having	lost	at	cards,	and he	 had	 been	 annoyed	 at	 something	 that	 had	 taken	 place	 in	 the	 prison.

Accordingly,	 in	 a	 fit	 of	 ill-humour,	 he	 had	 forbidden	 the	 performance.	 It	 was possible,	however,	that	this	year	he	would	not	prevent	it.	Baklouchin	was	in	a	state of	exultation.	It	could	be	seen	that	he	would	be	one	of	the	principal	supporters	of the	meditated	theatre.	I	made	up	my	mind	to	be	present	at	the	performance.	The

ingenuous	 joy	 which	 Baklouchin	 manifested	 in	 speaking	 of	 the	 undertaking	 was quite	 touching.	 From	 whispering,	 we	 gradually	 got	 to	 talk	 of	 the	 matter	 quite openly.	He	told	me,	among	other	things,	that	he	had	not	served	at	St.	Petersburg alone.	He	had	been	sent	to	R——	with	the	rank	of	non-commissioned	officer	in	a

garrison	battalion.

“From	there	they	sent	me	on	here,”	added	Baklouchin.

“And	why?”	I	asked	him.

“Why?	You	would	never	guess,	Alexander	Petrovitch.	Because	I	was	in	love.”

“Come	now.	A	man	is	not	exiled	for	that,”	I	said,	with	a	laugh.

“I	should	have	added,”	continued	Baklouchin,	“that	it	made	me	kill	a	German

with	 a	 pistol-shot.	 Was	 it	 worth	 while	 to	 send	 me	 to	 hard	 labour	 for	 killing	 a German?	Only	think.”

“How	did	it	happen?	Tell	me	the	story.	It	must	be	a	strange	one.”

“An	amusing	story	indeed,	Alexander	Petrovitch.”

“So	much	the	better.	Tell	me.”

“You	wish	me	to	do	so?	Well,	then,	listen.”

And	 he	 told	 me	 the	 story	 of	 his	 murder.	 It	 was	 not	 “amusing,”	 but	 it	 was indeed	strange.

“This	is	how	it	happened,”	began	Baklouchin;	“I	had	been	sent	to	Riga,	a	fine,

handsome	city,	which	has	only	one	fault,	there	are	too	many	Germans	there.	I	was still	 a	 young	 man,	 and	 I	 had	 a	 good	 character	 with	 my	 officers.	 I	 wore	 my	 cap cocked	on	the	side	of	my	head,	and	passed	my	time	in	the	most	agreeable	manner.

I	 made	 love	 to	 the	 German	 girls.	 One	 of	 them,	 named	 Luisa,	 pleased	 me	 very much.	She	and	her	aunt	were	getters-up	of	fine	linen.	The	old	woman	was	a	true caricature;	but	she	had	money.	First	of	all	I	merely	passed	under	the	young	girl’s windows;	 but	 I	 soon	 made	 her	 acquaintance.	 Luisa	 spoke	 Russian	 well	 enough, though	with	a	slight	accent.	She	was	charming.	I	never	saw	any	one	like	her.	I	was most	 pressing	 in	 my	 advances;	 but	 she	 only	 replied	 that	 she	 would	 preserve	 her innocence,	that	as	a	wife	she	might	prove	worthy	of	me.	She	was	an	affectionate, smiling	girl,	and	wonderfully	neat.	In	fact,	I	assure	you,	I	never	saw	any	one	like her.	 She	 herself	 had	 suggested	 that	 I	 should	 marry	 her,	 and	 how	 was	 I	 not	 to marry	her?	Suddenly	Luisa	did	not	come	to	her	appointment.	This	happened	once, then	twice,	then	a	third	time.	I	sent	her	a	letter,	but	she	did	not	reply.	‘What	is	to be	 done?’	 I	 said	 to	 myself.	 If	 she	 had	 been	 deceiving	 me	 she	 could	 easily	 have taken	 me	 in.	 She	 could	 have	 answered	 my	 letter	 and	 come	 all	 the	 same	 to	 the appointment;	but	she	was	incapable	of	falsehood.	She	had	simply	broken	off	with me.	‘This	is	a	trick	of	the	aunt,’	I	said	to	myself.	I	was	afraid	to	go	to	her	house.

“Even	 though	 she	 was	 aware	 of	 our	 engagement,	 we	 acted	 as	 if	 she	 were ignorant	of	it.	I	wrote	a	fine	letter	in	which	I	said	to	Luisa,	‘If	you	don’t	come,	I	will come	to	your	aunt’s	for	you.’	She	was	afraid	and	came.	Then	she	began	to	weep, and	 told	 me	 that	 a	 German	 named	 Schultz,	 a	 distant	 relation	 of	 theirs,	 a clockmaker	by	trade,	and	of	a	certain	age,	but	rich,	had	shown	a	wish	to	marry	her —in	 order	 to	 make	 her	 happy,	 as	 he	 said,	 and	 that	 he	 himself	 might	 not	 remain without	 a	 wife	 in	 his	 old	 age.	 He	 had	 loved	 her	 a	 long	 time,	 so	 she	 told	 me,	 and had	been	nourishing	this	idea	for	years,	but	he	had	kept	it	a	secret,	and	had	never ventured	to	speak	out.	‘You	see,	Sasha,’	she	said	to	me,	‘that	it	is	a	question	of	my happiness;	 for	 he	 is	 rich,	 and	 would	 you	 prevent	 my	 happiness?’	 I	 looked	 her	 in the	face,	she	wept,	embraced	me,	clasped	me	in	her	arms.

“‘Well,	she	is	quite	right,’	I	said	to	myself,	‘what	good	is	there	in	marrying	a soldier—even	 a	 non-commissioned	 officer?	 Come,	 farewell,	 Luisa.	 God	 protect you.	I	have	no	right	to	prevent	your	happiness.’

“‘And	what	sort	of	a	man	is	he?	Is	he	good-looking?’

“‘No,	he	is	old,	and	he	has	such	a	long	nose.’

“She	here	burst	into	a	fit	of	laughter.	I	left	her.	‘It	was	my	destiny,’	I	said	to myself.	The	next	day	I	passed	by	Schultz’	shop	(she	had	told	me	where	he	lived).	I looked	through	the	window	and	saw	a	German,	who	was	arranging	a	watch,	forty-

five	 years	 of	 age,	 an	 aquiline	 nose,	 swollen	 eyes,	 a	 dress-coat	 with	 a	 very	 high collar.	 I	 spat	 with	 contempt	 as	 I	 looked	 at	 him.	 At	 that	 moment	 I	 was	 ready	 to break	 the	 shop	 windows,	 but	 ‘What	 is	 the	 use	 of	 it?’	 I	 said	 to	 myself;	 ‘there	 is nothing	more	to	be	done:	it	is	over,	all	over.’	I	got	back	to	the	barracks	as	the	night was	 falling,	 and	 stretched	 myself	 out	 on	 my	 bed,	 and—will	 you	 believe	 it, Alexander	Petrovitch?—began	to	sob—yes,	to	sob.	One	day	passed,	then	a	second,

then	 a	 third.	 I	 saw	 Luisa	 no	 more.	 I	 had	 learned,	 however,	 from	 an	 old	 woman (she	 was	 also	 a	 washerwoman,	 and	 the	 girl	 I	 loved	 used	 sometimes	 to	 visit	 her), that	this	German	knew	of	our	relations,	and	that	for	that	reason	he	had	made	up his	 mind	 to	 marry	 her	 as	 soon	 as	 possible,	 otherwise	 he	 would	 have	 waited	 two years	 longer.	 He	 had	 made	 Luisa	 swear	 that	 she	 would	 see	 me	 no	 more.	 It appeared	 that	 on	 account	 of	 me	 he	 had	 refused	 to	 loosen	 his	 purse-strings,	 and kept	Luisa	and	her	aunt	very	close.	Perhaps	he	would	yet	change	his	idea,	for	he was	 not	 very	 resolute.	 The	 old	 woman	 told	 me	 that	 he	 had	 invited	 them	 to	 take coffee	 with	 him	 the	 next	 day,	 a	 Sunday,	 and	 that	 another	 relation,	 a	 former shopkeeper,	 now	 very	 poor,	 and	 an	 assistant	 in	 some	 liquor	 store,	 would	 also come.	 When	 I	 found	 that	 the	 business	 was	 to	 be	 settled	 on	 Sunday,	 I	 was	 so furious	that	I	could	not	recover	my	cold	blood,	and	the	following	day	I	did	nothing but	 reflect.	 I	 believe	 I	 could	 have	 devoured	 that	 German.	 On	 Sunday	 morning	 I had	not	come	to	any	decision.	As	soon	as	the	service	was	over	I	ran	out,	got	into my	great-coat,	and	went	to	the	house	of	this	German.	I	thought	I	should	find	them all	 there.	 Why	 I	 went	 to	 the	 German,	 and	 what	 I	 meant	 to	 say	 to	 him,	 I	 did	 not know	myself.

“I	 slipped	 a	 pistol	 into	 my	 pocket	 to	 be	 ready	 for	 everything;	 a	 little	 pistol which	was	not	worth	a	curse,	with	an	old-fashioned	lock—a	thing	I	had	used	when I	was	a	boy,	and	which	was	really	fit	for	nothing.	I	loaded	it,	however,	because	I thought	they	would	try	to	kick	me	out,	and	that	the	German	would	insult	me,	in which	case	I	would	pull	out	my	pistol	to	frighten	them	all.	I	arrived.	There	was	no one	on	the	staircase;	they	were	all	in	the	work-room.	No	servant.	The	one	girl	who waited	upon	them	was	absent.	I	crossed	the	shop	and	saw	that	the	door	was	closed —an	 old	 door	 fastened	 from	 the	 inside.	 My	 heart	 beat;	 I	 stopped	 and	 listened.

They	 were	 speaking	 German.	 I	 broke	 open	 the	 door	 with	 a	 kick.	 I	 looked	 round.

The	 table	 was	 laid;	 there	 was	 a	 large	 coffee-pot	 on	 it,	 with	 a	 spirit	 lamp underneath,	 and	 a	 plate	 of	 biscuits.	 On	 a	 tray	 there	 was	 a	 small	 decanter	 of brandy,	herrings,	sausages,	and	a	bottle	of	some	wine.	Luisa	and	her	aunt,	both	in their	 Sunday	 best,	 were	 seated	 on	 a	 sofa.	 Opposite	 them,	 the	 German	 was exhibiting	 himself	 on	 a	 chair,	 got	 up	 like	 a	 bridegroom,	 and	 in	 his	 coat	 with	 the high	 collar,	 and	 with	 his	 hair	 carefully	 combed.	 On	 the	 other	 side,	 there	 was another	 German,	 old,	 fat,	 and	 gray.	 He	 was	 taking	 no	 part	 in	 the	 conversation.

When	I	entered,	Luisa	turned	very	pale.	The	aunt	sprang	up	with	a	bound	and	sat down	 again.	 The	 German	 became	 angry.	 What	 a	 rage	 he	 was	 in!	 He	 got	 up,	 and walking	towards	me,	said: “‘What	do	you	want?’

“I	should	have	lost	my	self-possession	if	anger	had	not	supported	me.

“‘What	do	I	want?	Is	this	the	way	to	receive	a	guest?	Why	do	you	not	offer	him

something	to	drink?	I	have	come	to	pay	you	a	visit.’

“The	German	reflected	a	moment,	and	then	said,	‘Sit	down.’

“I	sat	down.

“‘Here	is	some	vodka.	Help	yourself,	I	beg.’

“‘And	let	it	be	good,’	I	cried,	getting	more	and	more	into	a	rage.

“‘It	is	good.’

“I	 was	 enraged	 to	 see	 him	 looking	 at	 me	 from	 top	 to	 toe.	 The	 most	 frightful part	of	it	was,	that	Luisa	was	looking	on.	I	took	a	drink	and	said	to	him: “‘Look	here,	German,	what	business	have	you	to	speak	rudely	to	me?	Let	us

be	better	acquainted.	I	have	come	to	see	you	as	friends.’

“‘I	cannot	be	your	friend,’	he	replied.	‘You	are	a	private	soldier.’

“Then	I	lost	all	self-command.

“‘Oh,	 you	 German!	 You	 sausage-seller!	 You	 know	 how	 much	 you	 are	 in	 my power.	Look	here;	do	you	wish	me	to	break	your	head	with	this	pistol?’

“I	 drew	 out	 my	 pistol,	 got	 up,	 and	 struck	 him	 on	 the	 forehead.	 The	 women were	more	dead	than	alive;	they	were	afraid	to	breathe.	The	eldest	of	the	two	men, quite	white,	was	trembling	like	a	leaf.

“The	German	seemed	much	astonished.	But	he	soon	recovered	himself.

“‘I	am	not	afraid	of	you,’	he	said,	‘and	I	beg	of	you,	as	a	well-bred	man,	to	put an	end	to	this	pleasantry.	I	am	not	afraid	of	you!’

“‘You	are	afraid!	You	dare	not	move	while	this	pistol	is	presented	at	you.’

“‘You	dare	not	do	such	a	thing!’	he	cried.

“‘And	why	should	I	not	dare?’

“‘Because	you	would	be	severely	punished.’

“May	 the	 devil	 take	 that	 idiot	 of	 a	 German!	 If	 he	 had	 not	 urged	 me	 on,	 he would	have	been	alive	now.

“‘So	you	think	I	dare	not?’

“‘No.’

“‘I	dare	not,	you	think?’

“‘You	would	not	dare!’

“‘Wouldn’t	 I,	 sausage-maker?’	 I	 fired	 the	 pistol,	 and	 down	 he	 sank	 on	 his chair.	The	others	uttered	shrieks.	I	put	back	my	pistol	in	my	pocket,	and	when	I returned	to	the	fortress,	threw	it	among	some	weeds	near	the	principal	entrance.

“Inside	 the	 barracks	 I	 laid	 on	 my	 bed,	 and	 said	 to	 myself,	 ‘I	 shall	 be	 taken away	soon.’	One	hour	passed,	then	another,	but	I	was	not	arrested.

“Towards	evening	I	felt	so	sad,	I	went	out	at	all	hazards	to	see	Luisa;	I	passed before	 the	 house	 of	 the	 clockmaker’s.	 There	 were	 a	 number	 of	 people	 there, including	the	police.	I	ran	on	to	the	old	woman’s	and	said:

“‘Call	Luisa!’

“I	 had	 only	 a	 moment	 to	 wait.	 She	 came	 immediately,	 and	 threw	 herself	 on my	neck	in	tears.

“‘It	is	my	fault,’	she	said.	‘I	should	not	have	listened	to	my	aunt.’

“She	then	told	me	that	her	aunt,	immediately	after	the	scene,	had	gone	back

home.	 She	 was	 in	 such	 a	 fright	 that	 she	 fell	 and	 did	 not	 speak	 a	 word;	 she	 had uttered	nothing.	On	the	contrary,	she	ordered	her	niece	to	be	as	silent	as	herself.

“‘No	one	has	seen	her	since,’	said	Luisa.

“The	 clockmaker	 had	 previously	 sent	 his	 servant	 away,	 for	 he	 was	 afraid	 of her.	She	was	jealous,	and	would	have	scratched	his	eyes	out	had	she	known	that

he	wished	to	get	married.

“There	 were	 no	 workmen	 in	 the	 house,	 he	 had	 sent	 them	 all	 away;	 he	 had himself	 prepared	 the	 coffee	 and	 collation.	 As	 for	 the	 relation,	 who	 had	 scarcely spoken	a	word	all	his	life,	he	took	his	hat,	and,	without	opening	his	mouth,	went away.

“‘He	is	quite	sure	to	be	silent,’	added	Luisa.

“So,	indeed,	he	was.	For	two	weeks	no	one	arrested	me	nor	suspected	me	the

least	in	the	world.

“You	need	not	believe	me	unless	you	choose,	Alexander	Petrovitch.

“These	 two	 weeks	 were	 the	 happiest	 in	 my	 life.	 I	 saw	 Luisa	 every	 day.	 And how	much	she	had	become	attached	to	me!

“She	said	to	me	through	her	tears:	‘If	you	are	exiled,	I	will	go	with	you.	I	will leave	everything	to	follow	you.’

“I	thought	of	making	away	with	myself,	so	much	had	she	moved	me;	but	after

two	weeks	I	was	arrested.	The	old	man	and	the	aunt	had	agreed	to	denounce	me.”

“But,”	 I	 interrupted,	 “Baklouchin,	 for	 that	 they	 would	 only	 have	 given	 you from	 ten	 to	 twelve	 years’	 hard	 labour,	 and	 in	 the	 civil	 section;	 yet	 you	 are	 in	 the special	section.	How	does	that	happen?”

“That	 is	 another	 affair,”	 said	 Baklouchin.	 “When	 I	 was	 taken	 before	 the Council	of	War,	the	captain	appointed	to	conduct	the	case	began	by	insulting	me, and	calling	me	names	before	the	Tribunal.	I	could	not	stand	it,	and	shouted	out	to him:	 ‘Why	 do	 you	 insult	 me?	 Don’t	 you	 see,	 you	 scoundrel!	 that	 you	 are	 only looking	at	yourself	in	the	glass?’

“This	brought	a	new	charge	against	me.	I	was	tried	a	second	time,	and	for	the two	 things	 was	 condemned	 to	 four	 thousand	 strokes,	 and	 to	 the	 special	 section.

When	I	was	taken	out	to	receive	my	punishment	in	the	 Green	Street,	 the	 captain was	 at	 the	 same	 time	 sent	 away.	 He	 had	 been	 degraded	 from	 his	 rank,	 and	 was despatched	to	the	Caucasus	as	a	private	soldier.	Good-bye,	Alexander	Petrovitch.

Don’t	fail	to	come	to	our	performance.”





CHAPTER	11.

THE	CHRISTMAS	HOLIDAYS

The	holidays	were	approaching.	On	the	eve	of	the	great	day	the	convicts

scarcely	 ever	 went	 to	 work.	 Those	 who	 had	 been	 assigned	 to	 the	 sewing workshops,	 and	 a	 few	 others,	 went	 to	 work	 as	 usual;	 but	 they	 went	 back almost	immediately	to	the	convict	prison,	separately,	or	in	parties.	After	dinner	no one	 worked.	 From	 the	 early	 morning	 the	 greater	 part	 of	 the	 convicts	 were occupied	 with	 their	 own	 affairs,	 and	 not	 with	 those	 of	 the	 administration.	 Some were	 making	 arrangements	 for	 bringing	 in	 spirits,	 while	 others	 were	 seeking permission	 to	 see	 their	 friends,	 or	 to	 collect	 small	 accounts	 due	 to	 them	 for	 the work	 they	 had	 already	 executed.	 Baklouchin,	 and	 the	 convicts	 who	 were	 to	 take part	 in	 the	 performance,	 were	 endeavouring	 to	 persuade	 some	 of	 their acquaintances,	 nearly	 all	 officers’	 servants,	 to	 procure	 for	 them	 the	 necessary costumes.	 Some	 of	 them	 came	 and	 went	 with	 a	 business-like	 air,	 solely	 because others	 were	 really	 occupied.	 They	 had	 no	 money	 to	 receive,	 and	 yet	 seemed	 to expect	a	payment.	Every	one,	in	short,	seemed	to	be	looking	for	a	change	of	some kind.	Towards	evening	the	old	soldiers,	who	executed	the	convicts’	commissions, brought	 them	 all	 kinds	 of	 victuals—meat,	 sucking-pigs,	 and	 geese.	 Many prisoners,	 even	 the	 most	 simple	 and	 most	 economical,	 after	 saving	 up	 their kopecks	throughout	the	year,	thought	they	ought	to	spend	some	of	them	that	day, so	as	to	celebrate	Christmas	Eve	in	a	worthy	manner.	The	day	afterwards	was	for the	 convicts	 a	 still	 greater	 festival,	 one	 to	 which	 they	 had	 a	 right,	 as	 it	 was recognised	by	law.	The	prisoners	could	not	be	sent	to	work	that	day.	There	were not	three	days	like	it	in	all	the	year.

And,	moreover,	what	recollections	must	have	been	agitating	the	souls	of	those

reprobates	at	the	approach	of	such	a	solemn	day!	The	common	people	from	their

childhood	 kept	 the	 great	 festival	 in	 their	 memory.	 They	 must	 have	 remembered with	anguish	and	torments	these	days	which,	work	being	laid	aside,	are	passed	in the	 bosom	 of	 the	 family.	 The	 respect	 of	 the	 convicts	 for	 that	 day	 had	 something imposing	about	it.	The	drunkards	were	not	at	all	numerous;	nearly	every	one	was serious,	and,	so	to	say,	preoccupied,	though	they	had	for	the	most	part	nothing	to do.	Even	those	who	feasted	most	preserved	a	serious	air.	Laughter	seemed	to	be

forbidden.	A	sort	of	intolerant	susceptibility	reigned	throughout	the	prison;	and	if any	one	interfered	with	the	general	repose,	even	involuntarily,	he	was	soon	put	in his	proper	place,	with	cries	and	oaths.	He	was	condemned	as	though	he	had	been wanting	in	respect	to	the	festival	itself.

This	 disposition	 of	 the	 convicts	 was	 remarkable,	 and	 even	 touching.	 Besides the	innate	veneration	they	have	for	this	great	day,	they	foresee	that	in	observing the	 festival	 they	 are	 in	 communion	 with	 the	 rest	 of	 the	 world;	 that	 they	 are	 not altogether	reprobates	lost	and	cast	off	by	society.	The	usual	rejoicings	took	place in	the	convict	prison	as	well	as	outside.	They	felt	all	that.	I	saw	it,	and	understood it	myself.

Akim	Akimitch	had	made	great	preparations	for	the	festival.	He	had	no	family

recollections,	being	an	orphan,	born	in	a	strange	house,	and	put	into	the	army	at the	age	of	fifteen.	He	could	never	have	experienced	any	great	joys,	having	always lived	regularly	and	uniformly	in	the	fear	of	infringing	the	rules	imposed	upon	him, nor	was	he	very	religious;	for	his	acquired	formality	had	stifled	in	him	all	human feeling,	 all	 passions	 and	 likings,	 good	 or	 bad.	 He	 accordingly	 prepared	 to	 keep Christmas	 without	 exciting	 himself	 about	 it.	 He	 was	 saddened	 by	 no	 painful, useless	recollection.	He	did	everything	with	the	punctuality	imposed	upon	him	in the	execution	of	his	duties,	and	in	order	once	for	all	to	get	through	the	ceremony in	a	becoming	manner.	Moreover,	he	did	not	care	to	reflect	upon	the	importance

of	the	day,	had	never	troubled	his	brain	about	it,	even	while	he	was	executing	his prescribed	 duties	 with	 religious	 minuteness.	 If	 he	 had	 been	 ordered	 the	 day following	 to	 do	 contrary	 to	 what	 he	 had	 done	 the	 evening	 before	 he	 would	 have done	it	with	equal	submission.	Once	in	life,	once,	and	once	only,	he	had	wished	to act	by	his	own	impulse—and	he	had	been	sent	to	hard	labour	for	it.

This	lesson	had	not	been	lost	upon	him,	although	it	was	written	that	he	was

never	 to	 understand	 his	 fault.	 He	 had	 yet	 become	 impressed	 with	 this	 salutary moral	principle:	never	to	reason	in	any	matter	because	his	mind	was	not	equal	to the	task	of	judging.	Blindly	devoted	to	ceremonies,	he	looked	with	respect	at	the sucking-pig	 which	 he	 had	 stuffed	 with	 millet-seed,	 and	 which	 he	 had	 roasted himself	 (for	 he	 had	 some	 culinary	 skill),	 just	 as	 if	 it	 had	 not	 been	 an	 ordinary sucking-pig	 which	 could	 have	 been	 bought	 and	 roasted	 at	 any	 time,	 but	 a particular	kind	of	animal	born	specially	for	Christmas	Day.	Perhaps	he	had	been accustomed	from	his	tender	infancy	to	see	that	day	a	sucking-pig	on	the	table,	and he	 may	 have	 concluded	 that	 a	 sucking-pig	 was	 indispensable	 for	 the	 proper celebration	 of	 the	 festival.	 I	 am	 certain	 that	 if	 by	 ill-luck	 he	 had	 not	 eaten	 this particular	kind	of	meat	on	that	day,	he	would	have	been	troubled	with	remorse	all his	life	for	not	having	done	his	duty.	Until	Christmas	morning	he	wore	his	old	vest and	his	old	trousers,	which	had	long	been	threadbare.	I	then	learned	that	he	kept carefully	 in	 his	 box	 his	 new	 clothes	 which	 had	 been	 given	 to	 him	 four	 months before,	and	that	he	had	not	put	them	on	once,	in	order	that	he	might	wear	them for	the	first	time	on	Christmas	Day.	He	did	so.	The	evening	before	he	took	his	new clothes	out	of	his	trunk,	unfolded,	examined	them,	cleaned	them,	blew	on	them	to remove	 the	 dust,	 and	 when	 he	 was	 convinced	 that	 they	 were	 perfect,	 probably tried	 them	 on.	 The	 dress	 became	 him	 perfectly;	 all	 the	 different	 garments	 suited one	 another.	 The	 waistcoat	 buttoned	 up	 to	 the	 neck,	 the	 collar,	 straight	 and	 stiff like	cardboard,	kept	his	chin	in	its	proper	place.	There	was	a	military	cut	about	the dress;	and	Akim	Akimitch,	as	he	wore	it,	smiled	with	satisfaction,	turning	himself round	 and	 round,	 not	 without	 swagger,	 before	 a	 little	 mirror	 adorned	 with	 a	 gilt border.

One	 of	 the	 waistcoat-buttons	 alone	 seemed	 out	 of	 place;	 Akim	 Akimitch remarked	 it,	 and	 at	 once	 set	 it	 right.	 He	 tried	 on	 the	 vest	 again	 and	 found	 it irreproachable.	Then	he	folded	up	his	things	as	before,	and	with	a	satisfied	mind locked	them	up	in	his	box	until	the	next	day.	His	skull	was	sufficiently	shaved;	but, after	careful	examination,	Akim	Akimitch	came	to	the	conclusion	that	it	was	not	in good	 condition,	 his	 hair	 had	 imperceptibly	 sprung	 up.	 He	 accordingly	 went immediately	to	the	“Major”	to	be	properly	shaved	according	to	the	rules.	In	reality no	 one	 would	 have	 dreamed	 of	 looking	 at	 him	 next	 day,	 but	 he	 was	 acting conscientiously	in	order	to	fulfil	all	his	duties.	This	care	lest	the	smallest	button, the	 least	 thread	 of	 an	 epaulette,	 the	 slightest	 string	 of	 a	 tassel	 should	 go	 wrong, was	engraved	in	his	mind	as	an	imperious	duty,	and	in	his	heart	as	the	image	of the	most	perfect	order	that	could	possibly	be	attained.	As	one	of	the	“old	hands”	in the	 barracks,	 he	 saw	 that	 hay	 was	 brought	 and	 strewed	 about	 on	 the	 floor;	 the same	thing	was	done	in	the	other	barracks.	I	do	not	know	why,	but	hay	was	always strewed	on	the	ground	at	Christmas	time.

As	soon	as	Akim	Akimitch	had	finished	his	work	he	said	his	prayers,	stretched

himself	on	his	bed,	and	went	to	sleep,	with	the	sleep	of	a	child,	in	order	to	wake	up as	 early	 as	 possible	 the	 next	 day.	 The	 other	 convicts	 did	 the	 same.	 It	 must	 be added	 that	 all	 of	 them	 went	 to	 bed,	 but	 sooner	 than	 usual.	 They	 gave	 up	 their ordinary	 evening	 work	 that	 day.	 As	 for	 playing	 cards,	 no	 one	 would	 have	 dared even	 to	 speak	 of	 such	 a	 thing;	 every	 one	 was	 anxiously	 expecting	 the	 next morning.

At	 last	 this	 morning	 arrived.	 At	 an	 early	 hour,	 even	 before	 it	 was	 light,	 the drum	was	sounded,	and	the	under	officer,	whose	duty	it	was	to	count	the	convicts, wished	 them	 a	 happy	 Christmas.	 The	 prisoners	 answered	 him	 in	 an	 affable	 and amiable	tone	by	expressing	a	like	wish.	Akim	Akimitch,	and	many	others,	who	had their	geese	and	their	sucking-pigs,	went	to	the	kitchen,	after	saying	their	prayers, in	 a	 hurried	 manner	 to	 see	 where	 their	 victuals	 were	 and	 how	 they	 were	 being cooked.

Through	the	little	windows	of	our	barracks,	half	hidden	by	the	snow	and	the

ice,	could	be	seen,	flaring	in	the	darkness,	the	bright	fire	of	the	two	kitchens	where six	stoves	had	been	lighted.	In	the	court-yard,	where	it	was	still	dark,	the	convicts, each	 with	 a	 half	 pelisse	 round	 his	 shoulders,	 or	 perhaps	 fully	 dressed,	 were hurrying	towards	the	kitchen.	Some	of	them,	meanwhile—a	very	small	number— had	 already	 visited	 the	 drink-sellers.	 They	 were	 the	 impatient	 ones,	 but	 they behaved	becomingly,	possibly	much	better	than	on	ordinary	days;	neither	quarrels nor	 insults	 were	 heard,	 every	 one	 understood	 that	 it	 was	 a	 great	 day,	 a	 great festival.	 The	 convicts	 went	 even	 to	 visit	 the	 other	 barracks	 in	 order	 to	 wish	 the inmates	a	happy	Christmas;	that	day	a	sort	of	friendship	seemed	to	exist	between them	all.	I	will	remark	in	passing	that	the	convicts	have	scarcely	ever	any	intimate friendships.	 It	 was	 very	 rare	 to	 see	 a	 man	 on	 confidential	 terms	 with	 any	 other man,	 as,	 in	 the	 outer	 world.	 We	 were	 generally	 harsh	 and	 abrupt	 in	 our	 mutual relations.	 With	 some	 rare	 exceptions	 this	 was	 the	 general	 tone	 adopted	 and maintained.

I	 went	 out	 of	 the	 barracks	 like	 the	 others.	 It	 was	 beginning	 to	 get	 late.	 The stars	were	paling,	a	light,	icy	mist	was	rising	from	the	earth,	and	spirals	of	smoke were	ascending	in	curls	from	the	chimneys.	Several	convicts	whom	I	met	wished

me,	with	affability,	a	happy	Christmas.	I	thanked	them	and	returned	their	wishes.

Some	of	them	had	never	spoken	to	me	before.

Near	the	kitchen,	a	convict	from	the	military	barracks,	with	his	sheepskin	on

his	shoulder,	came	up	to	me.	Recognising	me,	he	called	out	from	the	middle	of	the court-yard,	“Alexander	Petrovitch.”	He	ran	towards	me.	I	waited	for	him.	He	was	a young	fellow,	with	a	round	face	and	soft	eyes,	and	not	at	all	communicative	as	a rule.	He	had	not	spoken	to	me	since	my	arrival,	and	seemed	never	to	have	noticed me.	I	did	not	know	on	my	side	what	his	name	was.	When	he	came	up,	he	remained planted	before	me,	smiling	with	a	vacuous	smile,	but	with	a	happy	expression	of countenance.

“What	do	you	want?”	I	asked,	not	without	astonishment.

He	 remained	 standing	 before	 me,	 still	 smiling	 and	 staring,	 but	 without replying	to	my	question.

“Why,	it	is	Christmas	Day,”	he	muttered.

He	 understood	 that	 he	 had	 nothing	 more	 to	 say,	 and	 now	 hastened	 into	 the kitchen.

I	 must	 add	 that,	 after	 this	 we	 scarcely	 ever	 met,	 and	 that	 we	 never	 spoke	 to one	another	again.

Round	 the	 flaming	 stoves	 of	 the	 kitchen	 the	 convicts	 were	 rubbing	 and pushing	against	one	another.	Every	one	was	watching	his	own	property.	The	cooks were	preparing	the	dinner,	which	was	to	take	place	a	little	earlier	than	usual.	No one	began	to	eat	before	the	time,	though	a	good	many	wished	to	do	so;	but	it	was necessary	 to	 be	 well-behaved	 before	 the	 others.	 We	 were	 waiting	 for	 the	 priest, and	the	fast	preceding	Christmas	would	not	be	at	an	end	until	his	arrival.

It	 was	 not	 yet	 perfectly	 light,	 when	 the	 corporal	 was	 already	 heard	 shouting out	from	behind	the	principal	gate	of	the	prison: “The	kitchen;	the	kitchen.”

These	 calls	 were	 repeated	 without	 interruption	 for	 about	 two	 hours.	 The cooks	were	wanted	in	order	to	receive	gifts	brought	from	all	parts	of	the	town	in enormous	numbers;	loaves	of	white	bread,	scones,	rusks,	pancakes,	and	pastry	of various	kinds.	I	do	not	think	there	was	a	shop-keeper	in	the	whole	town	who	did not	 send	 something	 to	 the	 “unfortunates.”	 Amongst	 these	 gifts	 there	 were	 some magnificent	ones,	including	a	good	many	cakes	of	the	finest	flour.	There	were	also some	 very	 poor	 ones,	 such	 as	 rolls	 worth	 two	 kopecks	 a	 piece,	 and	 a	 couple	 of brown	rolls,	covered	lightly	over	with	sour	cream.	These	were	the	offerings	of	the poor	to	the	poor,	on	which	a	last	kopeck	had	often	been	spent.

All	 these	 gifts	 were	 accepted	 with	 equal	 gratitude,	 without	 reference	 to	 the value	or	the	giver.	The	convicts,	on	receiving	the	offerings,	took	off	their	caps	and thanked	 the	 donors	 with	 low	 bows,	 wishing	 them	 a	 happy	 Christmas,	 and	 then carried	the	things	to	the	kitchen.

When	 a	 number	 of	 loaves	 and	 cakes	 had	 been	 collected,	 the	 elders	 of	 each barrack	 were	 called,	 and	 it	 was	 for	 them	 to	 divide	 the	 whole	 in	 equal	 portions among	all	the	sections.	The	division	excited	neither	protest	nor	annoyance.	It	was made	 honestly,	 equitably.	 Akim	 Akimitch,	 helped	 by	 another	 prisoner,	 divided between	the	convicts	of	our	barracks	the	share	assigned	to	us,	and	gave	to	each	of us	what	came	to	him.	Every	one	was	satisfied.	No	objection	was	made	by	any	one.

There	was	not	the	least	manifestation	of	envy,	and	it	occurred	to	no	one	to	deceive another.

When	Akim	Akimitch	had	finished	at	the	kitchen,	he	proceeded	religiously	to

dress	himself,	and	did	so	with	a	solemn	air.	He	buttoned	up	his	waistcoat	button by	button,	in	the	most	punctilious	manner.	Then,	when	he	had	got	his	new	clothes on,	he	went	to	pray,	which	occupied	him	a	considerable	time.	Numbers	of	convicts fulfilled	their	religious	duties,	but	these	were	for	the	most	part	old	men.	The	young men	 scarcely	 ever	 prayed.	 The	 most	 they	 did	 was	 to	 make	 the	 sign	 of	 the	 cross when	they	rose	from	table,	and	that	happened	only	on	festival	days.

Akim	 Akimitch	 came	 up	 to	 me	 as	 soon	 as	 he	 had	 finished	 his	 prayer,	 to express	 to	 me	 the	 usual	 good	 wishes.	 I	 invited	 him	 to	 have	 some	 tea,	 and	 he returned	 my	 politeness	 by	 offering	 me	 some	 of	 his	 sucking-pig.	 After	 some	 time Petroff	 came	 up	 to	 address	 to	 me	 the	 usual	 compliments.	 I	 think	 he	 had	 been already	drinking,	and	although	he	seemed	to	have	much	to	say,	he	scarcely	spoke.

He	stood	up	before	me	for	some	seconds,	and	then	went	back	to	the	kitchen.	The

priest	was	now	expected	in	the	military	section	of	the	barracks.	This	section	was not	 constructed	 like	 the	 others.	 The	 camp-bedsteads	 were	 arranged	 all	 along	 the wall,	and	not	in	the	middle	of	the	room	as	in	all	the	others,	so	that	it	was	the	only one	in	which	the	middle	was	not	obstructed.	It	had	been	probably	arranged	in	this manner	so	that	in	case	of	necessity	it	might	be	easier	to	assemble	the	convicts.	A small	table	had	been	prepared	in	the	middle	of	the	room,	and	a	holy	image	placed upon	it,	before	which	burned	a	little	lamp.

At	 last	 the	 priest	 arrived,	 with	 the	 cross	 and	 holy	 water.	 He	 prayed	 and chanted	before	the	image,	and	then	turned	towards	the	convicts,	who	one	after	the other	came	and	kissed	the	cross.	The	priest	then	walked	through	all	the	barracks, sprinkling	them	with	holy	water.	When	he	got	to	the	kitchen	he	praised	the	bread of	the	convict	prison,	which	had	quite	a	reputation	in	town.	The	convicts	at	once expressed	 a	 desire	 to	 send	 him	 two	 loaves	 of	 new	 bread,	 still	 hot,	 which	 an	 old soldier	was	ordered	to	take	to	his	house	forthwith.	The	convicts	walked	back	after the	 cross	 with	 the	 same	 respect	 as	 they	 had	 received	 it.	 Almost	 immediately afterwards,	the	Major	and	the	Commandant	arrived.	The	Commandant	was	liked,

and	even	respected.	He	made	the	tour	of	the	barracks	in	company	with	the	Major, wished	 the	 convicts	 a	 happy	 Christmas,	 went	 into	 the	 kitchen,	 and	 tasted	 the cabbage	 soup.	 It	 was	 excellent	 that	 day.	 Each	 convict	 was	 entitled	 to	 nearly	 a pound	of	meat,	besides	which	there	was	millet-seed	in	it,	and	certainly	the	butter had	 not	 been	 spared.	 The	 Major	 saw	 the	 Commandant	 to	 the	 door,	 and	 then ordered	 the	 convicts	 to	 begin	 dinner.	 Each	 endeavoured	 not	 to	 be	 under	 the Major’s	 eyes.	 They	 did	 not	 like	 his	 spiteful,	 inquisitorial	 look	 from	 behind	 his spectacles	as	he	wandered	from	right	to	left,	seeking	apparently	some	disorder	to repress,	some	crime	to	punish.

We	dined.	Akim	Akimitch’s	sucking-pig	was	admirably	roasted.	I	could	never

understand	 how,	 five	 minutes	 after	 the	 Major	 left,	 there	 was	 a	 mass	 of	 drunken prisoners,	 whereas	 as	 long	 as	 he	 remained	 every	 one	 was	 perfectly	 calm.	 Red, radiant	 faces	 were	 now	 numerous,	 and	 the	 balalaiki	 [Russian	 banjoes]	 soon appeared.	Then	came	the	little	Pole,	playing	his	violin,	a	convivial	prisoner	having engaged	 him	 for	 the	 whole	 day	 to	 play	 lively	 dance-tunes.	 The	 conversation became	 more	 animated	 and	 more	 noisy,	 but	 the	 dinner	 ended	 without	 great disorders.	 Every	 one	 had	 had	 enough.	 Some	 of	 the	 old	 men,	 serious-minded convicts,	went	immediately	to	bed.	So	did	Akim	Akimitch,	who	probably	thought	it was	a	duty	to	go	to	sleep	after	dinner	on	festival	days.

The	“old	believer”	from	Starodoub,	after	having	slumbered	a	little,	climbed	up

on	to	the	top	of	the	stove,	opened	his	book,	and	prayed	the	entire	day	until	late	in the	 evening	 without	 interruption.	 The	 spectacle	 of	 so	 shameless	 an	 orgie	 was painful	 to	 him,	 he	 said.	 All	 the	 Circassians	 left	 the	 table.	 They	 looked	 with curiosity,	but	with	a	touch	of	disgust,	at	this	drunken	society.	I	met	Nourra.

“Aman,	 aman,”	 he	 said,	 with	 a	 burst	 of	 honest	 indignation,	 and	 shaking	 his head.	 “What	 an	 offence	 to	 Allah!”	 Isaiah	 Fomitch	 lighted,	 with	 an	 arrogant	 and obstinate	air,	a	candle	in	his	favourite	corner,	and	went	to	work	in	order	to	show that	 in	 his	 eyes	 this	 was	 no	 holiday.	 Here	 and	 there	 card	 parties	 were	 arranged.

The	convicts	did	not	fear	the	old	soldiers,	but	men	were	placed	on	the	look-out	in case	 the	 under	 officer	 should	 suddenly	 come	 in.	 He	 made	 a	 point,	 however,	 of seeing	 nothing.	 The	 officer	 of	 the	 guard	 made	 altogether	 three	 rounds.	 The prisoners,	 if	 they	 were	 drunk,	 hid	 themselves	 at	 once.	 The	 cards	 disappeared	 in the	 twinkling	 of	 an	 eye.	 I	 fancy	 that	 he	 had	 made	 up	 his	 mind	 not	 to	 notice	 any contraventions	of	an	unimportant	kind.	Drunkenness	was	not	an	offence	that	day.

Little	by	little	every	one	became	more	or	less	gay.	Then	there	were	some	quarrels.

The	 greater	 number	 of	 the	 prisoners,	 however,	 remained	 calm,	 amusing

themselves	with	the	spectacle	of	those	who	were	intoxicated.	Some	of	these	drank without	limit.

Gazin	was	triumphant.	He	walked	about	with	a	self-satisfied	air,	by	the	side	of his	camp	bedstead,	beneath	which	he	had	concealed	his	spirits,	previously	buried beneath	 the	 snow	 behind	 the	 barracks,	 in	 a	 secret	 place.	 He	 smiled	 knowingly when	 he	 saw	 customers	 arrive	 in	 crowds.	 He	 was	 perfectly	 calm.	 He	 had	 drunk nothing	at	all;	for	it	was	his	intention	to	regale	himself	the	last	day	of	the	holidays, after	he	had	emptied	the	pockets	of	the	other	prisoners.	Throughout	the	barracks the	 drunkenness	 was	 becoming	 infernal.	 Singing	 was	 heard,	 and	 the	 songs	 were giving	 way	 to	 tears.	 Some	 of	 the	 prisoners	 walked	 about	 in	 bands,	 sheepskin	 on shoulder,	striking	with	a	haughty	air	the	strings	of	their	balalaiki.	A	chorus	of	from eight	 to	 ten	 men	 had	 been	 formed	 in	 the	 special	 section.	 The	 singing	 here	 was excellent,	with	its	accompaniments	of	balalaiki	and	guitars.

Songs	of	a	truly	popular	kind	were	rare.	I	remember	one	which	was	admirably

sung:

Yesterday,	I,	a	young	girl,

Went	to	the	feast.

A	 variation	 was	 introduced	 previously	 unknown	 to	 me.	 At	 the	 end	 of	 the	 song these	lines	were	added: At	my	house,	the	house	of	a	young	girl,

Everything	is	in	order.

I	have	washed	the	spoons,

I	have	turned	out	the	cabbage-soup,

I	have	wiped	down	the	panels	of	the	door,

I	have	cooked	the	patties.

What	 they	 chiefly	 sang	 were	 prison	 songs;	 one	 of	 them,	 called	 “As	 it	 happened,”

was	very	humorous.	It	related	how	a	man	amused	himself,	and	lived	like	a	prince until	 he	 was	 sent	 to	 the	 convict	 prison,	 where	 he	 fared	 very	 differently.	 Another song,	only	too	popular,	set	forth	how	the	hero	of	it	had	formerly	possessed	capital, but	had	now	nothing	but	captivity.	Here	is	a	true	convict’s	song:

The	day	breaks	in	the	heavens,

We	are	waked	up	by	the	drum.

The	old	man	opens	the	door,

The	warder	comes	and	calls	us.

No	one	sees	us	behind	the	prison	walls,

Nor	how	we	live	in	this	place.

But	God,	the	Heavenly	Creator,	is	with	us

He	will	not	let	us	perish.

Another	still	more	melancholy,	but	with	a	superb	melody,	was	sung	to	tame	and

incorrect	words.	I	can	remember	a	few	of	the	verses:

My	eyes	no	more	will	see	the	land,

Where	I	was	born;

To	suffer	torments	undeserved,

Will	be	my	punishment.

The	owl	will	shriek	upon	the	roof,

And	raise	the	echoes	of	the	forest.

My	heart	is	broken	down	with	grief.

No,	never	more	shall	I	return.

This	 song	 is	 often	 sung;	 not	 as	 a	 chorus,	 but	 always	 as	 a	 solo.	 When	 the	 work	 is over,	 a	 prisoner	 goes	 out	 of	 the	 barracks,	 sits	 down	 on	 the	 threshold,	 meditates with	his	chin	resting	on	his	hand,	and	then	drawls	out	his	song	in	a	high	falsetto.

One	 listens	 to	 him,	 and	 the	 effect	 is	 heart-breaking.	 Some	 of	 our	 convicts	 had beautiful	voices.

Meanwhile	it	was	getting	dusk.	Wearisomeness	and	general	depression	were

making	 themselves	 felt	 through	 the	 drunkenness	 and	 the	 debauchery.	 The prisoner,	 who	 an	 hour	 beforehand	 was	 holding	 his	 sides	 with	 laughter,	 now sobbed	 in	 a	 corner,	 exceedingly	 drunk;	 others	 were	 fighting,	 or	 wandering	 in	 a tottering	 manner	 through	 the	 barracks,	 pale,	 very	 pale,	 and	 seeking	 whom	 to quarrel	with.	These	poor	people	had	wished	to	pass	the	great	festival	in	the	most joyous	 manner,	 but,	 gracious	 heaven,	 how	 painful	 the	 day	 was	 for	 all	 of	 them!

They	had	passed	it	in	the	vague	hope	of	a	happiness	that	was	not	to	be	realised.

Petroff	came	up	to	me	twice.	As	he	had	drunk	very	little	he	was	calm;	but	until	the last	 moment	 he	 expected	 something	 which	 he	 made	 sure	 would	 happen,

something	extraordinary,	and	highly	diverting.	Although	he	said	nothing	about	it, this	could	be	seen	from	his	looks.	He	ran	from	barrack	to	barrack	without	fatigue.

Nothing,	 however,	 happened;	 nothing	 except	 general	 intoxication,	 idiotic	 insults from	drunkards,	and	general	giddiness	of	heated	heads.

Sirotkin	 wandered	 about	 also,	 dressed	 in	 a	 brand-new	 red	 shirt,	 going	 from barrack	 to	 barrack,	 and	 good-looking	 as	 usual.	 He	 also	 was	 on	 the	 watch	 for something	 to	 happen.	 The	 spectacle	 became	 insupportably	 repulsive,	 indeed nauseating.	There	were	some	laughable	things,	but	I	was	too	sad	to	be	amused	by them.	I	felt	a	deep	pity	for	all	these	men,	and	felt	strangled,	stifled,	in	the	midst	of them.	 Here	 two	 convicts	 were	 disputing	 as	 to	 which	 should	 treat	 the	 other.	 The dispute	lasts	a	long	time;	they	have	almost	come	to	blows.	One	of	them	has,	for	a long	time	past,	had	a	grudge	against	the	other.	He	complains,	stammering	as	he

does	so,	and	tries	to	prove	to	his	companion	that	he	acted	unjustly	when,	a	year before,	he	sold	a	pelisse	and	concealed	the	money.	There	was	more	than	this	too.

The	complainant	is	a	tall	young	fellow,	with	good	muscular	development,	quiet,	by no	 means	 stupid,	 but	 who,	 when	 he	 is	 drunk,	 wishes	 to	 make	 friends	 with	 every one,	and	to	pour	out	his	grief	into	their	bosom.	He	insults	his	adversary	with	the intention	 of	 becoming	 reconciled	 to	 him	 later	 on.	 The	 other	 man,	 a	 big,	 massive person,	with	a	round	face,	as	cunning	as	a	fox,	had	perhaps	drunk	more	than	his companion,	but	appeared	only	slightly	intoxicated.	This	convict	has	character,	and passes	for	a	rich	man;	he	has	probably	no	interest	in	irritating	his	companion,	and he	accordingly	leads	him	to	one	of	the	drink-sellers.	The	expansive	friend	declares that	his	companion	owes	him	money,	and	that	he	is	bound	to	stand	him	a	drink	“if he	has	any	pretensions	to	be	considered	an	honest	man.”

The	drink-seller,	not	without	some	respect	for	his	customer,	and	with	a	touch

of	 contempt	 for	 the	 expansive	 friend	 (for	 he	 was	 drinking	 at	 the	 expense	 of another	man),	took	a	glass	and	filled	it	with	vodka.

“No,	Stepka,	you	must	pay,	because	you	owe	me	money.”

“I	won’t	tire	my	tongue	talking	to	you	any	longer,”	replied	Stepka.

“No,	Stepka,	you	lie,”	continues	his	friend,	taking	up	a	glass	offered	to	him	by the	 drink-seller.	 “You	 owe	 me	 money,	 and	 you	 must	 be	 without	 conscience.	 You have	not	a	thing	about	you	that	you	have	not	borrowed,	and	I	don’t	believe	your very	eyes	are	your	own.	In	a	word,	Stepka,	you	are	a	blackguard.”

“What	are	you	whining	about?	Look,	you	are	spilling	your	vodka.”

“If	you	are	being	treated,	why	don’t	you	drink?”	cries	the	drink-seller,	to	the expansive	friend.	“I	cannot	wait	here	until	tomorrow.”

“I	 will	 drink,	 don’t	 be	 frightened.	 What	 are	 you	 crying	 out	 about?	 My	 best wishes	 for	 the	 day.	 My	 best	 wishes	 for	 the	 day,	 Stepan	 Doroveitch,”	 replies	 the latter	 politely,	 as	 he	 bows,	 glass	 in	 hand,	 towards	 Stepka,	 whom	 the	 moment before	 he	 had	 called	 a	 blackguard.	 “Good	 health	 to	 you,	 and	 may	 you	 live	 a hundred	 years	 in	 addition	 to	 what	 you	 have	 lived	 already.”	 He	 drinks,	 gives	 a grunt	 of	 satisfaction,	 and	 wipes	 his	 mouth.	 “What	 quantities	 of	 brandy	 I	 have drunk,”	 he	 says,	 gravely	 speaking	 to	 every	 one,	 without	 addressing	 any	 one	 in particular,	“but	I	have	finished	now.	Thank	me,	Stepka	Doroveitch.”

“There	is	nothing	to	thank	you	for.”

“Ah!	you	won’t	thank	me.	Then	I	will	tell	every	one	how	you	have	treated	me,

and,	moreover,	that	you	are	a	blackguard.”

“Then	 I	 shall	 have	 something	 to	 tell	 you,	 drunkard	 that	 you	 are,”	 interrupts Stepka,	 who	 at	 last	 loses	 patience.	 “Listen	 and	 pay	 attention.	 Let	 us	 divide	 the world	in	two.	You	shall	take	one	half,	I	the	other.	Then	I	shall	have	peace.”

“Then	you	will	not	give	me	back	my	money?”

“What	money	do	you	want,	drunkard?”

“My	money.	It	is	the	sweat	of	my	brow;	the	labour	of	my	hands.	You	will	be

sorry	for	it	in	the	other	world.	You	will	be	roasted	for	those	five	kopecks.”

“Go	to	the	devil.”

“What	are	you	driving	me	for?	Am	I	a	horse?”

“Be	off,	be	off.”

“Blackguard!”

“Convict!”

And	the	insults	exchanged	were	worse	than	they	had	been	before	the	visit	to

the	drink-seller.

Two	 friends	 are	 seated	 separately	 on	 two	 camp-bedsteads.	 One	 is	 tall, vigorous,	fleshy,	with	a	red	face—a	regular	butcher.	He	is	on	the	point	of	weeping; for	he	has	been	much	moved.	The	other	is	tall,	thin,	conceited,	with	an	immense nose,	 which	 always	 seems	 to	 have	 a	 cold,	 and	 little	 blue	 eyes	 fixed	 upon	 the ground.	He	is	a	clever,	well-bred	man,	and	was	formerly	a	secretary.	He	treats	his friend	with	a	little	disdain,	which	the	latter	cannot	stand.	They	have	been	drinking together	all	day.

“You	have	taken	a	liberty	with	me,”	cries	the	stout	one,	as	with	his	left	hand

he	 shakes	 the	 head	 of	 his	 companion.	 To	 take	 a	 liberty	 signifies,	 in	 convict language,	 to	 strike.	 This	 convict,	 formerly	 a	 non-commissioned	 officer,	 envies	 in secret	the	elegance	of	his	neighbour,	and	endeavours	to	make	up	for	his	material grossness	by	refined	conversation.

“I	 tell	 you,	 you	 are	 wrong,”	 says	 the	 secretary,	 in	 a	 dogmatic	 tone,	 with	 his eyes	obstinately	fixed	on	the	ground,	and	without	looking	at	his	companion.

“You	 struck	 me.	 Do	 you	 hear?”	 continues	 the	 other,	 still	 shaking	 his	 dear friend.	 “You	 are	 the	 only	 man	 in	 the	 world	 I	 care	 for;	 but	 you	 shall	 not	 take	 a liberty	with	me.”

“Confess,	 my	 dear	 fellow,”	 replies	 the	 secretary,	 “that	 all	 this	 is	 the	 result	 of too	much	drink.”

The	corpulent	friend	falls	back	with	a	stagger,	looks	stupidly	with	his	drunken eyes	 at	 the	 secretary,	 and	 suddenly,	 with	 all	 his	 might,	 sends	 his	 fist	 into	 the secretary’s	thin	face.	Thus	terminates	the	day’s	friendship.

The	dear	friend	disappears	beneath	the	camp-bedstead	unconscious.

One	 of	 my	 acquaintances	 enters	 the	 barracks.	 He	 is	 a	 convict	 of	 the	 special section,	very	good-natured,	and	gay,	far	from	stupid,	and	jocular	without	malice.

He	is	the	man	who,	on	my	arrival	at	the	convict	prison,	was	looking	out	for	a	rich peasant,	who	spoke	so	much	of	his	self-respect,	and	ended	by	drinking	my	tea.	He was	 forty	 years	 old,	 had	 enormous	 lips,	 and	 a	 fat,	 fleshy,	 red	 nose.	 He	 held	 a balalaika,	 and	 struck	 negligently	 its	 strings.	 He	 was	 followed	 by	 a	 little	 convict, with	 a	 large	 head,	 whom	 I	 knew	 very	 little,	 and	 to	 whom	 no	 one	 paid	 any attention.	 Now	 that	 he	 was	 drunk	 he	 had	 attached	 himself	 to	 Vermaloff,	 and followed	him	like	his	shadow,	at	the	same	time	gesticulating	and	striking	with	his fist	 the	 wall	 and	 the	 camp-bedsteads.	 He	 was	 almost	 in	 tears.	 Vermaloff	 did	 not notice	him	any	more	than	if	he	had	not	existed.	The	most	curious	point	was	that these	two	men	in	no	way	resembled	one	another,	neither	by	their	occupations	nor by	 their	 disposition.	 They	 belonged	 to	 different	 sections,	 and	 lived	 in	 separate barracks.	The	little	convict	was	named	Bulkin.

Vermaloff	 smiled	 when	 he	 saw	 me	 seated	 by	 the	 stove.	 He	 stopped	 at	 some distance	 from	 me,	 reflected	 for	 a	 moment,	 tottered,	 and	 then	 came	 towards	 me with	an	affected	swagger.	Then	he	swept	the	strings	of	his	instrument,	and	sung, or	 recited,	 tapping	 at	 the	 same	 time	 with	 his	 boot	 on	 the	 ground,	 the	 following chant: My	darling!

With	her	full,	fair	face,

Sings	like	a	nightingale;

In	her	satin	dress,

With	its	brilliant	trimming,

She	is	very	fair.

This	 song	 excited	 Bulkin	 in	 an	 extraordinary	 manner.	 He	 agitated	 his	 arms,	 and shrieked	out	to	every	one:	“He	lies,	my	friends;	he	lies	like	a	quack	doctor.	There	is not	a	shadow	of	truth	in	what	he	sings.”

“My	respects	to	the	venerable	Alexander	Petrovitch,”	said	Vermaloff,	looking

at	 me	 with	 a	 knowing	 smile.	 I	 fancied	 even	 he	 wished	 to	 embrace	 me.	 He	 was drunk.	 As	 for	 the	 expression,	 “My	 respects	 to	 the	 venerable	 so-and-so,”	 it	 is employed	 by	 the	 common	 people	 throughout	 Siberia,	 even	 when	 addressed	 to	 a young	man	of	twenty.	To	call	a	man	old	is	a	sign	of	respect,	and	may	amount	even to	flattery.

“Well,	Vermaloff,	how	are	you?”	I	replied.

“So,	 so.	 Nothing	 to	 boast	 of.	 Those	 who	 really	 enjoy	 the	 holiday	 have	 been drinking	since	early	morning.”

Vermaloff	did	not	speak	very	distinctly.

“He	lies;	he	lies	again,”	said	Bulkin,	striking	the	camp-bedsteads	with	a	sort	of despair.

One	 might	 have	 sworn	 that	 Vermaloff	 had	 given	 his	 word	 of	 honour	 not	 to pay	any	attention	to	him.	That	was	really	the	most	comic	thing	about	it;	for	Bulkin had	 not	 quitted	 him	 for	 one	 moment	 since	 the	 morning.	 Always	 with	 him,	 he quarrelled	with	Vermaloff	about	every	word;	wringing	his	hands,	and	striking	with his	 fists	 against	 the	 wall	 and	 the	 camp	 bedsteads	 till	 he	 made	 them	 bleed,	 he suffered	 visibly	 from	 his	 conviction	 that	 Vermaloff	 “lied	 like	 a	 quack	 doctor.”	 If Bulkin	had	had	hair	on	his	head,	he	would	certainly	have	torn	it	in	his	grief,	in	his profound	 mortification.	 One	 might	 have	 thought	 that	 he	 had	 made	 himself responsible	 for	 Vermaloff’s	 actions,	 and	 that	 all	 Vermaloff’s	 faults	 troubled	 his conscience.	The	amusing	part	of	it	was	that	Vermaloff	continued.

“He	lies!	He	lies!	He	lies!”	cried	Bulkin.

“What	can	it	matter	to	you?”	replied	the	convicts,	with	a	laugh.

“I	 must	 tell	 you,	 Alexander	 Petrovitch,	 that	 I	 was	 very	 good-looking	 when	 I was	 a	 young	 man,	 and	 the	 young	 girls	 were	 very	 fond	 of	 me,”	 said	 Vermaloff suddenly.

“He	lies!	He	lies!”	again	interrupted	Bulkin,	with	a	groan.	The	convicts	burst

into	a	laugh.

“And	well	I	got	myself	up	to	please	them.	I	had	a	red	shirt,	and	broad	trousers of	cotton	velvet.	I	was	happy	in	those	days.	I	got	up	when	I	liked;	did	whatever	I pleased.	In	fact——”

“He	lies,”	declared	Bulkin.

“I	inherited	from	my	father	a	stone	house,	two	storeys	high.	Within	two	years

I	 made	 away	 with	 the	 two	 storeys;	 nothing	 remained	 to	 me	 but	 the	 street	 door.

Well,	what	of	that.	Money	comes	and	goes	like	a	bird.”

“He	lies!”	declared	Bulkin,	more	resolutely	than	before.

“Then	 when	 I	 had	 spent	 all,	 I	 sent	 a	 letter	 to	 my	 relations,	 that	 they	 might send	 me	 some	 money.	 They	 said	 that	 I	 had	 set	 their	 will	 at	 naught,	 that	 I	 was disrespectful.	It	is	now	seven	years	since	I	sent	off	my	letter.”

“And	any	answer?”	I	asked,	with	a	smile.

“No,”	he	replied,	also	laughing,	and	almost	putting	his	nose	in	my	face.

He	then	informed	me	that	he	had	a	sweetheart.

“You	a	sweetheart?”

“Onufriel	said	to	me	the	other	day:	‘My	young	woman	is	marked	with	small-

pox,	and	as	ugly	as	you	like;	but	she	has	plenty	of	dresses,	while	yours,	though	she may	be	pretty,	is	a	beggar.’”

“Is	that	true?”

“Certainly,	she	is	a	beggar,”	he	answered.

He	 burst	 into	 a	 laugh,	 and	 the	 others	 laughed	 with	 him.	 Every	 one	 indeed knew	 that	 he	 had	 a	 liaison	 with	 a	 beggar	 woman,	 to	 whom	 he	 gave	 ten	 kopecks every	six	months.

“Well,	what	do	you	want	with	me?”	I	said	to	him,	wishing	at	last	to	get	rid	of

him.

He	remained	silent,	and	then,	looking	at	me	in	the	most	insinuating	manner,

said:

“Could	 not	 you	 let	 me	 have	 enough	 money	 to	 buy	 half-a-pint?	 I	 have	 drunk nothing	but	tea	the	whole	day,”	he	added,	as	he	took	from	me	the	money	I	offered him;	“and	tea	affects	me	in	such	a	manner	that	I	am	afraid	of	becoming	asthmatic.

It	gives	me	the	wind.”

When	he	took	the	money	I	offered	him,	the	despair	of	Bulkin	went	beyond	all

bounds.	He	gesticulated	like	a	man	possessed.

“Good	people	all,”	he	cried,	“the	man	lies.	Everything	he	says—everything	is	a

lie.”

“What	can	it	matter	to	you?”	cried	the	convicts,	astonished	at	his	goings	on.

“You	are	possessed.”

“I	 will	 not	 allow	 him	 to	 lie,”	 continued	 Bulkin,	 rolling	 his	 eyes,	 and	 striking his	fist	with	energy	on	the	boards.	“He	shall	not	lie.”

Every	 one	 laughed.	 Vermaloff	 bowed	 to	 me	 after	 receiving	 the	 money,	 and hastened,	 with	 many	 grimaces,	 to	 go	 to	 the	 drink-seller.	 Then	 only	 he	 noticed Bulkin.

“Come!”	he	said	to	him,	as	if	the	latter	were	indispensable	for	the	execution	of some	design.	“Idiot!”	he	added,	with	contempt,	as	Bulkin	passed	before	him.

But	enough	about	this	tumultuous	scene,	which,	at	last,	came	to	an	end.	The

convicts	 went	 to	 sleep	 heavily	 on	 their	 camp-bedsteads.	 They	 spoke	 and	 raged during	 their	 sleep	 more	 than	 on	 the	 other	 nights.	 Here	 and	 there	 they	 still continued	 to	 play	 at	 cards.	 The	 festival	 looked	 forward	 to	 with	 such	 impatience was	now	over,	and	tomorrow	the	daily	work,	the	hard	labour,	will	begin	again.





CHAPTER	12.

THE	PERFORMANCE.

On	the	evening	of	the	third	day	of	the	holidays	took	place	our	first

theatrical	performance.	There	had	been	much	trouble	about	organising	it.

But	those	who	were	to	act	had	taken	everything	upon	themselves,	and	the

other	 convicts	 knew	 nothing	 about	 the	 representation	 except	 that	 it	 was	 to	 take place.	We	did	not	even	know	what	was	to	be	played.	The	actors,	while	they	were	at work,	 were	 always	 thinking	 how	 they	 could	 get	 together	 the	 greatest	 number	 of costumes.	 Whenever	 I	 met	 Baklouchin	 he	 snapped	 his	 fingers	 with	 satisfaction, but	told	me	nothing.	I	think	the	Major	was	in	a	good	humour;	but	we	did	not	know for	certain	whether	he	knew	what	was	going	on	or	not,	whether	he	had	authorised it,	 or	 whether	 he	 had	 determined	 to	 shut	 his	 eyes	 and	 be	 silent,	 after	 assuring himself	 that	 everything	 would	 take	 place	 quietly.	 He	 had	 heard,	 I	 fancy,	 of	 the meditated	 representation,	 and	 said	 nothing	 about	 it,	 lest	 he	 should	 spoil everything.	The	soldiers	would	be	disorderly,	or	would	get	drunk,	unless	they	had something	to	divert	them.	Thus	I	think	the	Major	must	have	reasoned,	for	it	will be	 only	 natural	 to	 do	 so.	 I	 may	 add	 that	 if	 the	 convicts	 had	 not	 got	 up	 a performance	 during	 the	 holidays,	 or	 done	 something	 of	 the	 kind,	 the administration	would	have	been	obliged	to	organise	some	sort	of	amusement;	but

as	our	Major	was	distinguished	by	ideas	directly	opposed	to	those	of	other	people, I	 take	 a	 great	 responsibility	 on	 myself	 in	 saying	 that	 he	 knew	 of	 our	 project	 and authorised	 it.	 A	 man	 like	 him	 must	 always	 be	 crushing	 and	 stifling	 some	 one, taking	something	away,	depriving	some	one	of	a	right—in	a	word,	for	establishing order	of	this	character	he	was	known	throughout	the	town.

It	 mattered	 nothing	 to	 him	 that	 his	 exactions	 made	 the	 men	 rebellious.	 For such	offences	there	were	suitable	punishments	(there	are	some	people	who	reason in	this	way),	and	with	these	rascals	of	convicts	there	was	nothing	to	do	but	to	treat them	 very	 severely,	 deal	 with	 them	 strictly	 according	 to	 law.	 These	 incapable executants	of	the	law	did	not	in	the	least	understand	that	to	apply	the	law	without understanding	its	spirit	is	to	provoke	resistance.	They	are	quite	astonished	that,	in addition	 to	 the	 execution	 of	 the	 law,	 good	 sense	 and	 a	 sound	 head	 should	 be expected	from	them.	The	last	condition	would	appear	to	them	quite	superfluous; to	require	such	a	thing	is	vexatious,	intolerant.

However	 this	 may	 be,	 the	 Sergeant–Major	 made	 no	 objection	 to	 the performance,	 and	 that	 was	 all	 the	 convicts	 wanted.	 I	 may	 say	 in	 all	 truth	 that	 if throughout	 the	 holidays	 there	 were	 no	 disorders	 in	 the	 convict	 prison,	 no sanguinary	 quarrels,	 no	 robberies,	 that	 must	 be	 attributed	 to	 the	 convicts	 being permitted	to	organise	their	performance.	I	saw	with	my	own	eyes	how	they	got	out of	the	way	of	those	of	their	companions	who	had	drunk	too	much,	and	how	they

prevented	quarrels	on	the	ground	that	the	representation	would	be	forbidden.	The non-commissioned	officer	made	the	prisoners	give	their	word	of	honour	that	they would	 behave	 well,	 and	 that	 all	 would	 go	 off	 quietly.	 They	 gave	 it	 with	 pleasure, and	kept	their	promise	religiously.	They	were	much	flattered	at	finding	their	word of	 honour	 accepted.	 Let	 me	 add	 that	 the	 representation	 cost	 nothing,	 absolutely nothing,	 to	 the	 authorities,	 who	 were	 not	 called	 upon	 to	 spend	 a	 farthing.	 The theatre	could	be	put	up	and	taken	down	within	a	quarter	of	an	hour;	and,	in	case an	order	stopping	the	performance	suddenly	arrived,	the	scenery	could	have	been put	 away	 in	 a	 second.	 The	 costumes	 were	 concealed	 in	 the	 convicts’	 boxes;	 but first	 of	 all	 let	 me	 say	 how	 our	 theatre	 was	 constructed,	 what	 were	 the	 costumes, and	what	the	bill,	that	is	to	say,	the	pieces	that	were	to	be	played.	To	tell	the	truth, there	was	no	written	playbill,	not,	at	least,	for	the	first	representation.	It	was	ready only	 for	 the	 second	 and	 third.	 Baklouchin	 composed	 it	 for	 the	 officers	 and	 other distinguished	 visitors	 who	 might	 deign	 to	 honour	 the	 performance	 with	 their presence,	 including	 the	 officer	 of	 the	 guard,	 the	 officer	 of	 the	 watch,	 and	 an Engineer	officer.	It	was	in	honour	of	these	that	the	playbill	was	written	out.

It	 was	 supposed	 that	 the	 reputation	 of	 our	 theatre	 would	 extend	 to	 the fortress,	and	even	to	the	town,	especially	as	there	was	no	theatre	at	N——:	a	few amateur	 performances,	 but	 nothing	 more.	 The	 convicts	 delighted	 in	 the	 smallest success,	and	boasted	of	it	like	children.

“Who	knows?”	they	said	to	one	another;	“when	our	chiefs	hear	of	it	they	will

perhaps	come	and	see.	Then	they	will	know	what	convicts	are	worth,	for	this	is	not a	 performance	 given	 by	 soldiers,	 but	 a	 genuine	 piece	 played	 by	 genuine	 actors; nothing	 like	 it	 could	 be	 seen	 anywhere	 in	 the	 town.	 General	 Abrosimoff	 had	 a representation	 at	 his	 house,	 and	 it	 is	 said	 he	 will	 have	 another.	 Well,	 they	 may beat	us	in	the	matter	of	costumes,	but	as	for	the	dialogue	that	is	a	very	different thing.	 The	 Governor	 himself	 will	 perhaps	 hear	 of	 it,	 and—who	 knows?—he	 may come	himself.”

They	had	no	theatre	in	the	town.	In	a	word,	the	imagination	of	the	convicts, above	all	after	their	first	success,	went	so	far	as	to	make	them	think	that	rewards would	 be	 distributed	 to	 them,	 and	 that	 their	 period	 of	 hard	 labour	 would	 be shortened.	 A	 moment	 afterwards	 they	 were	 the	 first	 to	 laugh	 at	 this	 fancy.	 In	 a word,	they	were	children,	true	children,	when	they	were	forty	years	of	age.	I	knew in	a	general	way	the	subjects	of	the	pieces	that	were	to	be	represented,	although there	 was	 no	 bill.	 The	 title	 of	 the	 first	 was	 Philatka	 and	 Miroshka	 Rivals.

Baklouchin	boasted	to	me,	at	least	a	week	before	the	performance,	that	the	part	of Philatka,	which	he	had	assigned	to	himself,	would	be	played	in	such	a	manner	that nothing	 like	 it	 had	 ever	 been	 seen,	 even	 on	 the	 St.	 Petersburg	 stage.	 He	 walked about	 in	 the	 barracks	 puffed	 up	 with	 boundless	 importance.	 If	 now	 and	 then	 he declaimed	 a	 speech	 from	 his	 part	 in	 the	 theatrical	 style,	 every	 one	 burst	 out laughing,	 whether	 the	 speech	 was	 amusing	 or	 not;	 they	 laughed	 because	 he	 had forgotten	 himself.	 It	 must	 be	 admitted	 that	 the	 convicts,	 as	 a	 body,	 were	 self-contained	 and	 full	 of	 dignity;	 the	 only	 ones	 who	 got	 enthusiastic	 at	 Baklouchin’s tirades	 were	 the	 young	 ones,	 who	 had	 no	 false	 shame,	 or	 those	 who	 were	 much looked	 up	 to,	 and	 whose	 authority	 was	 so	 firmly	 established	 that	 they	 were	 not afraid	 to	 commit	 themselves.	 The	 others	 listened	 silently,	 without	 blaming	 or contradicting,	 but	 they	 did	 their	 best	 to	 show	 that	 the	 performance	 left	 them indifferent.

It	was	not	until	the	very	last	moment,	the	very	day	of	the	representation,	that every	 one	 manifested	 genuine	 interest	 in	 what	 our	 companions	 had	 undertaken.

“What,”	was	the	general	question,	“would	the	Major	say?	Would	the	performance

succeed	as	well	as	the	one	given	two	years	before?”	etc.,	etc.	Baklouchin	assured me	that	all	the	actors	would	be	quite	at	home	on	the	stage,	and	that	there	would even	 be	 a	 curtain.	 Sirotkin	 was	 to	 play	 a	 woman’s	 part.	 “You	 will	 see	 how	 well	 I look	 in	 women’s	 clothes,”	 he	 said.	 The	 Lady	 Bountiful	 was	 to	 have	 a	 dress	 with skirts	 and	 trimmings,	 besides	 a	 parasol;	 while	 her	 husband,	 the	 Lord	 of	 the Manor,	was	to	wear	an	officer’s	uniform,	with	epaulettes,	and	a	cane	in	his	hand.

The	second	piece	that	was	to	be	played	was	entitled, Kedril,	the	Glutton.	 The title	 puzzled	 me	 much,	 but	 it	 was	 useless	 to	 ask	 any	 questions	 about	 it.	 I	 could only	learn	that	the	piece	was	not	printed;	it	was	a	manuscript	copy	obtained	from a	 retired	 non-commissioned	 officer	 in	 the	 town,	 who	 had	 doubtless	 formerly participated	in	its	representation	on	some	military	stage.	We	have,	indeed,	in	the distant	towns	and	governments,	a	number	of	pieces	of	this	kind,	which,	I	believe, are	 perfectly	 unknown	 and	 have	 never	 been	 printed,	 but	 which	 appear	 to	 have grown	up	of	themselves,	in	connection	with	the	popular	theatre,	in	certain	zones of	 Russia.	 I	 have	 spoken	 of	 the	 popular	 theatre.	 It	 would	 be	 a	 good	 thing	 if	 our investigators	 of	 popular	 literature	 would	 take	 the	 trouble	 to	 make	 careful researches	 as	 to	 this	 popular	 theatre	 which	 exists,	 and	 which,	 perhaps,	 is	 not	 so insignificant	as	may	be	thought.

I	cannot	think	that	everything	I	saw	on	the	stage	of	our	convict	prison	was	the work	of	our	convicts.	It	must	have	sprung	from	old	traditions	handed	down	from

generation	 to	 generation,	 and	 preserved	 among	 the	 soldiers,	 the	 workmen	 in industrial	towns,	and	even	the	shopkeepers	in	some	poor,	out-of-the-way	places.

These	 traditions	 have	 been	 preserved	 in	 some	 villages	 and	 some	 Government towns	by	the	servants	of	the	large	landed	proprietors.	I	even	believe	that	copies	of many	old	pieces	have	been	multiplied	by	these	servants	of	the	nobility.

The	 old	 Muscovite	 proprietors	 and	 nobles	 had	 their	 own	 theatres,	 in	 which their	 servants	 used	 to	 play.	 Thence	 comes	 our	 popular	 theatre,	 the	 originals	 of which	 are	 beyond	 discussion.	 As	 for	 Kedril,	 the	 Glutton,	 in	 spite	 of	 my	 lively curiosity,	I	could	learn	nothing	about	it,	except	that	demons	appeared	on	the	stage and	carried	Kedril	away	to	hell.	What	did	the	name	of	Kedril	signify?	Why	was	he called	Kedril	and	not	Cyril?	Was	the	name	Russian	or	foreign?	I	could	not	resolve this	question.

It	 was	 announced	 that	 the	 representation	 would	 terminate	 with	 a	 musical pantomime.	 All	 this	 promised	 to	 be	 very	 curious.	 The	 actors	 were	 fifteen	 in number,	 all	 vivacious	 men.	 They	 were	 very	 energetic,	 got	 up	 a	 number	 of rehearsals	 which	 sometimes	 took	 place	 behind	 the	 barracks,	 kept	 away	 from	 the others,	and	gave	themselves	mysterious	airs.	They	evidently	wished	to	surprise	us with	something	extraordinary	and	unexpected.

On	work	days	the	barracks	were	shut	very	early	as	night	approached,	but	an

exception	 was	 made	 during	 the	 Christmas	 holidays,	 when	 the	 padlocks	 were	 not put	 to	 the	 gates	 until	 the	 evening	 retreat—nine	 o’clock.	 This	 favour	 had	 been granted	specially	in	view	of	the	play.	During	the	whole	duration	of	the	holidays	a deputation	 was	 sent	 every	 evening	 to	 the	 officer	 of	 the	 guard	 very	 humbly	 “to permit	 the	 representation	 and	 not	 to	 shut	 at	 the	 usual	 hour.”	 It	 was	 added	 that there	 had	 been	 previous	 representations,	 and	 that	 nothing	 disorderly	 had occurred	at	any	of	them.

The	 officer	 of	 the	 guard	 must	 have	 reasoned	 as	 follows:	 There	 was	 no disorder,	no	infraction	of	discipline	at	the	previous	performance,	and	the	moment they	 give	 their	 word	 that	 to-night’s	 performance	 shall	 take	 place	 in	 the	 same manner,	 they	 mean	 to	 be	 their	 own	 police—the	 most	 rigorous	 police	 of	 all.

Moreover,	 he	 knew	 well	 that	 if	 he	 took	 it	 upon	 himself	 to	 forbid	 the representation,	 these	 fellows	 (who	 knows,	 and	 with	 convicts?)	 would	 have committed	some	offence	which	would	have	placed	the	officer	of	the	guard	in	a	very difficult	 position.	 One	 final	 reason	 insured	 his	 consent:	 To	 mount	 guard	 is horribly	 tiresome,	 and	 if	 he	 authorised	 the	 performance	 he	 would	 see	 the	 play acted,	not	by	soldiers,	but	by	convicts,	a	curious	set	of	people.	It	would	certainly	be interesting,	and	he	had	a	right	to	be	present	at	it.

In	case	the	superior	officer	arrived	and	asked	for	the	officer	of	the	guard,	he would	be	told	that	the	latter	had	gone	to	count	the	convicts	and	close	the	barracks; an	answer	which	could	easily	be	made,	and	which	could	not	be	disproved.	That	is why	 our	 superintendents	 authorised	 the	 performance;	 and	 throughout	 the

holidays	the	barracks	were	kept	open	each	evening	until	the	retreat.	The	convicts had	known	beforehand	that	they	would	meet	with	no	opposition	from	the	officer

of	the	guard.	They	were	quite	quiet	about	him.

Towards	six	o’clock	Petroff	came	to	look	for	me,	and	we	went	together	to	the

theatre.	Nearly	all	the	prisoners	of	our	barracks	were	there,	with	the	exception	of the	“old	believer”	from	Tchernigoff,	and	the	Poles.	The	latter	did	not	decide	to	be present	until	the	last	day	of	the	representation,	the	4th	of	January,	after	they	had been	 assured	 that	 everything	 would	 be	 managed	 in	 a	 becoming	 manner.	 The haughtiness	of	the	Poles	irritated	our	convicts.	Accordingly	they	were	received	on the	4th	of	January	with	formal	politeness,	and	conducted	to	the	best	places.	As	for the	 Circassians	 and	 Isaiah	 Fomitch,	 the	 play	 was	 for	 them	 a	 genuine	 delight.

Isaiah	Fomitch	gave	three	kopecks	each	time,	except	the	last,	when	he	placed	ten kopecks	on	the	plate;	and	how	happy	he	looked!

The	 actors	 had	 decided	 that	 each	 spectator	 should	 give	 what	 he	 thought	 fit.

The	 receipts	 were	 to	 cover	 the	 expenses,	 and	 anything	 beyond	 was	 to	 go	 to	 the actors.	Petroff	assured	me	that	I	should	be	allowed	to	have	one	of	the	best	places, however	full	the	theatre	might	be;	first,	because	being	richer	than	the	others,	there was	 a	 probability	 of	 my	 giving	 more;	 and,	 secondly,	 because	 I	 knew	 more	 about acting	 than	 any	 one	 else.	 What	 he	 had	 foreseen	 took	 place.	 But	 let	 me	 first describe	the	theatre.

The	 barrack	 of	 the	 military	 section,	 which	 had	 been	 turned	 into	 the	 theatre, was	fifteen	feet	long.	From	the	court-yard	one	entered,	first	an	ante-chamber,	and afterwards	 the	 barrack	 itself.	 The	 building	 was	 arranged,	 as	 I	 have	 already mentioned,	in	a	particular	manner,	the	beds	being	placed	against	the	wall,	so	as	to leave	 an	 open	 space	 in	 the	 middle.	 One	 half	 of	 the	 barrack	 was	 reserved	 for	 the spectators,	 while	 the	 other,	 which	 communicated	 with	 the	 second	 building, formed	 the	 stage.	 What	 astonished	 me	 directly	 I	 entered,	 was	 the	 curtain,	 which was	about	ten	feet	long,	and	divided	the	barrack	into	two.	It	was	indeed	a	marvel, for	it	was	painted	in	oil,	and	represented	trees,	tunnels,	ponds,	and	stars.

It	was	made	of	pieces	of	linen,	old	and	new,	given	by	the	convicts;	shirts,	the bandages	 which	 our	 peasants	 wrap	 round	 their	 feet	 in	 lieu	 of	 socks,	 all	 sewn together	well	or	ill,	and	forming	together	an	immense	sheet.	Where	there	was	not enough	linen,	it	had	been	replaced	by	writing	paper,	taken	sheet	by	sheet	from	the various	 office	 bureaus.	 Our	 painters	 (among	 whom	 we	 had	 our	 Bruloff)	 had painted	it	all	over,	and	the	effect	was	very	remarkable.

This	luxurious	curtain	delighted	the	convicts,	even	the	most	sombre	and	most

morose.	 These,	 however,	 like	 the	 others,	 as	 soon	 as	 the	 play	 began,	 showed themselves	 mere	 children.	 They	 were	 all	 pleased	 and	 satisfied	 with	 a	 certain satisfaction	 of	 vanity.	 The	 theatre	 was	 lighted	 with	 candle	 ends.	 Two	 benches, which	had	been	brought	from	the	kitchen,	were	placed	before	the	curtain,	together with	 three	 or	 four	 large	 chairs,	 borrowed	 from	 the	 non-commissioned	 officers’

room.	 These	 chairs	 were	 for	 the	 officers,	 should	 they	 think	 fit	 to	 honour	 the performance.	 As	 for	 the	 benches,	 they	 were	 for	 the	 non-commissioned	 officers, engineers,	 clerks,	 directors	 of	 the	 works,	 and	 all	 the	 immediate	 superiors	 of	 the convicts	who	had	not	officer’s	rank,	and	who	had	come	perhaps	to	take	a	look	at the	 representation.	 In	 fact,	 there	 was	 no	 lack	 of	 visitors.	 According	 to	 the	 days, they	 came	 in	 greater	 or	 smaller	 numbers,	 while	 for	 the	 last	 representation	 there was	not	a	single	place	unoccupied	on	the	benches.

At	the	back	the	convicts	stood	crowded	together;	standing	up	out	of	respect	to

the	 visitors,	 and	 dressed	 in	 their	 vests,	 or	 in	 their	 short	 pelisses,	 in	 spite	 of	 the suffocating	heat.	As	might	have	been	expected,	the	place	was	too	small;	so	all	the prisoners	 stood	 up,	 heaped	 together—above	 all	 in	 the	 last	 rows.	 The	 camp-bedsteads	 were	 all	 occupied;	 and	 there	 were	 some	 amateurs	 who	 disputed constantly	behind	the	stage	in	the	other	barrack,	and	who	viewed	the	performance from	 the	 back.	 I	 was	 asked	 to	 go	 forward,	 and	 Petroff	 with	 me,	 close	 to	 the benches,	whence	a	good	view	could	be	obtained.	They	looked	upon	me	as	a	good judge,	 a	 connoisseur,	 who	 had	 seen	 many	 other	 theatres.	 The	 convicts	 remarked that	Baklouchin	had	often	consulted	me,	and	that	he	had	shown	deference	to	my advice.	Consequently	they	thought	that	I	ought	to	be	treated	with	honour,	and	to have	 one	 of	 the	 best	 places.	 These	 men	 are	 vain	 and	 frivolous,	 but	 only	 on	 the surface.	They	laughed	at	me	when	I	was	at	work,	because	I	was	a	poor	workman.

Almazoff	had	a	right	to	despise	us	gentlemen,	and	to	boast	of	his	superior	skill	in pounding	the	alabaster.	His	laughter	and	raillery	were	directed	against	our	origin, for	we	belonged	by	birth	to	the	caste	of	his	former	masters,	of	whom	he	could	not preserve	a	good	recollection;	but	here	at	the	theatre	these	same	men	made	way	for me;	for	they	knew	that	about	this	matter	I	knew	more	than	they	did.	Those,	even, who	 were	 not	 at	 all	 well	 disposed	 towards	 me,	 were	 glad	 to	 hear	 me	 praise	 the performance,	and	gave	way	to	me	without	the	least	servility.	I	judged	now	by	my impressions	of	that	time.	I	understood	that	in	this	new	view	of	theirs	there	was	no lowering	of	themselves;	rather	a	sentiment	of	their	own	dignity.

The	most	striking	characteristic	of	our	people	is	its	conscientiousness,	and	its love	 of	 justice;	 no	 false	 vanity,	 no	 sly	 ambition	 to	 reach	 the	 first	 rank	 without being	entitled	to	do	so;	such	faults	are	foreign	to	our	people.	Take	it	from	its	rough shell,	and	you	will	perceive,	if	you	study	it	without	prejudice,	attentively,	and	close





at	 hand,	 qualities	 which	 you	 would	 never	 have	 suspected.	 Our	 sages	 have	 very little	to	teach	our	people.	I	will	even	say	more;	they	might	take	lessons	from	it.

Petroff	had	told	me	innocently,	on	taking	me	into	the	theatre,	that	they	would

pass	me	to	the	front,	because	they	expected	more	money	from	me.	There	were	no

fixed	prices	for	the	places.	Each	one	gave	what	he	liked,	and	what	he	could.	Nearly

every	one	placed	a	piece	of	money	in	the	plate	when	it	was	handed	round.	Even	if

they	had	passed	me	forward	in	the	hope	that	I	should	give	more	than	others,	was

there	not	in	that	a	certain	feeling	of	personal	dignity?

“You	are	richer	than	I	am.	Go	to	the	first	row.	We	are	all	equal	here,	it	is	true;

but	you	pay	more,	and	the	actors	prefer	a	spectator	like	you.	Occupy	the	first	place

then,	for	we	are	not	here	with	money,	and	must	arrange	ourselves	anyhow.”

What	noble	pride	in	this	mode	of	action!	In	final	analysis	not	love	of	money,

but	self-respect.	There	was	little	esteem	for	money	among	us.	I	do	not	remember

that	one	of	us	ever	lowered	himself	to	obtain	money.	Some	men	used	to	make	up to	 me,	 but	 from	 love	 of	 cunning	 and	 of	 fun	 rather	 than	 in	 the	 hope	 of	 obtaining any	 benefit.	 I	 do	 not	 know	 whether	 I	 explain	 myself	 clearly.	 I	 am,	 in	 any	 case, forgetting	the	performance.	Let	me	return	to	it.

Before	 the	 rise	 of	 the	 curtain,	 the	 room	 presented	 a	 strange	 and	 animated

look.	In	the	first	place,	the	crowd	pressed,	crushed,	jammed	together	on	all	sides,

but	impatient,	full	of	expectation,	every	face	glowing	with	delight.	In	the	last	ranks

was	 the	 grovelling,	 confused	 mass	 of	 convicts.	 Many	 of	 them	 had	 brought	 with them	logs	of	wood,	which	they	placed	against	the	wall,	on	which	they	climbed	up.

In	this	fatiguing	position	they	paused	to	rest	themselves	by	placing	both	hands	on

the	 shoulders	 of	 their	 companions,	 who	 seemed	 quite	 at	 ease.	 Others	 stood	 on their	 toes,	 with	 their	 heels	 against	 the	 stove,	 and	 thus	 remained	 throughout	 the representation,	 supported	 by	 those	 around	 them.	 Massed	 against	 the	 camp-bedsteads	 was	 another	 compact	 crowd;	 for	 here	 were	 some	 of	 the	 best	 places	 of all.	Five	convicts	had	hoisted	themselves	up	to	the	top	of	the	stove,	whence	they

had	a	commanding	view.	These	fortunate	ones	were	extremely	happy.	Elsewhere

swarmed	the	late	arrivals,	unable	to	find	good	places.

Every	 one	 conducted	 himself	 in	 a	 becoming	 manner,	 without	 making	 any

noise.	Each	one	wished	to	show	advantageously	before	the	distinguished	persons

who	 were	 visiting	 us.	 Simple	 and	 natural	 was	 the	 expression	 of	 these	 red	 faces, damp	 with	 perspiration,	 as	 the	 rise	 of	 the	 curtain	 was	 eagerly	 expected.	 What	 a strange	look	of	infinite	delight,	of	unmixed	pleasure,	was	painted	on	these	scarred

faces,	 these	 branded	 foreheads,	 so	 dark	 and	 menacing	 at	 ordinary	 times!	 They

were	all	without	their	caps,	and	as	I	looked	back	at	them	from	my	place,	it	seemed

to	me	that	their	heads	were	entirely	shaved.

Suddenly	the	signal	is	given,	and	the	orchestra	begins	to	play.	This	orchestra

deserves	 a	 special	 mention.	 It	 consisted	 of	 eight	 musicians:	 two	 violins,	 one	 of which	 was	 the	 property	 of	 a	 convict,	 while	 the	 other	 had	 been	 borrowed	 from outside;	 three	 balalaiki,	 made	 by	 the	 convicts	 themselves;	 two	 guitars,	 and	 a tambourine.	The	violins	sighed	and	shrieked,	and	the	guitars	were	worthless,	but

the	 balalaiki	 were	 remarkably	 good;	 and	 the	 agile	 fingering	 of	 the	 artists	 would have	done	honour	to	the	cleverest	executant.

They	played	scarcely	anything	but	dance	tunes.	At	the	most	exciting	passages

they	 struck	 with	 their	 fingers	 on	 the	 body	 of	 their	 instruments.	 The	 tone,	 the

execution	of	the	motive,	were	always	original	and	distinctive.	One	of	the	guitarists knew	his	instrument	thoroughly.	It	was	the	gentleman	who	had	killed	his	father.

As	 for	 the	 tambourinist,	 he	 really	 did	 wonders.	 Now	 he	 whirled	 round	 the	 disk, balanced	on	one	of	his	fingers;	now	he	rubbed	the	parchment	with	his	thumb,	and

brought	from	it	a	countless	multitude	of	notes,	now	dull,	now	brilliant.

At	last	two	harmonigers	join	the	orchestra.	I	had	no	idea	until	then	of	all	that

could	be	done	with	these	popular	and	vulgar	instruments.	I	was	astonished.	The

harmony,	 but,	 above	 all,	 the	 expression,	 the	 very	 conception	 of	 the	 motive,	 were admirably	 rendered.	 I	 then	 understood	 perfectly,	 and	 for	 the	 first	 time,	 the

remarkable	 boldness,	 the	 striking	 abandonment,	 which	 are	 expressed	 in	 our

popular	dance	tunes,	and	our	village	songs.

At	last	the	curtain	rose.	Every	one	made	a	movement.	Those	who	were	at	the

back	raised	themselves	upon	the	point	of	their	feet;	some	one	fell	down	from	his

log.	At	once	there	were	looks	that	enjoined	silence.	The	performance	now	began.

I	was	seated	not	far	from	Ali,	who	was	in	the	midst	of	the	group	formed	by	his

brothers	and	the	other	Circassians.	They	had	a	passionate	love	of	the	theatre,	and

did	 not	 miss	 one	 of	 our	 evenings.	 I	 have	 remarked	 that	 all	 the	 Mohammedans, Circassians,	 and	 so	 on,	 are	 fond	 of	 all	 kinds	 of	 representations.	 Near	 them	 was Isaiah	Fomitch,	quite	in	a	state	of	ecstasy.	As	soon	as	the	curtain	rose	he	was	all

ears	and	eyes;	his	countenance	expressed	an	expectation	of	something	marvellous.

I	 should	 have	 been	 grieved	 had	 he	 been	 disappointed.	 The	 charming	 face	 of	 Ali shone	 with	 a	 childish	 joy,	 so	 pure	 that	 I	 was	 quite	 happy	 to	 behold	 it.

Involuntarily,	 whenever	 a	 general	 laugh	 echoed	 an	 amusing	 remark,	 I	 turned

towards	him	to	see	his	countenance.	He	did	not	notice	it,	he	had	something	else	to

do.

Near	him,	placed	on	the	left,	was	a	convict,	already	old,	sombre,	discontented,

and	always	grumbling.	He	also	had	noticed	Ali,	and	I	saw	him	cast	furtive	glances

more	 than	 once	 towards	 him,	 so	 charming	 was	 the	 young	 Circassian.	 The

prisoners	always	called	him	Ali	Simeonitch,	without	my	knowing	why.

In	the	first	piece, Philatka	and	Miroshka,	Baklouchin,	in	the	part	of	Philatka,

was	 really	 marvellous.	 He	 played	 his	 rôle	 to	 perfection.	 It	 could	 be	 seen	 that	 he had	weighed	each	speech,	each	movement.	He	managed	to	give	to	each	word,	each

gesture,	 a	 meaning	 which	 responded	 perfectly	 to	 the	 character	 of	 the	 personage.

Apart	 from	 the	 conscientious	 study	 he	 had	 made	 of	 the	 character,	 he	 was	 gay,

simple,	natural,	irresistible.	If	you	had	seen	Baklouchin	you	would	certainly	have said	that	he	was	a	genuine	actor,	an	actor	by	vocation,	and	of	great	talent.	I	have

seen	 Philatka	 several	 times	 at	 the	 St.	 Petersburg	 and	 Moscow	 theatres,	 and	 I declare	 that	 none	 of	 our	 celebrated	 actors	 was	 equal	 to	 Baklouchin	 in	 this	 part.

They	were	peasants,	from	no	matter	what	country,	and	not	true	Russian	moujiks.

Moreover,	 their	 desire	 to	 be	 peasant-like	 was	 too	 apparent.	 Baklouchin	 was

animated	by	emulation;	for	it	was	known	that	the	convict	Potsiakin	was	to	play	the

part	of	Kedril	in	the	second	piece,	and	it	was	assumed—I	do	not	know	why—that

the	latter	would	show	more	talent	than	Baklouchin.	The	latter	was	as	vexed	by	this

preference	as	a	child.	How	many	times	did	he	not	come	to	me	during	the	last	days

to	tell	me	all	he	felt!	Two	hours	before	the	representation	he	was	attacked	by	fever.

When	the	audience	burst	out	laughing,	and	called	out	“Bravo,	Baklouchin!	what	a

fellow	you	are!”	his	figure	shone	with	joy,	and	true	inspiration	could	be	read	in	his

eyes.	 The	 scene	 of	 the	 kisses	 between	 Kiroshka	 and	 Philatka,	 in	 which	 the	 latter calls	 out	 to	 the	 daughter,	 “Wife,	 your	 mouth,”	 and	 then	 wipes	 his	 own,	 was

wonderfully	comic.	Every	one	burst	out	laughing.

What	interested	me	was	the	spectators.	They	were	all	at	their	ease,	and	gave

themselves	up	frankly	to	their	mirth.	Cries	of	approbation	became	more	and	more

numerous.	 A	 convict	 nudged	 his	 companion	 with	 his	 elbow,	 and	 hastily

communicated	his	impressions,	without	even	troubling	himself	to	know	who	was

by	his	side.	When	a	comic	song	began,	one	man	might	be	seen	agitating	his	arms

violently,	as	if	to	engage	his	companions	to	laugh;	after	which	he	turned	suddenly

towards	 the	 stage.	 A	 third	 smacked	 his	 tongue	 against	 his	 palate,	 and	 could	 not keep	quiet	a	moment;	but	as	there	was	not	room	for	him	to	change	his	position,	he

hopped	first	on	one	leg,	then	on	the	other;	towards	the	end	of	the	piece	the	general

gaiety	 attained	 its	 climax.	 I	 exaggerate	 nothing.	 Imagine	 the	 convict	 prison,

chains,	 captivity,	 long	 years	 of	 confinement,	 of	 task-work,	 of	 monotonous	 life, falling	away	drop	by	drop	like	rain	on	an	autumn	day;	imagine	all	this	despair	in

presence	 of	 permission	 given	 to	 the	 convicts	 to	 amuse	 themselves,	 to	 breathe

freely	 for	 an	 hour,	 to	 forget	 their	 nightmare,	 and	 to	 organise	 a	 play—and	 what	 a play!	one	that	excited	the	envy	and	admiration	of	our	town.

“Fancy	 those	 convicts!”	 people	 said:	 everything	 interested	 them,	 take	 the

costumes	 for	 instance.	 It	 seemed	 very	 strange,	 but	 then	 to	 see,	 Nietsvitaeff,	 or Baklouchin,	in	a	different	costume	from	the	one	they	had	worn	for	so	many	years.

He	 is	 a	 convict,	 a	 genuine	 convict,	 whose	 chains	 ring	 when	 he	 walks;	 and there	he	is,	out	on	the	stage	with	a	frock-coat,	and	a	round	hat,	and	a	cloak,	like

any	 ordinary	 civilian.	 He	 has	 put	 on	 hair,	 moustaches.	 He	 takes	 a	 red

handkerchief	 from	 his	 pocket	 and	 shakes	 it,	 like	 a	 real	 nobleman.	 What

enthusiasm	is	created!	The	“good	landlord”	arrives	in	an	aide-decamp	uniform,	a

very	old	one,	it	is	true,	but	with	epaulettes,	and	a	cocked	hat.	The	effect	produced

was	indescribable.	There	had	been	two	candidates	for	this	costume,	and—will	it	be

believed?—they	 had	 quarrelled	 like	 two	 little	 schoolboys	 as	 to	 which	 of	 them

should	play	the	part.	Both	wanted	to	appear	in	military	uniform	with	epaulettes.

The	 other	 actors	 separated	 them,	 and,	 by	 a	 majority	 of	 voices,	 the	 part	 was entrusted	to	Nietsvitaeff;	not	because	he	was	more	suited	to	it	than	the	other,	and

that	 he	 bore	 a	 greater	 resemblance	 to	 a	 nobleman,	 but	 only	 because	 he	 had

assured	them	all	that	he	would	have	a	cane,	and	that	he	would	twirl	it	and	rap	it

out	 grand,	 like	 a	 true	 nobleman—a	 dandy	 of	 the	 latest	 fashion—which	 was	 more than	Vanka	and	Ospiety	could	do,	seeing	they	have	never	known	any	noblemen.	In

fact,	 when	 Nietsvitaeff	 went	 to	 the	 stage	 with	 his	 wife,	 he	 did	 nothing	 but	 draw circles	on	the	floor	with	his	light	bamboo	cane,	evidently	thinking	that	this	was	the

sign	of	the	best	breeding,	of	supreme	elegance.	Probably	in	his	childhood,	when	he

was	still	a	barefooted	child,	he	had	been	attracted	by	the	skill	of	some	proprietor

in	 twirling	 his	 cane,	 and	 this	 impression	 had	 remained	 in	 his	 memory,	 although thirty	years	afterwards.

Nietsvitaeff	was	so	occupied	with	his	process	that	he	saw	no	one,	he	gave	the

replies	in	his	dialogue	without	even	raising	his	eyes.	The	most	important	thing	for

him	was	the	end	of	his	cane,	and	the	circles	he	drew	with	it.	The	Lady	Bountiful

was	 also	 very	 remarkable;	 she	 came	 on	 in	 an	 old	 worn-out	 muslin	 dress,	 which looked	like	a	rag.	Her	arms	and	neck	were	bare.	She	had	a	little	calico	cap	on	her

head,	with	strings	under	her	chin,	an	umbrella	in	one	hand,	and	in	the	other	a	fan

of	 coloured	 paper,	 with	 which	 she	 constantly	 fanned	 herself.	 This	 great	 lady	 was welcomed	with	a	wild	laugh;	she	herself,	too,	was	unable	to	restrain	herself,	and

burst	 out	 more	 than	 once.	 The	 part	 was	 filled	 by	 the	 convict	 Ivanoff.	 As	 for Sirotkin,	in	his	girl’s	dress,	he	looked	exceedingly	well.	The	couplets	were	all	well

sung.	In	a	word,	the	piece	was	played	to	the	satisfaction	of	every	one;	not	the	least

hostile	 criticism	 was	 passed—who,	 indeed,	 was	 there	 to	 criticise?	 The	 air,	 “Sieni moi	Sieni,”	was	played	again	by	way	of	overture,	and	the	curtain	again	went	up.

Kedril,	the	Glutton,	was	now	to	be	played.	Kedril	is	a	sort	of	Don	Juan.	This

comparison	 may	 justly	 be	 made,	 for	 the	 master	 and	 the	 servant	 are	 both	 carried away	 by	 devils	 at	 the	 end	 of	 the	 piece;	 and	 the	 piece,	 as	 the	 convicts	 had	 it,	 was played	 quite	 correctly;	 but	 the	 beginning	 and	 the	 end	 must	 have	 been	 lost,	 for	 it had	 neither	 head	 nor	 tail.	 The	 scene	 is	 laid	 in	 an	 inn	 somewhere	 in	 Russia.	 The innkeeper	 introduces	 into	 a	 room	 a	 nobleman	 wearing	 a	 cloak	 and	 a	 battered

round	 hat;	 the	 valet,	 Kedril,	 follows	 his	 master;	 he	 carries	 a	 valise,	 and	 a	 fowl rolled	 up	 in	 blue	 paper;	 he	 wears	 a	 short	 pelisse	 and	 a	 footman’s	 cap.	 It	 is	 this fellow	 who	 is	 the	 glutton.	 The	 convict	 Potsiakin,	 the	 rival	 of	 Baklouchin,	 played this	 part,	 while	 the	 part	 of	 the	 nobleman	 was	 filled	 by	 Ivanoff,	 the	 same	 who played	 the	 great	 lady	 in	 the	 first	 piece.	 The	 innkeeper	 (Nietsvitaeff)	 warns	 the nobleman	that	the	room	is	haunted	by	demons,	and	goes	away;	the	nobleman	is

interested	and	preoccupied;	he	murmurs	aloud	that	he	has	known	that	for	a	long

time,	and	orders	Kedril	to	unpack	his	things	and	to	get	supper	ready.

Kedril	is	a	glutton	and	a	coward.	When	he	hears	of	devils	he	turns	pale	and

trembles	like	a	leaf;	he	would	like	to	run	away,	but	is	afraid	of	his	master;	besides,

he	 is	 hungry,	 he	 is	 voluptuous,	 he	 is	 sensual,	 stupid,	 though	 cunning	 in	 his	 way, and,	 as	 before	 said,	 a	 poltroon;	 he	 cheats	 his	 master	 every	 moment,	 though	 he fears	 him	 like	 fire.	 This	 type	 of	 servant	 is	 a	 remarkable	 one	 in	 which	 may	 be recognised	the	principal	features	of	the	character	of	Leporello,	but	indistinct	and

confused.	 The	 part	 was	 played	 in	 really	 superior	 style	 by	 Potsiakin,	 whose	 talent was	 beyond	 discussion,	 surpassing	 as	 it	 did	 in	 my	 opinion	 that	 of	 Baklouchin himself.	But	when	the	next	day	I	spoke	to	Baklouchin	I	concealed	my	impression

from	him,	knowing	that	it	would	give	him	bitter	pain.

As	 for	 the	 convict	 who	 played	 the	 part	 of	 the	 nobleman,	 it	 was	 not	 bad.

Everything	 he	 said	 was	 without	 meaning,	 incomparable	 to	 anything	 I	 had	 ever

heard	 before;	 but	 his	 enunciation	 was	 pure	 and	 his	 gestures	 becoming.	 While

Kedril	 occupies	 himself	 with	 the	 valise,	 his	 master	 walks	 up	 and	 down,	 and

announces	 that	 from	 that	 day	 forth	 he	 means	 to	 lead	 a	 quiet	 life.	 Kedril	 listens, makes	grimaces,	and	amuses	the	spectators	by	his	reflections	“aside.”	He	has	no

pity	for	his	master,	but	he	has	heard	of	devils,	would	like	to	know	what	they	are

like,	 and	 thereupon	 questions	 him.	 The	 nobleman	 replies	 that	 some	 time	 ago,

being	 in	 danger	 of	 death,	 he	 asked	 succour	 from	 hell.	 Then	 the	 devils	 aided	 and delivered	him,	but	the	term	of	his	liberty	has	expired;	and	if	the	devils	come	that

evening,	 it	 will	 be	 to	 exact	 his	 soul,	 as	 has	 been	 agreed	 in	 their	 compact.	 Kedril begins	to	tremble	in	earnest,	but	his	master	does	not	lose	courage,	and	orders	him

to	 prepare	 the	 supper.	 Hearing	 of	 victuals,	 Kedril	 revives.	 Taking	 out	 a	 bottle	 of wine,	he	taps	it	on	his	own	account.	The	audience	expands	with	laughter;	but	the

door	 grates	 on	 its	 hinges,	 the	 winds	 shakes	 the	 shutters,	 Kedril	 trembles,	 and hastily,	 almost	 without	 knowing	 what	 he	 is	 doing,	 puts	 into	 his	 mouth	 an

enormous	 piece	 of	 fowl,	 which	 he	 is	 unable	 to	 swallow.	 There	 is	 another	 gust	 of wind.

“Is	 it	 ready?”	 cries	 the	 master,	 still	 walking	 backwards	 and	 forwards	 in	 his room.

“Directly,	sir.	I	am	preparing	it,”	says	Kedril,	who	sits	down,	and,	taking	care

that	his	master	does	not	see	him,	begins	to	eat	the	supper	himself.	The	audience	is

evidently	charmed	with	the	cunning	of	the	servant,	who	so	cleverly	makes	game	of

the	 nobleman;	 and	 it	 must	 be	 admitted	 that	 Poseikin,	 the	 representative	 of	 the part,	deserved	high	praise.	He	pronounced	admirably	the	words:	“Directly,	sir.	I—

am—preparing—it.”

Kedril	eats	gradually,	and	at	each	mouthful	trembles	lest	his	master	shall	see

him.	 Every	 time	 that	 the	 nobleman	 turns	 round	 Kedril	 hides	 under	 the	 table,

holding	the	fowl	in	his	hand.	When	he	has	appeased	his	hunger,	he	begins	to	think

of	his	master.

“Kedril,	will	it	soon	be	ready?”	cries	the	nobleman.

“It	 is	 ready	 now,”	 replies	 Kedril	 boldly,	 when	 all	 at	 once	 he	 perceives	 that there	 is	 scarcely	 anything	 left.	 Nothing	 remains	 but	 one	 leg.	 The	 master,	 still sombre	and	preoccupied,	notices	nothing,	and	takes	his	seat,	while	Kedril	places

himself	 behind	 him	 with	 a	 napkin	 on	 his	 arm.	 Every	 word,	 every	 gesture,	 every grimace	 from	 the	 servant,	 as	 he	 turns	 towards	 the	 audience	 to	 laugh	 at	 his

master’s	 expense,	 excites	 the	 greatest	 mirth	 among	 the	 convicts.	 Just	 at	 the

moment	when	the	young	nobleman	begins	to	eat,	the	devils	arrive.	They	resemble

nothing	 human	 or	 terrestrial.	 The	 side-door	 opens,	 and	 the	 phantom	 appears

dressed	entirely	in	white,	with	a	lighted	lantern	in	lieu	of	a	head,	and	with	a	scythe

in	its	hand.	Why	the	white	dress,	scythe,	and	lantern?	No	one	could	tell	me,	and

the	 matter	 did	 not	 trouble	 the	 convicts.	 They	 were	 sure	 that	 this	 was	 the	 way	 it ought	 to	 be	 done.	 The	 master	 comes	 forward	 courageously	 to	 meet	 the

apparitions,	and	calls	out	to	them	that	he	is	ready,	and	that	they	can	take	him.	But

Kedril,	 as	 timid	 as	 a	 hare,	 hides	 under	 the	 table,	 not	 forgetting,	 in	 spite	 of	 his fright,	 to	 take	 a	 bottle	 with	 him.	 The	 devils	 disappear,	 Kedril	 comes	 out	 of	 his

hiding-place,	and	the	master	begins	to	eat	his	fowl.	Three	devils	enter	the	room, and	seize	him	to	take	him	to	hell.

“Save	me,	Kedril,”	he	cries.	But	Kedril	has	something	else	to	think	of.	He	has

now	with	him	in	his	hiding-place	not	only	the	bottle,	but	also	the	plate	of	fowl	and

the	bread.	He	is	now	alone.	The	demons	are	far	away,	and	his	master	also.	Kedril

gets	from	under	the	table,	looks	all	round,	and	suddenly	his	face	beams	with	joy.

He	winks,	like	the	rogue	he	is,	sits	down	in	his	master’s	place,	and	whispers	to	the

audience:	“I	have	now	no	master	but	myself.”

Every	one	laughs	at	seeing	him	masterless;	and	he	says,	always	in	an	under-

tone	and	with	a	confidential	air:	“The	devils	have	carried	him	off!”

The	enthusiasm	of	the	spectators	is	now	without	limits.	The	last	phrase	was

uttered	with	such	roguery,	with	such	a	triumphant	grimace,	that	it	was	impossible

not	to	applaud.	But	Kedril’s	happiness	does	not	last	long.	Hardly	has	he	taken	up

the	 bottle	 of	 wine,	 and	 poured	 himself	 out	 a	 large	 glass,	 which	 he	 carries	 to	 his lips,	 than	 the	 devils	 return,	 slip	 behind,	 and	 seize	 him.	 Kedril	 howls	 like	 one possessed,	but	he	dare	not	turn	round.	He	wishes	to	defend	himself,	but	cannot,

for	in	his	hands	he	holds	the	bottle	and	the	glass,	from	which	he	will	not	separate.

His	 eyes	 starting	 from	 his	 head,	 his	 mouth	 gaping	 with	 horror,	 he	 remains	 for	 a moment	looking	at	the	audience	with	a	comic	expression	of	cowardice	that	might

have	 been	 painted.	 At	 last	 he	 is	 dragged,	 carried	 away.	 His	 arms	 and	 legs	 are agitated	in	every	direction,	but	he	still	sticks	to	his	bottle.	He	also	shrieks,	and	his cries	are	still	heard	when	he	has	been	carried	from	the	stage.

The	 curtain	 falls	 amid	 general	 laughter,	 and	 every	 one	 is	 delighted.	 The

orchestra	 now	 attacks	 the	 famous	 dance	 tune	 Kamarinskaia.	 First	 it	 is	 played

softly,	 pianissimo;	 but	 little	 by	 little,	 the	 motive	 is	 developed	 and	 played	 more lightly.	The	time	is	quickened,	and	the	wood,	as	well	as	the	strings	of	the	balalaiki,

is	 made	 to	 sound.	 The	 musicians	 enter	 thoroughly	 into	 the	 spirit	 of	 the	 dance.

Glinka	 [who	 has	 arranged	 the	 Kamarinskaia	 in	 the	 most	 ingenious	 manner,	 and

with	harmonies	of	his	own	devising,	for	full	orchestra]	should	have	heard	it	as	it

was	executed	in	our	Convict	Prison.

The	 pantomimic	 musical	 accompaniment	 is	 begun;	 and	 throughout	 the

Kamarinskaia	is	played.	The	stage	represents	the	interior	of	a	hut.	A	miller	and	his

wife	are	sitting	down,	one	mending	clothes,	the	other	spinning	flax.	Sirotkin	plays

the	 part	 of	 the	 wife,	 and	 Nietsvitaeff	 that	 of	 the	 husband.	 Our	 scenery	 was	 very

poor.	In	this	piece,	as	in	the	preceding	ones,	imagination	had	to	supply	what	was wanting	in	reality.	Instead	of	a	wall	at	the	back	of	the	stage,	there	was	a	carpet	or	a

blanket;	 on	 the	 right,	 shabby	 screens;	 while	 on	 the	 left,	 where	 the	 stage	 was	 not closed,	 the	 camp-bedsteads	 could	 be	 seen;	 but	 the	 spectators	 were	 not	 exacting, and	were	willing	to	imagine	all	that	was	wanting.	It	was	an	easy	task	for	them;	all

convicts	are	great	dreamers.	Directly	they	are	told	“this	is	a	garden,”	it	is	for	them

a	 garden.	 Informed	 that	 “this	 is	 a	 hut,”	 they	 accept	 the	 definition	 without

difficulty.	 To	 them	 it	 is	 a	 hut.	 Sirotkin	 was	 charming	 in	 a	 woman’s	 dress.	 The miller	finishes	his	work,	takes	his	cap	and	his	whip,	goes	up	to	his	wife,	and	gives

her	 to	 understand	 by	 signs,	 that	 if	 during	 his	 absence	 she	 makes	 the	 mistake	 of receiving	any	one,	she	will	have	to	deal	with	him—and	he	shows	her	his	whip.	The

wife	listens,	and	nods	affirmatively	her	head.	The	whip	is	evidently	known	to	her;

the	 hussey	 has	 often	 deserved	 it.	 The	 husband	 goes	 out.	 Hardly	 has	 he	 turned upon	 his	 heel,	 than	 his	 wife	 shakes	 her	 fist	 at	 him.	 There	 is	 a	 knock;	 the	 door opens,	 and	 in	 comes	 a	 neighbour,	 miller	 also	 by	 trade.	 He	 wears	 a	 beard,	 is	 in	 a kuftan,	and	he	brings	as	a	present	a	red	handkerchief.	The	woman	smiles.	Another

knock	is	heard	at	the	door.	Where	shall	she	hide	him?	She	conceals	him	under	the

table,	 and	 takes	 up	 her	 distaff	 again.	 Another	 admirer	 now	 presents	 himself—a farrier	in	the	uniform	of	a	non-commissioned	officer.

Until	 now	 the	 pantomime	 had	 gone	 on	 capitally;	 the	 gestures	 of	 the	 actors

being	 irreproachable.	 It	 was	 astounding	 to	 see	 these	 improvised	 players	 going

through	their	parts	in	so	correct	a	manner;	and	involuntarily	one	said	to	oneself:

“What	a	deal	of	talent	is	lost	in	our	Russia,	left	without	use	in	our	prisons	and

places	of	exile!”

The	convict	who	played	the	part	of	the	farrier	had,	doubtless,	taken	part	in	a

performance	at	some	provincial	theatre,	or	had	played	with	amateurs.	It	seemed

to	 me,	 in	 any	 case,	 that	 our	 actors	 knew	 nothing	 of	 acting	 as	 an	 art,	 and	 bore themselves	 in	 the	 meanest	 manner.	 When	 it	 was	 his	 turn	 to	 appear,	 he	 came	 on like	one	of	the	classical	heroes	of	the	old	repertory—taking	a	long	stride	with	one

foot	 before	 he	 raised	 the	 other	 from	 the	 ground,	 throwing	 back	 his	 head	 on	 the upper	 part	 of	 his	 body	 and	 casting	 proud	 looks	 around	 him.	 If	 such	 a	 gait	 was ridiculous	on	the	part	of	classical	heroes,	still	more	so	was	it	when	the	actor	was

representing	 a	 comic	 character.	 But	 the	 audience	 thought	 it	 quite	 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	2.

CHAPTER	1.

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	 exsecretary	 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	 easy	 manners,	 but	 was	 very	 presumptuous, and	 suffered	 from	 morbid	 self-esteem.	 Convinced	 that	 there	 was	 no	 one	 in	 the world	a	bit	more	honest	or	more	just	than	himself,	he	did	not	consider	himself	at

all	guilty,	and	never	kept	this	assurance	to	himself.

This	personage	was	the	first	to	address	me,	and	he	questioned	me	with	much

curiosity.	He	initiated	me	into	the	ways	of	the	hospital;	and,	of	course,	began	by

telling	me	that	he	was	the	son	of	a	captain.	He	was	very	anxious	that	I	should	take

him	for	a	noble,	or	at	least,	for	some	one	connected	with	the	nobility.

Soon	afterwards	an	invalid	from	the	Disciplinary	Company	came	and	told	me

that	he	knew	a	great	many	nobles	who	had	been	exiled;	and,	to	convince	me,	he repeated	to	me	their	christian	names	and	their	patronymics.	It	was	only	necessary

to	see	the	face	of	this	soldier	to	understand	that	he	was	lying	abominably.	He	was

named	 Tchekounoff,	 and	 came	 to	 pay	 court	 to	 me,	 because	 he	 suspected	 me	 of

having	money.	When	he	saw	a	packet	of	tea	and	sugar,	he	at	once	offered	me	his

services	 to	 make	 the	 water	 boil	 and	 to	 get	 me	 a	 tea-urn.	 M.	 D.	 S.	 K——	 had promised	to	send	me	my	own	by	one	of	the	prisoners	who	worked	in	the	hospital,

but	 Tchekounoff	 arranged	 to	 get	 me	 one	 forthwith.	 He	 got	 me	 a	 tin	 vessel,	 in which	he	made	the	water	boil;	and,	in	a	word,	he	showed	such	extraordinary	zeal,

that	 it	 drew	 down	 upon	 him	 bitter	 laughter	 from	 one	 of	 the	 patients,	 a

consumptive	man,	whose	bed	was	just	opposite	mine,	Usteantseff	by	name.	This

was	the	soldier	condemned	to	the	rods,	who,	from	fear,	had	swallowed	a	bottle	of

vodka,	in	which	he	had	infused	tobacco,	this	bringing	on	lung	disease.

I	have	spoken	of	him	above.	He	had	remained	silent	until	now,	stretched	out

on	his	bed,	and	breathing	with	difficulty.	He	looked	at	me	all	the	time	with	a	very

serious	 air.	 He	 did	 not	 take	 his	 eyes	 from	 Tchekounoff,	 whose	 civility	 irritated him.	 His	 extraordinary	 gravity	 rendered	 his	 indignation	 comic.	 At	 last	 he	 could stand	it	no	longer.

“Look	 at	 this	 fellow!	 He	 has	 found	 his	 master,”	 he	 said,	 stammering	 out	 the words	with	a	voice	strangled	by	weakness,	for	he	had	now	not	long	to	live.

Tchekounoff,	much	annoyed,	turned	round.

“Who	is	the	fellow?”	he	asked,	looking	at	Usteantseff,	with	contempt.

“Why,	 you	 are	 a	 flunkey,”	 replied	 Usteantseff,	 as	 confidently	 as	 if	 he	 had

possessed	the	right	of	calling	Tchekounoff	to	order.

“I	a	fellow?”

“Yes,	 you	 are	 a	 flunkey;	 a	 true	 flunkey.	 Listen,	 my	 good	 friends.	 He	 won’t

believe	me.	He	is	quite	astonished,	the	brave	fellow.”

“What	 can	 that	 matter	 to	 you?	 You	 see	 when	 they	 don’t	 know	 how	 to	 make

use	 of	 their	 hands	 that	 they	 are	 not	 accustomed	 to	 be	 without	 servants.	 Why should	I	not	serve	him,	buffoon	with	a	hairy	snout?”

“Who	has	a	hairy	snout?”

“You!”

“I	have	a	hairy	snout?”

“Yes;	certainly	you	have.”

“You	are	a	nice	fellow,	you	are.	If	I	have	a	hairy	snout,	you	have	a	face	like	a

crow’s	egg.”

“Hairy	 snout!	 The	 merciful	 Lord	 has	 settled	 your	 account.	 You	 would	 do

much	better	to	keep	quiet	and	die.”

“Why?	I	would	rather	prostrate	myself	before	a	boot	than	before	a	slipper.	My

father	never	prostrated	himself,	and	never	made	me	do	so.”

He	would	have	continued,	but	an	attack	of	coughing	convulsed	him	for	some

minutes.	 He	 spat	 blood,	 and	 a	 cold	 sweat	 broke	 out	 on	 his	 low	 forehead.	 If	 his cough	had	not	prevented	him	from	speaking,	he	would	have	continued	to	declaim.

One	could	see	that	from	his	look;	but	in	his	powerlessness	he	could	only	move	his

hand,	the	result	of	which	was	that	Tchekounoff	spoke	no	more	about	the	matter.

I	 quite	 understood	 that	 the	 consumptive	 patient	 hated	 me	 much	 more	 than

Tchekounoff.	 No	 one	 would	 have	 thought	 of	 being	 angry	 with	 him	 or	 of	 looking down	 upon	 him	 by	 reason	 of	 the	 services	 he	 was	 rendering	 me,	 and	 the	 few

kopecks	 that	 he	 tried	 to	 get	 from	 me.	 Every	 one	 understood	 that	 he	 did	 it	 all	 in order	to	get	himself	a	little	money.

The	 Russian	 people	 are	 not	 at	 all	 susceptible	 on	 such	 points,	 and	 know

perfectly	well	how	to	take	them.

I	 had	 displeased	 Usteantseff,	 as	 my	 tea	 had	 also	 displeased	 him.	 What

irritated	him	was	that,	in	spite	of	all,	I	was	a	gentleman,	even	with	my	chains;	that

I	 could	 not	 do	 without	 a	 servant,	 though	 I	 neither	 asked	 for	 nor	 desired	 one.	 In reality	I	tried	to	do	everything	for	myself,	in	order	not	to	appear	a	white-handed,

effeminate	person,	and	not	to	play	the	part	which	excited	so	much	envy.

I	 even	 felt	 a	 little	 pride	 on	 this	 point;	 but,	 in	 spite	 of	 every	 thing—I	 do	 not know	 why—I	 was	 always	 surrounded	 by	 officious,	 complaisant	 people,	 who

attached	themselves	to	me	of	their	own	free	will,	and	who	ended	by	governing	me.

It	was	I	rather	who	was	their	servant;	so	that,	whether	I	liked	it	or	not,	I	was	made

to	 appear	 to	 every	 one	 a	 noble,	 who	 could	 not	 do	 without	 the	 services	 of	 others, and	who	gave	himself	airs.	This	exasperated	me.

Usteantseff	 was	 consumptive,	 and,	 therefore,	 irascible.	 The	 other	 patients

only	 showed	 me	 indifference,	 tinged	 with	 a	 shade	 of	 contempt.	 They	 were occupied	with	a	circumstance	which	now	presents	itself	to	my	memory.

I	learned,	as	I	listened	to	their	conversation,	that	there	was	to	be	brought	into

the	 hospital	 that	 evening	 a	 convict	 who,	 at	 that	 moment,	 was	 receiving	 the	 rods.

The	prisoners	were	looking	forward	to	this	new	arrival	with	some	curiosity.	They

said,	however,	that	his	punishment	was	but	slight—only	five	hundred	strokes.

I	looked	round.	The	greater	number	of	genuine	patients	were,	as	far	as	I	could

observe,	affected	by	scurvy	and	diseases	of	the	eyes—both	peculiar	to	this	country.

The	 others	 suffered	 from	 fever,	 lung	 disease,	 and	 other	 illnesses.	 The	 different illnesses	were	not	separated;	all	the	patients	were	together	in	the	same	room.

I	have	spoken	of	genuine	patients,	for	certain	convicts	had	come	in	merely	to

get	 a	 little	 rest.	 The	 doctors	 admitted	 them	 from	 pure	 compassion,	 above	 all,	 if there	were	any	vacant	beds.	Life	in	the	guard-house	and	in	the	prison	was	so	hard

compared	with	that	of	the	hospital,	that	many	persons	preferred	to	remain	lying

down	in	spite	of	the	stifling	atmosphere	and	the	rules	against	leaving	the	room.

There	 were	 even	 men	 who	 took	 pleasure	 in	 this	 kind	 of	 life.	 They	 belonged

nearly	 all	 to	 the	 Disciplinary	 Company.	 I	 examined	 my	 new	 companions	 with

curiosity.	 One	 of	 them	 puzzled	 me	 very	 much.	 He	 was	 consumptive,	 and	 was

dying.	 His	 bed	 was	 a	 little	 further	 on	 than	 that	 of	 Usteantseff,	 and	 was	 nearly beside	mine.	He	was	named	Mikhailoff.	I	had	seen	him	in	the	Convict	Prison	two

weeks	 before,	 when	 he	 was	 already	 seriously	 ill.	 He	 ought	 to	 have	 been	 under treatment	long	before,	but	he	bore	up	against	his	malady	with	surprising	courage.

He	 did	 not	 go	 to	 the	 hospital	 until	 about	 the	 Christmas	 holidays,	 to	 die	 three weeks	afterwards	of	galloping	consumption.	He	seemed	to	have	burned	out	like	a

candle.	 What	 astonished	 me	 most	 was	 the	 terrible	 change	 in	 his	 countenance.	 I had	 noticed	 him	 the	 very	 first	 day	 of	 my	 imprisonment.	 By	 his	 side	 was	 lying	 a soldier	 of	 the	 Disciplinary	 Company—an	 old	 man	 with	 a	 bad	 expression	 on	 his

face,	whose	general	appearance	was	disgusting.

But	 I	 am	 not	 going	 to	 enumerate	 all	 the	 patients.	 I	 just	 remember	 this	 old man	simply	because	he	made	an	impression	on	me,	and	initiated	me	at	once	into

certain	 peculiarities	 of	 the	 ward.	 He	 had	 a	 severe	 cold	 in	 the	 head,	 which	 made him	sneeze	at	every	moment,	even	during	his	sleep,	as	if	firing	salutes,	five	or	six

times	running,	while	each	time	he	called	out,	“My	God,	what	torture!”

Seated	on	his	bed	he	stuffed	his	nose	eagerly	with	snuff,	which	he	took	from	a paper	 bag,	 in	 order	 to	 sneeze	 more	 strongly,	 and	 with	 greater	 regularity.	 He sneezed	 into	 a	 checked	 cotton	 pocket-handkerchief	 which	 belonged	 to	 him,	 and

which	had	lost	its	colour	through	perpetual	washing.	His	little	nose	then	became

wrinkled	 in	 a	 most	 peculiar	 manner	 with	 a	 multitude	 of	 wrinkles,	 and	 his	 open mouth	exhibited	broken	teeth,	decayed	and	black,	and	red	gums	moist	with	saliva.

When	he	sneezed	into	his	handkerchief	he	unfolded	it	and	wiped	it	on	the	lining	of

his	 dressing-gown.	 His	 proceedings	 disgusted	 me	 so	 much	 that	 involuntarily	 I

examined	the	dressing-gown	I	had	just	put	on	myself.	It	exhaled	a	most	offensive

odour,	 which	 contact	 with	 my	 body	 helped	 to	 bring	 out.	 It	 smelt	 of	 plasters	 and medicaments	of	all	kinds.	It	seemed	as	though	it	had	been	worn	by	patients	from

time	 immemorial.	 The	 lining	 had,	 perhaps,	 been	 washed	 once,	 but	 I	 would	 not

swear	 to	 it.	 Certainly,	 at	 the	 time	 I	 put	 it	 on,	 it	 was	 saturated	 with	 lotions,	 and stained	by	contact	with	poultices	and	plasters	of	all	imaginable	kinds.

The	 men	 condemned	 to	 the	 rods,	 having	 undergone	 their	 punishment,	 were

brought	 straight	 to	 the	 hospital,	 their	 backs	 still	 bleeding.	 As	 compresses	 and	 as poultices	 were	 placed	 on	 their	 wounds,	 the	 dressing-gown	 they	 wore	 over	 their wet	shirt	received	and	retained	the	droppings.

During	all	the	time	of	my	hard	labour	I	had	to	go	to	the	hospital,	which	often

happened,	I	always	put	on,	with	mistrust	and	abhorrence,	the	dressing-gown	that

was	delivered	to	me.	As	soon	as	Tchekounoff	had	given	me	my	tea	(I	will	say,	in

parenthesis,	 that	 the	 water	 brought	 in	 in	 the	 morning,	 and	 not	 renewed

throughout	the	day,	was	soon	corrupted,	soon	poisoned	by	the	fetid	air),	the	door

opened,	 and	 the	 soldier,	 who	 had	 just	 received	 the	 rods,	 was	 brought	 in	 under	 a double	escort.	I	saw,	for	the	first	time,	a	man	who	had	just	been	whipped.	Later	on

many	were	brought	in,	and	whenever	this	happened	it	caused	great	distress	to	the

patients.	 These	 unfortunate	 men	 were	 received	 with	 grave	 composure,	 but	 the

nature	 of	 the	 reception	 depended	 nearly	 always	 on	 the	 enormity	 of	 the	 crime

committed,	and,	consequently,	the	number	of	strokes	administered.

The	criminals	most	cruelly	whipped,	and	who	were	celebrated	as	brigands	of

the	 first	 order,	 enjoyed	 more	 respect	 and	 attention	 than	 a	 simple	 deserter,	 a recruit,	 like	 the	 one	 who	 had	 just	 been	 brought	 in.	 But	 in	 neither	 case	 was	 any particular	 sympathy	 manifested,	 nor	 were	 any	 annoying	 remarks	 made.	 The

unhappy	man	was	attended	to	in	silence,	above	all	if	he	was	incapable	of	attending

to	himself.	The	assistant-surgeons	knew	that	they	were	entrusting	their	patients	to skilful	 and	 experienced	 hands.	 The	 usual	 treatment	 consisted	 in	 applying	 very

often	 to	 the	 back	 of	 the	 man	 who	 had	 been	 whipped	 a	 shirt	 or	 a	 piece	 of	 linen steeped	in	cold	water.	It	was	also	necessary	to	withdraw	skilfully	from	the	wounds

the	twigs	left	by	the	rods	which	had	been	broken	on	the	criminal’s	back.	This	last

operation	was	particularly	painful	to	the	patients.	The	extraordinary	stoicism	with

which	they	supported	their	sufferings	astonished	me	greatly.

I	have	seen	many	convicts	who	had	been	whipped,	and	cruelly,	I	can	tell	you.

Well,	 I	 do	 not	 remember	 one	 of	 them	 uttering	 a	 groan.	 Only	 after	 such	 an

experience,	the	countenance	becomes	pale,	decomposed,	the	eyes	glitter,	the	look

wanders,	 and	 the	 lips	 tremble	 so	 that	 the	 patient	 sometimes	 bites	 them	 till	 they bleed.

The	 soldier	 who	 had	 just	 come	 in	 was	 twenty-three	 years	 of	 age;	 he	 had	 a

good	 muscular	 development,	 and	 was	 rather	 a	 fine	 man,	 tall,	 well-made,	 with	 a bronzed	skin.	His	back,	uncovered	down	to	the	waist,	had	been	seriously	beaten,

and	his	body	now	trembled	with	fever	beneath	the	damp	sheet	with	which	his	back

was	covered.	For	about	an	hour	and	a	half	he	did	nothing	but	walk	backwards	and

forwards	in	the	room.	I	looked	at	his	face:	he	seemed	to	be	thinking	of	nothing;	his

eyes	 had	 a	 strange	 expression,	 at	 once	 wild	 and	 timid;	 they	 seemed	 to	 fix

themselves	 with	 difficulty	 on	 the	 various	 objects.	 I	 fancied	 I	 saw	 him	 looking attentively	at	my	hot	tea;	the	steam	was	rising	from	the	full	cup,	and	the	poor	devil

was	 shivering	 and	 clattering	 his	 teeth.	 I	 invited	 him	 to	 have	 some;	 he	 turned towards	 me	 without	 saying	 a	 word,	 and	 taking	 up	 the	 cup,	 swallowed	 the	 tea	 at one	gulp,	without	putting	sugar	in	it.	He	tried	not	to	look	at	me,	and	when	he	had

finished	he	put	the	cup	back	in	silence	without	making	a	sign,	and	then	began	to

walk	up	and	down	as	before.	He	was	in	too	much	pain	to	think	of	speaking	to	me

or	thanking	me.	As	for	the	other	prisoners,	they	abstained	from	questioning	him;

when	 once	 they	 had	 applied	 compresses	 they	 paid	 no	 more	 attention	 to	 him,

thinking	probably	it	would	be	better	to	leave	him	alone,	and	not	to	worry	him	by

their	questions	and	compassion.	The	soldier	seemed	quite	satisfied	with	this	view.

Meanwhile,	 night	 came	 on	 and	 the	 lamp	 was	 lighted;	 some	 of	 the	 patients

possessed	candlesticks	of	their	own,	but	these	were	not	numerous.	In	the	evening

the	doctor	came	round,	after	which	a	non-commissioned	officer	on	guard	counted

the	patients	and	closed	the	room.

The	prisoners	could	not	speak	in	too	high	terms	of	their	doctors.	They	looked upon	 them	 truly	 as	 fathers	 and	 respected	 them.	 These	 doctors	 had	 always

something	pleasant	to	say,	a	kind	word	even	for	reprobates,	who	appreciated	it	all

the	more	because	they	knew	it	was	said	in	all	sincerity.

Yes,	these	kind	words	were	really	sincere,	for	no	one	would	have	thought	of

blaming	 the	 doctors	 had	 they	 shown	 themselves	 cross	 and	 inhuman;	 they	 were

kind	purely	from	humanity.	They	understood	perfectly	that	a	convict	who	is	sick

has	as	much	right	to	breathe	pure	air	as	any	other	person,	even	though	the	latter

might	 be	 a	 great	 personage.	 The	 convalescents	 there	 had	 a	 right	 to	 walk	 freely through	the	corridors	to	take	exercise,	and	to	breathe	air	less	pestilential	than	that

of	 our	 infirmary,	 which	 was	 close	 and	 saturated	 with	 deleterious	 emanations.	 In our	ward,	when	once	the	doors	had	been	closed	in	the	evening,	they	had	to	remain

closed	throughout	the	night,	and	under	no	pretext	was	one	of	the	inmates	allowed

to	go	out.

For	many	years	an	inexplicable	fact	troubled	me	like	an	insoluble	problem.	I

must	speak	of	it	before	going	on	with	my	description.	I	am	thinking	of	the	chains

which	every	convict	is	obliged	to	wear,	however	ill	he	may	be;	even	consumptives

have	died	beneath	my	eyes	with	their	legs	loaded	with	irons.

Everybody	was	accustomed	to	it,	and	regarded	it	as	an	inevitable	fact.	I	do	not

think	any	one,	even	the	doctors,	would	have	thought	of	demanding	the	removal	of

the	 irons	 from	 convicts	 who	 were	 seriously	 ill,	 not	 even	 from	 the	 consumptive ones.	 The	 chains,	 it	 is	 true,	 were	 not	 exceedingly	 heavy;	 they	 did	 not	 in	 general weigh	more	than	eight	or	ten	pounds,	which	is	a	supportable	burden	for	a	man	in

good	 health.	 I	 have	 been	 told,	 however,	 that	 after	 some	 years	 the	 legs	 of	 the convicts	dry	up	and	waste	away.	I	do	not	know	whether	it	is	true.	I	am	inclined	to

think	it	is;	the	weight,	however	light	it	may	be	(say	not	more	than	ten	pounds),	if	it

is	 fixed	 to	 the	 leg	 for	 ever,	 increases	 the	 general	 weight	 in	 an	 abnormal	 manner, and	at	the	end	of	a	certain	time	must	have	a	disastrous	effect	on	its	development.

For	 a	 convict	 in	 good	 health	 this	 is	 nothing,	 but	 the	 same	 cannot	 be	 said	 of one	who	is	sick.	For	the	convicts	who	were	seriously	ill,	for	the	consumptive	ones

whose	arms	and	legs	dry	up	of	themselves,	this	last	straw	is	insupportable.	Even	if

the	medical	authorities	claimed	alleviation	for	the	consumptive	patients	alone,	it

would	 be	 an	 immense	 benefit,	 I	 assure	 you.	 I	 shall	 be	 told	 convicts	 are

malefactors,	 unworthy	 of	 compassion;	 but	 ought	 increased	 severity	 to	 be	 shown

towards	him	on	whom	the	finger	of	God	already	weighs?	No	one	will	believe	that the	object	of	this	aggravation	is	to	reform	the	criminal.	The	consumptive	prisoners

are	exempted	from	corporal	punishment	by	the	tribunal.

There	must	be	some	mysterious,	important	reason	for	all	this,	but	what	it	is,	it

is	 impossible	 to	 understand.	 No	 one	 believes—it	 is	 impossible	 to	 believe—that	 a consumptive	man	will	run	away.	Who	can	think	of	such	a	thing,	especially	if	the

illness	 has	 reached	 a	 certain	 degree	 of	 intensity?	 It	 is	 impossible	 to	 deceive	 the doctors	 and	 make	 them	 mistake	 a	 convict	 in	 good	 health	 for	 one	 who	 is	 in	 a consumption,	 for	 this	 malady	 is	 one	 that	 can	 be	 recognised	 at	 the	 first	 glance.

Moreover,	can	the	irons	prevent	the	convict	not	in	good	health	from	escaping?	Not

in	the	least.	The	irons	are	a	degradation	and	shame,	a	physical	and	moral	burden;

but	they	would	not	hinder	any	one	attempting	to	escape.	The	most	awkward	and

least	intelligent	convict	can	saw	through	them,	or	break	the	rivets	by	hammering

at	 them	 with	 a	 stone.	 Chains,	 then,	 are	 a	 useless	 precaution;	 and	 if	 the	 convicts wear	them	as	a	punishment,	should	not	this	punishment	be	spared	to	dying	men?

As	I	write	these	lines,	a	face	stands	out	from	my	memory:	that	of	a	dying	man,

a	 man	 who	 died	 in	 consumption,	 this	 same	 Mikhailoff,	 whose	 bed	 was	 nearly

opposite	me,	and	who	expired,	I	think,	four	days	after	my	arrival	at	the	hospital.

When	 I	 spoke	 above	 of	 the	 consumptive	 patients,	 I	 was	 only	 reproducing

involuntarily	 the	 sensations	 and	 ideas	 which	 occurred	 to	 me	 on	 the	 occasion	 of this	 death.	 I	 knew	 Mikhailoff	 very	 little;	 he	 was	 a	 young	 man	 of	 twenty-five	 at most,	not	very	tall,	thin,	and	with	a	fine	face;	he	belonged	to	the	“special	section,”

and	 was	 remarkable	 for	 his	 strange,	 but	 soft	 and	 sad	 taciturnity;	 he	 seemed	 to have	 “dried	 up”	 in	 the	 convict	 prison,	 to	 use	 an	 expression	 employed	 by	 the convicts	who	had	a	good	recollection	of	him.	I	remember	he	had	very	fine	eyes.	I

really	cannot	tell	why	I	think	of	that.

He	 died	 at	 three	 o’clock	 in	 the	 afternoon	 on	 a	 clear,	 dry	 day.	 The	 sun	 was darting	its	brilliant	rays	obliquely	through	the	greenish,	frozen	panes	of	our	room.

A	torrent	of	light	inundated	the	unhappy	patient,	who	had	lost	all	consciousness,

and	was	several	hours	dying.	From	the	early	morning	his	sight	became	confused;

he	was	unable	to	recognise	those	who	approached	him.	The	convicts	would	gladly

have	 done	 anything	 to	 relieve	 him,	 for	 they	 saw	 he	 was	 in	 great	 suffering.	 His respiration	 was	 painful,	 deep,	 and	 irregular;	 his	 breast	 rose	 and	 fell	 violently,	 as though	 he	 were	 in	 want	 of	 air;	 he	 cast	 his	 blanket	 and	 his	 clothes	 far	 from	 him.

Then	he	began	to	tear	up	his	shirt,	which	seemed	to	him	a	terrible	burden.	It	was taken	 off.	 Then	 it	 was	 frightful	 to	 see	 this	 immensely	 long	 body,	 with	 fleshless arms	and	legs,	with	beating	breast,	and	ribs	which	were	as	clearly	marked	as	those

of	 a	 skeleton.	 There	 was	 nothing	 now	 on	 this	 skeleton	 but	 a	 cross	 and	 the	 irons, from	which	his	dried-up	legs	might	easily	have	freed	themselves.	A	quarter	of	an

hour	 before	 his	 death	 everything	 was	 silent	 in	 our	 ward,	 and	 the	 inmates	 spoke only	in	whispers.	The	convicts	walked	on	the	tips	of	their	toes.	From	time	to	time

they	exchanged	remarks	on	other	subjects,	and	cast	a	furtive	glance	at	the	dying

man.	 The	 rattling	 in	 his	 throat	 grew	 more	 and	 more	 painful.	 At	 last,	 with	 a trembling	 hand,	 he	 felt	 the	 cross	 on	 his	 breast	 and	 endeavoured	 to	 tear	 it	 off;	 it was	 also	 weighing	 upon	 him,	 suffocating	 him.	 It	 was	 taken	 off.	 Ten	 minutes

afterwards,	he	died.	Some	one	then	knocked	at	the	door	in	order	to	give	notice	to

the	 sentinel;	 the	 warder	 entered,	 looked	 at	 the	 dead	 man	 with	 a	 vacant	 air,	 and went	 away	 to	 get	 the	 assistant-surgeon.	 The	 assistant-surgeon	 was	 a	 good	 fellow enough,	 but	 a	 little	 too	 much	 occupied	 with	 his	 personal	 appearance,	 otherwise very	 agreeable;	 he	 soon	 arrived,	 went	 up	 to	 the	 corpse	 with	 long	 strides	 which made	 a	 noise	 in	 the	 silent	 ward,	 and	 felt	 the	 dead	 man’s	 pulse	 with	 an

unconcerned	 air	 which	 seemed	 to	 have	 been	 put	 on	 for	 the	 occasion.	 He	 then

made	a	vague	gesture	with	his	hand	and	went	out.

Information	was	given	at	the	guard-house;	for	the	criminal	was	an	important

one	(he	belonged	to	the	special	section),	and	in	order	to	register	his	death	it	was

necessary	to	go	through	some	formalities.	While	we	were	waiting	for	the	hospital

guard	 to	 come,	 one	 of	 the	 prisoners	 said	 in	 a	 whisper,	 “The	 eyes	 of	 the	 defunct might	 as	 well	 be	 closed.”	 Another	 one	 profited	 by	 this	 remark,	 and	 approaching Mikhailoff	in	silence,	closed	his	eyes;	then	perceiving	on	the	pillow	the	cross	which

had	been	taken	from	his	neck,	he	took	it	and	looked	at	it,	put	it	down,	and	crossed

himself.	The	face	of	the	dead	man	was	becoming	ossified;	a	ray	of	white	light	was

playing	 on	 the	 surface	 and	 illuminated	 two	 rows	 of	 white,	 good	 teeth	 which

sparkled	between	his	thin	lips,	glued	to	the	gums	by	the	mouth.

The	non-commissioned	officer	on	guard	arrived	at	last,	musket	on	shoulder,

helmet	 on	 head,	 accompanied	 by	 two	 soldiers;	 he	 approached	 the	 corpse,

slackening	 his	 pace	 with	 an	 air	 of	 uncertainty.	 Then	 he	 examined	 with	 a	 side glance	 the	 silent	 prisoners,	 who	 looked	 at	 him	 with	 a	 sombre	 expression.	 At	 one step	 from	 the	 dead	 man	 he	 stopped	 short,	 as	 if	 suddenly	 nailed	 to	 the	 spot;	 the naked,	 dried-up	 body,	 loaded	 with	 irons,	 had	 impressed	 him;	 he	 undid	 his	 chin-

strap,	 removed	 his	 helmet	 (which	 was	 not	 at	 all	 necessary	 for	 him	 to	 do),	 and made	the	sign	of	the	cross;	he	had	a	gray	head,	the	head	of	a	soldier	who	had	seen

much	service.	I	remember	that	by	his	side	stood	Tchekounoff,	an	old	man	who	was

also	gray.	He	looked	all	the	time	at	the	non-commissioned	officer,	and	followed	all

his	 movements	 with	 strange	 attention.	 They	 glanced	 across,	 and	 I	 saw	 that

Tchekounoff	 also	 trembled.	 He	 bit	 and	 closed	 his	 teeth,	 and	 said	 to	 the	 non-commissioned	officer,	as	if	involuntarily,	at	the	same	time	nodding	his	head	in	the

direction	of	the	dead	man,	“He	had	a	mother,	too!”

These	words	went	to	my	heart.	Why	had	he	said	them?	and	how	did	this	idea

occur	 to	 him?	 The	 corpse	 was	 raised	 with	 the	 mattress;	 the	 straw	 creaked,	 the chains	 dragged	 along	 the	 ground	 with	 a	 sharp	 ring;	 they	 were	 taken	 up	 and	 the body	 was	 carried	 out.	 Suddenly	 all	 spoke	 once	 more	 in	 a	 loud	 voice.	 The	 non-commissioned	officer	in	the	corridor	could	well	be	heard	crying	out	to	some	one	to

go	for	the	blacksmith.	It	was	necessary	to	take	the	dead	man’s	irons	off.	But	I	have

digressed	from	my	subject.





CHAPTER	2.

THE	HOSPITAL	( CONTINUED).

The	doctors	used	to	visit	the	wards	in	the	morning,	towards	eleven	o’clock;

they	appeared	all	together,	forming	a	procession,	which	was	headed	by	the

chief	 physician.	 An	 hour	 and	 a	 half	 before,	 the	 ordinary	 physician	 had

made	his	round.	He	was	a	quiet	young	man,	always	affable	and	kind,	much	liked

by	the	prisoners,	and	thoroughly	versed	in	his	art;	they	only	found	one	fault	with

him,	 that	 he	 was	 “too	 soft.”	 He	 was,	 in	 fact,	 by	 no	 means	 communicative,	 he seemed	 confused	 in	 our	 presence,	 blushed	 sometimes,	 and	 changed	 the	 quantity

of	food	at	the	first	representation	of	the	patient.	I	think	he	would	have	consented

to	give	them	any	medicine	they	desired:	in	other	respects	an	excellent	young	man.

A	 doctor	 in	 Russia	 often	 enjoys	 the	 affection	 and	 respect	 of	 the	 people,	 and with	reason,	as	far	as	I	have	been	able	to	see.	I	know	that	my	words	would	seem	a

paradox,	 above	 all	 when	 the	 mistrust	 of	 this	 same	 people	 for	 foreign	 drugs	 and foreign	 doctors	 is	 taken	 into	 account;	 in	 fact,	 they	 prefer,	 even	 when	 suffering from	a	serious	illness,	to	address	themselves	year	after	year	to	a	witch,	or	employ

old	 women’s	 remedies	 (which,	 however,	 ought	 not	 to	 be	 despised),	 rather	 than

consult	a	doctor,	or	go	into	the	hospital.	In	truth,	these	prejudices	may	be	above

all	 attributed	 to	 causes	 which	 have	 nothing	 to	 do	 with	 medicine,	 namely,	 the mistrust	 of	 the	 people	 for	 anything	 which	 bears	 an	 official	 and	 administrative character;	 nor	 must	 it	 be	 forgotten	 that	 the	 common	 people	 are	 frightened	 and prejudiced	 in	 regard	 to	 the	 hospitals,	 by	 the	 stories,	 often	 absurd,	 of	 fantastic horrors	 said	 to	 take	 place	 within	 them.	 Perhaps,	 however,	 these	 stories	 have	 a basis	of	truth.

But	 what	 repels	 them	 above	 all,	 is	 the	 Germanism	 of	 the	 hospitals,	 the	 idea that	during	their	illness	they	will	be	attended	to	by	foreigners,	the	severity	of	the

diet,	the	heartlessness	of	the	surgeons	and	doctors,	the	dissection	and	autopsy	of

the	bodies,	etc.	The	common	people	reflect,	moreover,	that	they	will	be	attended

by	 nobles—for	 in	 their	 view	 the	 doctors	 belong	 to	 the	 nobility.	 Once	 they	 have made	acquaintance	with	them	(there	are	exceptions,	no	doubt,	but	they	are	rare),

their	 fears	 vanish.	 This	 success	 must	 be	 attributed	 to	 our	 doctors,	 especially	 the young	ones,	who,	for	the	most	part,	know	how	to	gain	the	respect	and	affection	of

the	people.	I	speak	now	of	what	I	myself	have	seen	and	experienced	in	many	cases

and	 in	 different	 parts,	 and	 I	 think	 matters	 are	 the	 same	 everywhere.	 In	 some distant	 localities	 the	 doctors	 receive	 presents,	 make	 profit	 out	 of	 their	 hospitals, and	 neglect	 the	 patients;	 sometimes	 they	 forget	 even	 their	 art.	 This	 happens,	 no doubt;	 but	 I	 am	 speaking	 of	 the	 majority,	 inspired	 as	 it	 is	 by	 that	 spirit,	 that generous	tendency	which	is	regenerating	the	medical	art.	As	for	the	apostates,	the

wolves	in	the	sheep-fold,	they	may	excuse	themselves,	and	cast	the	blame	on	the

circumstances	amid	which	they	live;	but	they	are	absurd,	inexcusable,	especially	if

they	are	no	longer	humane;	it	is	precisely	the	humanity,	affability,	and	brotherly

compassion	of	the	doctor	which	prove	most	efficacious	remedies	for	the	patients.

It	is	time	to	stop	these	apathetic	lamentations	on	the	circumstances	surrounding

us.	There	may	be	truth	in	the	lament,	but	a	cunning	rogue	who	knows	how	to	take

care	of	himself	never	fails	to	blame	the	circumstances	around	him	when	he	wishes

his	faults	to	be	forgiven—above	all,	if	he	writes	or	speaks	with	eloquence.

I	 have	 again	 departed	 from	 my	 subject;	 I	 wish	 only	 to	 say	 that	 the	 common

people	 mistrust	 and	 dislike	 officialism	 and	 the	 Government	 doctors,	 rather	 than the	doctors	themselves;	but	on	personal	acquaintance	many	prejudices	disappear.

Our	doctor	generally	stopped	before	the	bed	of	each	patient,	questioned	him

seriously	 and	 attentively,	 then	 prescribed	 the	 remedies,	 potions,	 etc.	 He

sometimes	 noticed	 that	 the	 pretended	 invalid	 was	 not	 ill	 at	 all;	 he	 had	 come	 to take	 rest	 after	 his	 hard	 work,	 and	 to	 sleep	 on	 a	 mattress	 in	 a	 warm	 room,	 far preferable	 to	 the	 naked	 planks	 in	 a	 damp	 guard-house	 among	 a	 mass	 of	 pale,

broken-down	men,	waiting	for	their	trial.	In	Russia	the	prisoners	in	the	House	of

Detention	 are	 almost	 always	 broken	 down,	 which	 shows	 that	 their	 moral	 and

material	condition	is	worse	even	than	those	of	the	convicts.

In	cases	of	feigned	sickness	our	doctor	would	describe	the	patient	as	suffering

from	 febris	 catharalis,	 and	 sometimes	 allowed	 him	 to	 remain	 a	 week	 in	 the hospital.	 Every	 one	 laughed	 at	 this	 febris	 catharalis,	 for	 it	 was	 known	 to	 be	 a formula	agreed	upon	between	the	doctor	and	the	patient	to	indicate	no	malady	at

all.	Often	the	robust	invalid	who	abused	the	doctor’s	compassion	remained	in	the

hospital	 until	 he	 was	 turned	 out	 by	 force.	 Our	 doctor	 was	 worth	 seeing	 then.

Confused	by	the	prisoner’s	obstinacy,	he	did	not	like	to	tell	him	plainly	that	he	was

cured	and	offer	him	his	leaving	ticket,	although	he	had	the	right	to	send	him	away

without	the	least	explanation	on	writing	the	words, sanat.	est.	First	he	would	hint to	him	that	it	was	time	to	go,	and	then	would	beg	him	to	leave.

“You	must	go,	you	know	you	are	cured	now,	and	we	have	no	place	for	you,	we are	very	much	cramped	here,	etc.”

At	last,	ashamed	to	remain	any	longer,	the	patient	would	consent	to	go.	The

physician-inchief,	 although	 compassionate	 and	 just	 (the	 patients	 were	 much

attached	 to	 him),	 was	 incomparably	 more	 severe	 and	 more	 decided	 than	 our

ordinary	 physician.	 In	 certain	 cases	 he	 showed	 merciless	 severity	 which	 only

gained	 for	 him	 the	 respect	 of	 the	 convicts.	 He	 always	 came	 into	 the	 room

accompanied	by	all	the	doctors	of	the	hospital,	when	his	assistants	visited	all	the

beds	 and	 diagnosed	 on	 each	 particular	 case;	 he	 stopped	 longest	 at	 the	 beds	 of those	 who	 were	 seriously	 ill,	 and	 had	 an	 encouraging	 word	 for	 them.	 He	 never sent	back	the	convicts	who	arrived	with	 febris	catharalis;	but	if	one	of	them	was determined	 to	 remain	 in	 the	 hospital,	 he	 certified	 that	 the	 man	 was	 cured.

“Come,”	 he	 would	 say,	 “you	 have	 had	 your	 rest;	 now	 go,	 you	 must	 not	 take

liberties.”

Those	 who	 insisted	 upon	 remaining,	 were,	 above	 all,	 the	 convicts	 who	 were

worn	 out	 by	 field	 labour,	 performed	 during	 the	 great	 summer	 heat,	 or	 prisoners who	had	been	sentenced	to	be	whipped.	I	remember	that	they	were	obliged	to	be

particularly	severe,	merely	in	order	to	get	rid	of	one	of	them.	He	had	come	to	be

cured	 of	 some	 disease	 of	 the	 eyes,	 which	 were	 red	 all	 over;	 he	 complained	 of suffering	a	sharp	pain	in	the	eyelids.	He	was	incurable;	plasters,	blisters,	leeches,

nothing	 did	 him	 any	 good;	 and	 the	 diseased	 organ	 remained	 in	 the	 same

condition.

Then	 it	 occurred	 to	 the	 doctors	 that	 the	 illness	 was	 feigned,	 for	 the

inflammation	neither	became	worse	nor	better;	and	they	soon	understood	that	a

comedy	was	being	played,	although	the	patient	would	not	admit	it.	He	was	a	fine

young	fellow,	not	ill-looking,	though	he	produced	a	disagreeable	impression	upon

all	 his	 companions;	 he	 was	 suspicious,	 sombre,	 full	 of	 dissimulation,	 and	 never looked	any	one	straight	in	the	face;	he	also	kept	himself	apart	as	if	he	mistrusted

us	 all.	 I	 remember	 that	 many	 persons	 were	 afraid	 that	 he	 would	 do	 some	 one harm.

When	 he	 was	 a	 soldier	 he	 had	 committed	 some	 small	 theft,	 he	 had	 been

arrested	 and	 condemned	 to	 receive	 a	 thousand	 strokes,	 and	 afterwards	 to	 pass

into	a	disciplinary	company.

To	put	off	the	moment	of	punishment,	the	prisoners,	as	I	have	already	said,

will	do	incredible	things.	On	the	eve	of	the	fatal	day,	they	will	stick	a	knife	into	one of	 their	 chiefs,	 or	 into	 a	 comrade,	 in	 order	 that	 they	 may	 be	 tried	 again	 for	 this new	 offence,	 which	 will	 delay	 their	 punishment	 for	 a	 month	 or	 two.	 It	 matters little	to	them	that	their	punishment	be	doubled	or	tripled,	if	they	can	escape	this

time.	 What	 they	 desire	 is	 to	 put	 off	 temporarily	 the	 terrible	 minute	 at	 whatever cost,	so	utterly	does	their	heart	fail	them.

Many	of	the	patients	thought	the	man	with	the	sore	eyes	ought	to	be	watched,

lest	 in	 his	 despair	 he	 should	 assassinate	 some	 one	 during	 the	 night;	 but	 no precaution	was	taken,	not	even	by	those	who	slept	next	to	him.	It	was	remarked,

however,	that	he	rubbed	his	eyes	with	plaster	from	the	wall,	and	with	something

else	besides,	in	order	that	they	might	appear	red	when	the	doctor	came	round;	at

last	the	doctor-inchief	threatened	to	cure	him	by-means	of	a	seton.

When	the	malady	resists	all	ordinary	treatment,	the	doctors	determine	to	try

some	heroic,	however	painful,	remedy.	But	the	poor	devil	did	not	wish	to	get	well,

he	 was	 either	 too	 obstinate	 or	 too	 cowardly;	 for,	 however	 painful	 the	 proposed operation	may	be,	it	cannot	be	compared	to	the	punishment	of	the	rods.

The	operation	consists	in	seizing	the	patient	by	the	nape	of	the	neck,	taking

up	 the	 skin,	 drawing	 it	 back	 as	 much	 as	 possible,	 and	 making	 in	 it	 a	 double incision,	 through	 which	 is	 passed	 a	 skein	 of	 cotton	 about	 as	 thick	 as	 the	 finger.

Every	day	at	a	fixed	hour	this	skein	is	pulled	backwards	and	forwards	in	order	that

the	 wound	 may	 continually	 suppurate	 and	 may	 not	 heal;	 the	 poor	 devil	 endured this	torture	which	caused	him	horrible	suffering,	for	several	days.

At	last	he	consented	to	quit	the	hospital.	In	less	than	a	day	his	eyes	became

quite	 well;	 and,	 as	 soon	 as	 his	 neck	 was	 healed,	 he	 was	 sent	 to	 the	 guard-house which	he	left	next	day	to	receive	the	first	thousand	strokes.

Painful	 is	 the	 minute	 which	 precedes	 such	 a	 punishment;	 so	 painful,	 that

perhaps	I	am	wrong	in	taxing	with	cowardice	those	convicts	who	fear	it.

It	 must	 be	 terrible;	 for	 the	 convicts	 to	 risk	 a	 double	 or	 triple	 punishment, merely	to	postpone	it.	I	have	spoken,	however,	of	convicts	who	have	thus	wished

to	quit	the	hospital	before	the	wounds	caused	by	the	first	part	of	the	flogging	were

healed,	in	order	to	receive	the	last	part	and	make	an	end	of	it.	For	life	in	a	guard-

room	is	certainly	worse	than	in	a	convict	prison.

The	 habit	 of	 receiving	 floggings	 helps	 in	 some	 cases	 to	 give	 intrepidity	 and

decision	 to	 convicts.	 Those	 who	 have	 been	 often	 flogged,	 are	 hardened	 both	 in body	 and	 mind,	 and	 have	 at	 last	 looked	 upon	 such	 a	 punishment	 as	 merely	 a

disagreeable	incident	no	longer	to	be	feared.

One	 of	 our	 convicts	 of	 the	 special	 section	 was	 a	 converted	 Tartar,	 who	 was

named	Alexander,	or	Alexandrina,	as	they	called	him	in	fun	at	the	convict	prison;

who	 told	 me	 how	 he	 had	 received	 4,000	 strokes.	 He	 never	 spoke	 of	 this

punishment	 except	 with	 amusement	 and	 laughter;	 but	 he	 swore	 very	 seriously

that	if	he	had	not	been	brought	up	in	his	horde,	from	his	most	tender	infancy,	on

whipping	 and	 flogging—and	 as	 the	 scars	 which	 covered	 his	 back,	 and	 which

refused	 to	 disappear,	 were	 there	 to	 testify—he	 would	 never	 have	 been	 able	 to support	 those	 4,000	 strokes.	 He	 blessed	 the	 education	 of	 sticks	 that	 he	 had

received.

“I	was	beaten	for	the	least	thing,	Alexander	Petrovitch,”	he	said	one	evening,

when	we	were	sitting	down	before	the	fire.	“I	was	beaten	without	reason	for	fifteen

years,	as	long	as	I	can	ever	remember,	and	several	times	a	day.	Any	one	who	liked

beat	me;	so	that,	at	last,	it	made	no	impression	upon	me.”

I	 do	 not	 know	 how	 it	 was	 he	 became	 a	 soldier,	 for	 perhaps	 he	 lied,	 and	 had always	 been	 a	 deserter	 and	 vagabond.	 But	 I	 remember	 his	 telling	 me	 one	 day	 of the	fright	he	was	seized	with	when	he	was	condemned	to	receive	4,000	strokes	for

having	killed	one	of	his	officers.

“I	 know	 that	 they	 will	 punish	 me	 severely,”	 he	 said	 to	 himself,	 “that,

accustomed	 as	 I	 am	 to	 be	 whipped,	 I	 shall	 perhaps	 die	 on	 the	 spot.	 The	 devil!

4,000	strokes	is	not	a	trifle;	and	then	all	my	officers	were	in	a	fearful	temper	with

me	on	account	of	this	affair.	I	knew	well	that	it	would	not	be	‘rose-water.’	I	even

believed	that	I	should	die	under	the	rods.	I	determined	to	get	baptized.	I	said	to

myself,	that	perhaps	they	would	not	then	flog	me,	at	any	rate	it	was	worth	trying,

my	comrades	had	told	me	that	it	would	be	of	no	good.	But,’	I	said	to	myself,	‘who

knows?	 perhaps	 they	 will	 pardon	 me,	 they	 will	 have	 more	 compassion	 on	 a

Christian	 than	 on	 a	 Mohammedan.	 They	 baptized	 me,	 and	 give	 me	 the	 name	 of

Alexander;	but,	in	spite	of	that,	I	had	to	take	my	flogging;	they	did	not	let	me	off	a

single	stroke;	I	was,	however,	very	savage.	‘Wait	a	bit,’	I	said	to	myself,	‘and	I	will

take	you	all	in’;	and,	would	you	believe	it,	Alexander?	I	did	take	them	all	in.	I	knew

how	 to	 look	 like	 a	 dead	 man;	 not	 that	 I	 appeared	 altogether	 without	 life,	 but	 I looked	as	if	I	were	on	the	point	of	breathing	my	last.	They	led	me	in	front	of	the

battalion	to	receive	my	first	thousand;	my	skin	was	burning,	I	began	to	howl.	They gave	me	my	second	thousand,	and	I	said	to	myself,	‘It’s	all	over	now.’	I	had	lost	my

head,	my	legs	seemed	broken,	so	I	fell	to	the	ground,	with	the	eyes	of	a	dead	man.

My	face	blue,	my	mouth	full	of	froth,	I	no	longer	breathed.	When	the	doctor	came

he	 said	 I	 was	 on	 the	 point	 of	 death.	 I	 was	 carried	 to	 the	 hospital,	 and	 at	 once returned	 to	 life.	 Twice	 again	 they	 flogged	 me.	 What	 a	 rage	 they	 were	 in!	 I	 took them	all	in	on	each	occasion.	I	received	my	third	thousand,	and	died	again.	On	my

word,	when	they	gave	me	the	last	thousand	each	stroke	ought	to	have	counted	for

three,	 it	 was	 like	 a	 knife	 in	 my	 heart.	 Oh,	 how	 they	 did	 beat	 me!	 They	 were	 so severe	with	me.	Oh,	that	cursed	fourth	thousand!	it	was	well	worth	three	firsts	put

together.	If	I	had	pretended	to	be	dead	when	I	had	still	200	to	receive,	I	think	they

would	have	finished	me;	but	they	did	not	get	the	better	of	me.	I	had	them	again

and	 again,	 for	 they	 always	 thought	 it	 was	 all	 over	 with	 me,	 and	 how	 could	 they have	thought	otherwise?	The	doctor	was	sure	of	it.	But	as	for	the	200	which	I	had

still	 to	 receive,	 they	 might	 have	 struck	 as	 hard	 as	 they	 liked—they	 were	 worth 2,000;	 I	 only	 laughed	 at	 them.	 Why?	 Because,	 when	 I	 was	 a	 youngster,	 I	 had grown	up	under	the	whip.	Well,	I	am	well,	and	alive	now;	but	I	have	been	beaten

in	the	course	of	my	life,”	he	repeated,	with	a	passive	air,	as	he	brought	his	story	to

an	 end.	 As	 he	 did	 so,	 he	 seemed	 to	 recollect	 and	 count	 anew	 the	 blows	 he	 had received.

After	 a	 brief	 silence,	 he	 said:	 “I	 cannot	 count	 them,	 nor	 can	 any	 one	 else; there	are	not	figures	enough.”	He	looked	at	me,	and	burst	into	a	laugh,	so	simple

and	natural,	that	I	could	not	help	smiling	in	return.

“Do	you	know,	Alexander	Petrovitch,	when	I	dream	at	night,	I	always	dream

that	I	am	being	flogged.	I	dream	of	nothing	else.”	He,	in	fact,	talked	in	his	sleep,

and	woke	up	the	other	prisoners.

“What	are	you	yelling	about,	you	demon?”	they	would	say	to	him.

This	 strong,	 robust	 fellow,	 short	 in	 stature,	 about	 forty-four	 years	 of	 age,

active,	good-looking,	lived	on	good	terms	with	every	one,	though	he	was	very	fond

of	taking	what	did	not	belong	to	him,	and	afterwards	got	beaten	for	it.	But	each	of

our	convicts	who	stole	got	beaten	for	their	thefts.

I	 will	 add	 to	 these	 remarks	 that	 I	 was	 always	 surprised	 at	 the	 extraordinary good-nature,	the	absence	of	rancour	with	which	these	unhappy	men	spoke	of	their

punishment,	and	of	the	chiefs	superintending	it.	In	these	stories,	which	often	gave

me	palpitation	of	the	heart,	not	a	shadow	of	hatred	or	rancour	could	be	detected; they	laughed	at	what	they	had	suffered	like	children.

It	 was	 not	 the	 same,	 however,	 with	 M—tçki,	 when	 he	 told	 me	 of	 his

punishment.	As	he	was	not	a	noble,	he	had	been	sentenced	to	be	flogged.	He	had

never	 spoken	 to	 me	 of	 it,	 and	 when	 I	 asked	 him	 if	 it	 were	 true,	 he	 replied affirmatively	in	two	brief	words,	but	with	evident	suffering,	and	without	looking	at

me.	 He	 at	 the	 same	 time	 turned	 red,	 and	 when	 he	 raised	 his	 eyes,	 I	 saw	 flames burning	in	them,	while	his	lips	trembled	with	indignation.	I	felt	that	he	would	not

forget,	 that	 he	 could	 never	 forget	 this	 page	 of	 his	 history.	 Our	 companions

generally	 on	 the	 other	 hand	 (though	 theirs	 might	 have	 been	 exceptions),	 looked upon	 their	 adventures	 with	 quite	 another	 eye.	 It	 is	 impossible,	 I	 sometimes

thought,	that	they	can	be	conscious	of	their	guilt,	and	not	acknowledge	the	justice

of	their	punishment;	above	all,	when	their	offences	were	against	their	companions

and	 not	 against	 some	 chief.	 The	 greater	 part	 of	 them	 did	 not	 acknowledge	 their guilt.	 I	 have	 already	 said	 that	 I	 never	 observed	 in	 them	 the	 least	 remorse,	 even when	the	crime	had	been	committed	against	people	of	their	own	station.	As	for	the

crimes	committed	against	a	chief,	they	did	not	even	speak	of	them.	It	seems	to	me

that	for	those	cases,	they	had	special	views	of	their	own.	They	looked	upon	them

as	 accidents	 caused	 by	 destiny,	 by	 fatality,	 into	 which	 they	 had	 fallen

unconsciously	 as	 the	 result	 of	 some	 extraordinary	 impulse.	 The	 convict	 always

justifies	the	crimes	he	has	committed	against	his	chief;	he	does	not	trouble	himself

about	 the	 matter.	 But	 he	 admits	 that	 the	 chief	 cannot	 share	 his	 view,	 and

consequently,	that	he	must	naturally	be	punished,	and	then	he	will	be	quits	with

him.

The	 struggle	 between	 the	 administration	 and	 the	 prisoner	 is	 of	 the	 severest

character	on	both	sides.	What	in	a	great	measure	justifies	the	criminal	in	his	own

eyes,	 is	 his	 conviction	 that	 the	 people	 among	 whom	 he	 has	 been	 born	 and	 has lived	will	acquit	him.	He	is	certain	that	the	common	people	will	not	look	upon	him

as	a	lost	man,	unless,	indeed,	his	crime	has	bean	committed	against	persons	of	his

own	 class,	 against	 his	 brethren.	 He	 is	 quite	 calm	 about	 that;	 supported	 by	 his conscience,	he	will	not	lose	his	moral	tranquillity,	and	that	is	the	principal	thing.

He	feels	himself	on	firm	ground,	and	has	no	particular	hatred	for	the	knout,	when

once	 it	 has	 been	 administered	 to	 him.	 He	 knows	 that	 it	 was	 inevitable,	 and

consoles	himself	by	thinking	that	he	was	neither	the	first	nor	the	last	to	receive	it.

Does	 the	 soldier	 detest	 the	 Turk	 whom	 he	 fights?	 Not	 in	 the	 least!	 yet	 he	 sabres

him,	hacks	him	to	pieces,	kills	him.

It	 must	 not	 be	 thought,	 moreover,	 that	 all	 of	 these	 stories	 were	 told	 with

indifference	and	in	cold	blood.

When	 the	 name	 of	 Jerebiatnikof	 was	 mentioned,	 it	 was	 always	 with

indignation.	 I	 made	 the	 acquaintance	 of	 this	 officer	 during	 my	 first	 stay	 in	 the hospital—only	 by	 the	 convicts’	 stories,	 it	 must	 be	 understood.	 I	 afterwards	 saw him	 one	 day	 when	 he	 was	 commanding	 the	 guard	 at	 the	 convict	 prison;	 he	 was about	thirty	years	old,	very	stout	and	very	strong,	with	red	cheeks	hanging	down

on	each	side,	white	teeth,	and	a	formidable	laugh.	One	could	see	in	a	moment	that

he	 was	 in	 no	 way	 given	 to	 reflection.	 He	 took	 the	 greatest	 pleasure	 in	 whipping and	 flogging,	 when	 he	 had	 to	 superintend	 the	 punishment.	 I	 must	 hasten	 to	 say that	 the	 other	 officers	 looked	 upon	 Jerebiatnikof	 as	 a	 monster,	 and	 the	 convicts did	the	same.	This	was	in	the	good	old	time,	which	is	not	very	very	far	off,	but	in

which	 it	 is	 already	 difficult	 to	 believe	 executioners	 delighted	 in	 their	 office.	 But, generally	speaking,	the	strokes	were	administered	without	enthusiasm.

This	lieutenant	was	an	exception,	and	he	took	a	real	pleasure	and	delight	in

punishment.	He	had	a	passion	for	it,	and	liked	it	for	its	own	sake;	he	looked	to	this

art	for	unnatural	delights	in	order	to	tickle	and	excite	his	base	soul.	A	prisoner	is

conducted	to	the	place	of	punishment.	Jerebiatnikof	is	the	officer	superintending

the	execution.	Arranging	a	long	line	of	soldiers,	armed	with	heavy	rods,	he	walks

along	 the	 front	 with	 a	 satisfied	 air,	 and	 encourages	 each	 one	 to	 do	 his	 duty, conscientiously	 or	 otherwise—the	 soldiers	 know	 before	 what	 “otherwise”	 means.

The	criminal	is	brought	out.	If	he	does	not	yet	know	Jerebiatnikof,	if	he	is	not	in

the	secret	of	the	mystery,	the	Lieutenant	plays	him	the	following	trick—one	of	the

inventions	 of	 Jerebiatnikof,	 very	 ingenious	 in	 this	 style	 of	 thing.	 The	 prisoner, whose	 back	 has	 been	 bared,	 and	 whom	 the	 non-commissioned	 officers	 have

fastened	to	the	butt	end	of	a	musket	in	order	to	drag	him	afterwards	through	the

whole	length	of	the	“Green	Street.”	He	begs	the	officer	in	charge,	with	a	plaintive

and	tearful	voice,	not	to	have	him	struck	too	hard,	not	to	double	the	punishment

by	any	undue	severity.

“Your	 nobility!”	 cries	 the	 unhappy	 wretch,	 “have	 pity	 on	 me,	 treat	 me

fraternally,	so	that	I	may	pray	God	throughout	my	life	for	you.	Do	not	destroy	me,

show	mercy!”

Jerebiatnikof	 had	 waited	 for	 this.	 He	 now	 suspended	 the	 execution,	 and

engaged	 the	 prisoner	 in	 conversation,	 speaking	 to	 him	 in	 a	 sentimental, compassionate	tone.

“But,	 my	 good	 fellow,”	 he	 would	 say,	 “what	 am	 I	 to	 do?	 It	 is	 the	 law	 that punishes	you—it	is	the	law.”

“Your	nobility!	You	can	make	it	everything;	have	pity	upon	me.”

“Do	 you	 really	 think	 that	 I	 have	 no	 pity	 on	 you?	 Do	 you	 think	 it	 is	 any

pleasure	to	me	to	see	you	whipped?	I	am	a	man,	am	I	not?	Answer	me,	am	I	not	a

man?”

“Certainly,	 your	 nobility.	 We	 know	 that	 the	 officers	 are	 our	 fathers	 and	 we

their	children.	Be	to	me	a	venerable	father,”	the	prisoner	would	cry,	seeing	some

possibility	of	escaping	punishment.

“Then,	my	friend,	judge	for	yourself.	You	have	a	brain	to	think	with,	you	know

I	am	human,	I	ought	to	take	compassion	on	you,	sinner	though	you	be.”

“Your	nobility	says	the	absolute	truth.”

“Yes,	I	ought	to	be	merciful	to	you	however	guilty	you	may	be.	But	it	is	not	I

who	 punish	 you,	 it	 is	 the	 law.	 I	 serve	 God	 and	 my	 country,	 and	 consequently	 I commit	 a	 grave	 sin	 if	 I	 mitigate	 the	 punishment	 fixed	 by	 the	 law.	 Only	 think	 of that!”

“Your	nobility!”

“Well,	what	am	I	to	do?	Only	think,	I	know	that	I	am	doing	wrong,	but	it	shall

be	as	you	wish;	I	will	have	mercy	upon	you,	you	shall	be	punished	lightly.	But	if	I

really	 do	 this	 on	 one	 occasion,	 if	 I	 show	 mercy,	 if	 I	 punish	 you	 lightly,	 you	 will think	 that	 at	 another	 time	 I	 shall	 be	 merciful,	 and	 you	 will	 recommence	 your follies.	What	do	you	say	to	that?”

“Your	nobility,	preserve	me!	Before	the	throne	of	the	heavenly	Creator,	I——”

“No,	no;	you	swear	that	you	will	behave	yourself.”

“May	the	Lord	cause	me	to	die	this	moment	and	in	the	next	world.”

“Do	 not	 swear	 in	 that	 way,	 it	 is	 a	 sin;	 I	 shall	 believe	 you	 if	 you	 will	 give	 me your	word.”

“Your	nobility.”

“Well,	listen,	I	will	have	mercy	on	you	on	account	of	your	tears,	your	orphan’s tears,	for	you	are	an	orphan,	are	you	not?”

“Orphan	on	both	sides,	your	nobility,	I	am	alone	in	the	world.”

“Well,	 on	 account	 of	 your	 orphan’s	 tears	 I	 have	 pity	 on	 you,”	 he	 added,	 in	 a voice	 so	 full	 of	 emotion,	 that	 the	 prisoner	 could	 not	 sufficiently	 thank	 God	 for having	sent	him	so	good	an	officer.

The	procession	went	out,	the	drum	rolled,	the	soldiers	brandished	their	arms.

“Flog	him,”	Jerebiatnikof	would	roar	from	the	bottom	of	his	lungs,	“flog	him!	burn

him!	skin	him	alive!	Harder!	harder!	Give	it	harder	to	this	orphan!	Give	it	him,	the

rogue.”

The	soldiers	lay	on	the	strokes	with	all	their	might	on	the	back	of	the	unhappy

wretch,	whose	eyes	dart	fire,	and	who	howls	while	Jerebiatnikof	runs	after	him	in

front	of	the	line,	holding	his	sides	with	laughter—he	puffs	and	blows	so	that	he	can

scarcely	hold	himself	upright.	He	is	happy.	He	thinks	it	droll.	From	time	to	time

his	 formidable	 resonant	 laugh	 is	 heard,	 as	 he	 keeps	 on	 repeating,	 “Flog	 him!

thrash	him!	this	brigand!	this	orphan!”

He	had	composed	variation	on	this	motive.	The	prisoner	has	been	brought	to

undergo	 his	 punishment.	 He	 begs	 the	 lieutenant	 to	 have	 pity	 on	 him.	 This	 time Jerebiatnikof	does	not	play	the	hypocrite;	he	is	frank	with	the	prisoner.

“Look,	my	dear	fellow,	I	will	punish	you	as	you	deserve,	but	I	can	show	you

one	act	of	mercy.	I	will	not	attach	you	to	the	butt	end	of	the	musket,	you	shall	go

along	in	a	new	style,	you	have	only	to	run	as	hard	as	you	can	along	the	front,	each

rod	will	strike	you	as	a	matter	of	course,	but	it	will	be	over	sooner.	What	do	you

say	to	that,	will	you	try?”

The	 prisoner,	 who	 has	 listened,	 full	 of	 mistrust	 and	 doubt,	 says	 to	 himself: Perhaps	this	way	will	not	be	so	bad	as	the	other.	If	I	run	with	all	my	might,	it	will

not	last	quite	so	long,	and	perhaps	all	the	rods	will	not	touch	me.

“Well,	your	nobility,	I	consent.”

“I	 also	 consent.	 Come,	 mind	 your	 business,”	 cries	 the	 lieutenant	 to	 the

soldiers.	 He	 knew	 beforehand	 that	 not	 one	 rod	 would	 spare	 the	 back	 of	 the

unfortunate	wretch;	the	soldier	who	failed	to	hit	him	would	know	what	to	expect.

The	convict	tries	to	run	along	the	“Green	Street,”	but	he	does	not	go	beyond

fifteen	 men	 before	 the	 rods	 rain	 upon	 his	 poor	 spine	 like	 hail;	 so	 that	 the unfortunate	man	shrieks	out,	and	falls	as	if	he	had	been	struck	by	a	bullet.

“No,	 your	 nobility,	 I	 prefer	 to	 be	 flogged	 in	 the	 ordinary	 way,”	 he	 says,

managing	 to	 get	 up,	 pale	 and	 frightened.	 While	 Jerebiatnikof,	 who	 knew

beforehand	how	this	affair	would	end,	held	his	sides	and	burst	into	a	laugh.

But	 I	 cannot	 relate	 all	 the	 diversions	 invented	 by	 him,	 and	 all	 that	 was	 told about	him.

My	 companions	 also	 spoke	 of	 a	 Lieutenant	 Smekaloff,	 who	 fulfilled	 the

functions	of	Commandant	before	the	arrival	of	our	present	Major.	They	spoke	of

Jerebiatnikof	with	indifference,	without	hatred,	but	also	without	exalting	his	high

achievements.	 They	 did	 not	 praise	 him,	 they	 simply	 despised	 him,	 whilst	 at	 the name	 of	 Smekaloff	 the	 whole	 prison	 burst	 into	 a	 chorus	 of	 laudation.	 The

Lieutenant	was	by	no	means	fond	of	administering	the	rods;	there	was	nothing	in

him	 of	 Jerebiatnikof’s	 disposition.	 How	 did	 it	 happen	 that	 the	 convicts

remembered	 his	 punishments,	 severe	 as	 they	 were,	 with	 sweet	 satisfaction.	 How

did	 he	 manage	 to	 please	 them.	 How	 did	 he	 gain	 the	 popularity	 he	 certainly

enjoyed?

Our	 companions,	 like	 Russian	 people	 in	 general,	 were	 ready	 to	 forget	 their

tortures	 if	 a	 kind	 word	 was	 said	 to	 them;	 I	 speak	 of	 the	 effect	 itself	 without analysing	or	examining	it.	It	is	not	difficult,	then,	to	gain	the	affections	of	such	a

people	 and	 become	 popular.	 Lieutenant	 Smekaloff	 had	 gained	 such	 popularity,

and	 when	 the	 punishments	 he	 had	 directed	 were	 spoken	 of,	 they	 were	 always

mentioned	with	a	certain	sympathy.

“He	 was	 as	 kind	 as	 a	 father,”	 the	 convicts	 would	 sometimes	 say,	 as,	 with	 a sigh,	 they	 compared	 him	 with	 their	 present	 chief,	 the	 Major	 who	 had	 replaced him.

He	 was	 a	 simple-minded	 man,	 and	 kind	 in	 a	 manner.	 There	 are	 chiefs	 who

are	 naturally	 kind	 and	 merciful,	 but	 who	 are	 not	 at	 all	 liked	 and	 are	 laughed	 at; whereas,	Smekaloff	had	so	managed	that	all	the	prisoners	had	a	special	regard	for

him;	 this	 was	 due	 to	 innate	 qualities,	 which	 those	 who	 possess	 them	 do	 not

understand.	Strange	thing!	There	are	men	who	are	far	from	being	kind,	and	who

have	yet	the	talent	of	making	themselves	popular;	they	do	not	despise	the	people

who	are	beneath	their	rule.	That,	I	think,	is	the	cause	of	this	popularity.	They	do

not	give	themselves	lordly	airs;	they	have	no	feeling	of	“caste;”	they	have	a	certain odour	 of	 the	 people;	 they	 are	 men	 of	 birth,	 and	 the	 people	 at	 once	 sniff	 it.	 They will	 do	 anything	 for	 such	 men;	 they	 will	 gladly	 change	 the	 mildest	 and	 most humane	man	for	a	very	severe	chief,	if	the	latter	possesses	this	sort	of	odour,	and

especially	if	the	man	is	also	genial	in	his	way.	Oh!	then	he	is	beyond	price.

Lieutenant	 Smekaloff,	 as	 I	 have	 said,	 ordered	 sometimes	 very	 severe

punishments.	But	he	seemed	to	inflict	them	in	such	a	way,	that	the	prisoners	felt

no	 rancour	 against	 him.	 On	 the	 contrary,	 they	 recalled	 his	 whipping	 affairs	 with laughter;	he	did	not	punish	frequently,	for	he	had	no	artistic	imagination.	He	had

invented	only	one	practical	joke,	a	single	one	which	amused	him	for	nearly	a	year

in	our	convict	prison.	This	joke	was	dear	to	him,	probably,	because	it	was	his	only

one,	and	it	was	not	without	humour.

Smekaloff	assisted	himself	at	the	executions,	joking	all	the	time,	and	laughing

at	the	prisoner	as	he	questioned	him	about	the	most	out-of-the-way	things,	such,

for	instance,	as	his	private	affairs.	He	did	this	without	any	bad	motive,	and	simply

because	he	really	wished	to	know	something	about	the	man’s	affairs.	A	chair	was

brought	 to	 him,	 together	 with	 the	 rods	 which	 were	 to	 be	 used	 for	 chastising	 the prisoner.	 The	 Lieutenant	 sat	 down	 and	 lighted	 his	 long	 pipe;	 the	 prisoner

implored	him.

“No,	comrade,	lie	down.	What	is	the	matter	with	you?”

The	convict	stretched	himself	on	the	ground	with	a	sigh.

“Can	you	read	fluently?”

“Of	course,	your	nobility;	I	am	baptized,	and	I	was	taught	to	read	when	I	was

a	child.”

“Then	read	this.”

The	convict	knows	beforehand	what	he	is	to	read,	and	knows	how	the	reading

will	 end,	 because	 this	 joke	 has	 been	 repeated	 more	 than	 thirty	 times;	 but

Smekaloff	 knows	 also	 that	 the	 convict	 is	 not	 his	 dupe	 any	 more	 than	 the	 soldier who	 now	 holds	 the	 rods	 suspended	 over	 the	 back	 of	 the	 unhappy	 victim.	 The

convict	 begins	 to	 read;	 the	 soldiers	 armed	 with	 the	 rods	 await	 motionless.

Smekaloff	ceases	even	to	smoke,	raises	his	hand,	and	waits	for	a	word	fixed	upon

beforehand.	At	the	word,	which	from	some	double	meaning	might	be	interpreted

as	the	order	to	start,	the	Lieutenant	raises	his	hand,	and	the	flogging	begins.	The

officer	bursts	into	a	laugh,	and	the	soldiers	around	him	also	laugh;	the	man	who	is whipping	laughs,	and	the	man	who	is	being	whipped	also.





CHAPTER	3.

THE	HOSPITAL4	( CONTINUED).

Ihave	spoken	here	of	punishments	and	of	those	who	have	administered	them,

because	I	got	a	very	clear	idea	on	the	subject	during	my	stay	in	the	hospital.

Until	then	I	knew	of	them	only	by	general	report.	In	our	room	were	confined

all	the	prisoners	from	the	battalion	who	were	to	receive	the	spitzruten	rods,	as	well

as	 those	 from	 the	 military	 establishment	 in	 our	 town	 and	 in	 the	 district

surrounding	it.

During	my	first	few	days	I	looked	at	all	that	surrounded	me	with	such	greedy

eyes	 that	 these	 strange	 manners,	 these	 men	 who	 had	 just	 been	 flogged	 or	 were about	to	be	flogged,	left	upon	me	a	terrible	impression.	I	was	agitated,	frightened.

As	I	listened	to	the	conversation	or	narratives	of	the	other	prisoners	on	this

subject,	I	put	to	myself	questions	which	I	endeavoured	in	vain	to	solve.	I	wished	to

know	all	the	degrees	of	the	sentences;	the	punishments,	and	their	shades;	and	to

learn	 the	 opinion	 of	 the	 convicts	 themselves.	 I	 tried	 to	 represent	 to	 myself	 the psychological	condition	of	the	men	flogged.

It	 rarely	 happened,	 as	 I	 have	 already	 said,	 that	 the	 prisoner	 approached	 the fatal	moment	in	cold	blood,	even	if	he	had	been	beaten	several	times	before.	The

condemned	man	experiences	a	fear	which	is	very	terrible,	but	purely	physical—an

unconscious	fear	which	upsets	his	moral	nature.

During	 my	 several	 years’	 stay	 in	 the	 convict	 prison	 I	 was	 able	 to	 study	 at leisure	the	prisoners	who	wished	to	leave	the	hospital,	where	they	had	remained

some	time	to	have	their	damaged	backs	cured	before	receiving	the	second	half	of

their	punishment.	This	interruption	in	the	punishment	is	always	called	for	by	the

doctor	who	assists	at	the	execution.

If	 the	 number	 of	 strokes	 to	 be	 received	 is	 too	 great	 for	 them	 to	 be

administered	all	at	once,	it	is	divided	according	to	advice	given	by	the	doctor	on

the	spot.	It	is	for	him	to	see	if	the	prisoner	is	in	a	condition	to	undergo	the	whole

of	his	punishment,	or	if	his	life	is	in	danger.

Five	 hundred,	 one	 thousand,	 and	 even	 one	 thousand	 five	 hundred	 strokes

with	 the	 stick	 are	 administered	 at	 once.	 But	 if	 it	 is	 two	 or	 three	 thousand	 the

punishment	is	divided	into	two	or	three	doses.

Those	whose	back	had	been	cured	after	the	first	administration,	and	who	are

to	undergo	a	second,	were	sad,	sombre	and	silent	the	day	they	went	out,	and	the

evening	 before.	 They	 were	 almost	 in	 a	 state	 of	 torpor.	 They	 engaged	 in	 no

conversation,	and	remained	perfectly	silent.

It	 is	 worthy	 of	 remark	 that	 the	 prisoners	 avoid	 addressing	 those	 who	 are

about	 to	 be	 punished,	 and,	 above	 all,	 never	 make	 any	 allusion	 to	 the	 subject, neither	in	consolation	nor	in	superfluous	words.	No	attention	whatever	is	paid	to

them,	which	is	certainly	the	best	thing	for	the	prisoner.

There	are	exceptions,	however.

The	 convict	 Orloff,	 of	 whom	 I	 have	 already	 spoken,	 was	 sorry	 that	 his	 back

did	not	get	more	quickly	cured,	for	he	was	anxious	to	get	his	leave-ticket	in	order

that	 he	 might	 take	 the	 rest	 of	 his	 flogging,	 and	 then	 be	 assigned	 to	 a	 convoy	 of prisoners,	 when	 he	 meant	 to	 escape	 during	 the	 journey.	 He	 had	 a	 passionate,

ardent	nature,	and	with	only	that	object	in	view.

A	cunning	rascal,	he	seemed	very	pleased	when	he	first	came;	but	he	was	in	a

state	of	abnormal	excitement,	though	he	endeavoured	to	conceal	it.	He	had	been

afraid	 of	 being	 left	 on	 the	 ground,	 and	 dying	 before	 half	 of	 his	 punishment	 had been	undergone.	He	had	heard	steps	taken	in	his	case,	by	the	authorities,	when	he

was	 still	 being	 tried,	 and	 he	 thought	 he	 could	 not	 survive	 the	 punishment.	 But when	he	had	received	his	first	dose	he	recovered	his	courage.

When	 he	 came	 to	 the	 hospital	 I	 had	 never	 seen	 such	 wounds	 as	 his;	 but	 he

was	 in	 the	 best	 spirits.	 He	 now	 hoped	 to	 be	 able	 to	 live.	 The	 stories	 which	 had reached	him	were	untrue,	or	the	execution	would	not	have	been	interrupted.

He	 now	 began	 to	 think	 of	 a	 long	 Siberian	 journey,	 possibly	 of	 escaping	 to

liberty,	fields,	and	forests.

Two	days	after	he	had	left	the	hospital	he	came	back	to	die—on	the	very	couch

which	he	had	occupied	during	my	stay	there.

He	had	been	unable	to	support	the	second	half	of	his	punishment;	but	I	have

already	spoken	of	this	man.

All	the	prisoners	without	exception,	even	the	most	pusillanimous,	even	those

who	were	beforehand	tormented	night	and	day,	supported	it	courageously	when	it

came.	 I	 scarcely	 ever	 heard	 groans	 during	 the	 night	 following	 the	 execution;	 our people,	as	a	rule,	knew	how	to	endure	pain.

I	questioned	my	companion	often	in	reference	to	this	pain,	that	I	might	know

to	 what	 kind	 of	 suffering	 it	 might	 be	 compared.	 It	 was	 no	 idle	 curiosity	 which urged	me.	I	repeat	that	I	was	moved	and	frightened;	but	it	was	in	vain,	I	could	get

no	satisfactory	reply.

“It	burns	like	fire!”	was	the	general	answer;	they	all	said	the	same	thing.

First	 I	 tried	 to	 question	 M—tski.	 “It	 burns	 like	 fire!	 like	 hell!	 It	 seems	 as	 if one’s	back	were	in	a	furnace.”

I	made	one	day	a	strange	observation,	which	may	or	may	not	have	been	well

founded,	 although	 the	 opinion	 of	 the	 convicts	 themselves	 confirms	 my	 views;

namely,	that	the	rods	are	the	most	terrible	punishment	in	use	among	us.

At	first	it	seems	absurd,	impossible,	yet	five	hundred	strokes	of	the	rods,	four

hundred	 even,	 are	 enough	 to	 kill	 a	 man.	 Beyond	 five	 hundred	 death	 is	 almost certain;	the	most	robust	man	will	be	unable	to	support	a	thousand	rods,	whereas

five	 hundred	 sticks	 are	 endured	 without	 much	 inconvenience,	 and	 without	 the

least	 risk	 in	 the	 world	 of	 losing	 one’s	 life.	 A	 man	 of	 ordinary	 build	 supports	 a thousand	 sticks	 without	 danger;	 even	 two	 thousand	 sticks	 will	 not	 kill	 a	 man	 of ordinary	strength	and	constitution.	All	the	convicts	declared	that	rods	were	worse

than	sticks	or	ramrods.

“Rods	hurt	more	and	torture	more!”	they	said.

They	 must	 torture	 more	 than	 sticks,	 that	 is	 certain,	 that	 is	 evident;	 for	 they irritate	 much	 more	 forcibly	 the	 nervous	 system,	 which	 they	 excite	 beyond

measure.	I	do	not	know	whether	any	person	still	exists,	but	such	did	a	short	time

ago,	 to	 whom	 the	 whipping	 of	 a	 victim	 procured	 a	 delight	 which	 recalls	 the

Marquis	 de	 Sade	 and	 the	 Marchioness	 Brinvilliers.	 I	 think	 this	 delight	 must

consist	 in	 the	 sinking	 of	 the	 heart,	 and	 that	 these	 nobles	 must	 have	 experienced pain	and	delight	at	the	same	time.

There	 are	 people	 who,	 like	 tigers,	 are	 greedy	 for	 blood.	 Those	 who	 have

possessed	 unlimited	 power	 over	 the	 flesh,	 blood,	 and	 soul	 of	 their	 fellow-

creatures,	 of	 their	 brethren	 according	 to	 the	 law	 of	 Christ,	 those	 who	 have

possessed	 this	 power	 and	 who	 have	 been	 able	 to	 degrade	 with	 a	 supreme

degradation,	another	being	made	in	the	image	of	God;	these	men	are	incapable	of

resisting	their	desires	and	their	thirst	for	sensations.	Tyranny	is	a	habit	capable	of being	developed,	and	at	last	becomes	a	disease.	I	declare	that	the	best	man	in	the

world	 can	 become	 hardened	 and	 brutified	 to	 such	 a	 point,	 that	 nothing	 will

distinguish	 him	 from	 a	 wild	 beast.	 Blood	 and	 power	 intoxicate;	 they	 aid	 the

development	 of	 callousness	 and	 debauchery;	 the	 mind	 then	 becomes	 capable	 of

the	 most	 abnormal	 cruelty	 in	 the	 form	 of	 pleasure;	 the	 man	 and	 the	 citizen

disappear	for	ever	in	the	tyrant;	and	then	a	return	to	human	dignity,	repentance,

moral	resurrection,	becomes	almost	impossible.

That	 the	 possibility	 of	 such	 license	 has	 a	 contagious	 effect	 on	 the	 whole	 of society	 there	 is	 no	 doubt.	 A	 society	 which	 looks	 upon	 such	 things	 with	 an

indifferent	eye,	is	already	infected	to	the	marrow.	In	a	word,	the	right	granted	to	a

man	to	inflict	corporal	punishment	on	his	fellow-men,	is	one	of	the	plague-spots

of	our	society.	It	is	the	means	of	annihilating	all	civic	spirit.	Such	a	right	contains

in	germ	the	elements	of	inevitable,	imminent	decomposition.

Society	despises	an	executioner	by	trade,	but	not	a	lordly	executioner.	Every

manufacturer,	 every	 master	 of	 works,	 must	 feel	 an	 irritating	 pleasure	 when	 he reflects	that	the	workman	he	has	beneath	his	orders	is	dependent	upon	him	with

the	whole	of	his	family.	A	generation	does	not,	I	am	sure,	extirpate	so	quickly	what

is	 hereditary	 in	 it.	 A	 man	 cannot	 renounce	 what	 is	 in	 his	 blood,	 what	 has	 been transmitted	to	him	with	his	mother’s	milk;	these	revolutions	are	not	accomplished

so	 quickly.	 It	 is	 not	 enough	 to	 confess	 one’s	 fault.	 That	 is	 very	 little!	 Very	 little indeed!	It	must	be	rooted	out,	and	that	is	not	done	so	quickly.

I	have	spoken	of	the	executioners.	The	instincts	of	an	executioner	are	in	germ

in	 nearly	 every	 one	 of	 our	 contemporaries;	 but	 the	 animal	 instincts	 of	 the	 man have	 not	 developed	 themselves	 in	 a	 uniform	 manner.	 When	 they	 stifle	 all	 other faculties,	the	man	becomes	a	hideous	monster.

There	 are	 two	 kinds	 of	 executioners,	 those	 who	 of	 their	 own	 will	 are

executioners	and	those	who	are	executioners	by	duty,	by	reason	of	office.	He	who,

by	his	own	will,	is	an	executioner,	is	in	all	respects	below	the	salaried	executioner,

whom,	 however,	 the	 people	 look	 upon	 with	 repugnance,	 and	 who	 inspires	 them

with	 disgust,	 with	 instinctive	 mystical	 fear.	 Whence	 comes	 this	 almost

superstitious	 horror	 for	 the	 latter,	 when	 one	 is	 only	 indifferent	 and	 indulgent	 to the	former?

I	 know	 strange	 examples	 of	 honourable	 men,	 kind,	 esteemed	 by	 all	 their

friends,	 who	 found	 it	 necessary	 that	 a	 culprit	 should	 be	 whipped	 until	 he	 would implore	and	beg	for	mercy;	it	seemed	to	them	a	natural	thing,	a	thing	recognised

as	indispensable.	If	the	victim	did	not	choose	to	cry	out,	his	executioner,	whom	in

other	respects	I	should	consider	a	good	man,	looked	upon	it	as	a	personal	offence;

he	 meant,	 in	 the	 first	 instance,	 to	 inflict	 only	 a	 light	 punishment,	 but	 directly	 he failed	 to	 hear	 the	 habitual	 supplications,	 “Your	 nobility!”	 “Have	 mercy!”	 “Be	 a father	to	me!”	“Let	me	thank	God	all	my	life!”	he	became	furious,	and	ordered	that

fifty	 more	 blows	 should	 be	 administered,	 hoping	 thus,	 at	 last,	 to	 obtain	 the necessary	cries	and	supplications;	and	at	last	they	came.

“Impossible!	he	is	too	insolent,”	cried	the	man	in	question,	very	seriously.

As	for	the	executioner	by	office,	he	is	a	convict	who	has	been	chosen	for	this

function.	He	passes	an	apprenticeship	with	an	old	hand,	and	as	soon	as	he	knows

his	trade	remains	in	the	convict	prison,	where	he	lives	by	himself.	He	has	a	room,

which	he	shares	with	no	one.	Sometimes,	indeed,	he	has	a	separate	establishment,

but	 he	 is	 always	 under	 guard.	 A	 man	 is	 not	 a	 machine.	 Although	 he	 whips	 by virtue	 of	 his	 office,	 he	 sometimes	 becomes	 furious,	 and	 beats	 with	 a	 certain pleasure.	 Notwithstanding	 he	 has	 no	 hatred	 for	 his	 victim,	 a	 desire	 to	 show	 his skill	 in	 the	 art	 of	 whipping	 may	 sharpen	 his	 vanity.	 He	 works	 as	 an	 artist;	 he knows	 well	 that	 he	 is	 a	 reprobate,	 and	 that	 he	 excites	 everywhere	 superstitious dread.	 It	 is	 impossible	 that	 this	 should	 exercise	 no	 influence	 upon	 him,	 and	 not irritate	his	brutal	instincts.

Even	little	children	say	that	this	man	has	neither	father	nor	mother.	Strange

thing!

All	the	executioners	I	have	known	were	intelligent	men,	possessing	a	certain

degree	 of	 conceit.	 This	 conceit	 became	 developed	 in	 them	 through	 the	 contempt which	 they	 everywhere	 met	 with,	 and	 was	 strengthened,	 perhaps,	 by	 the

consciousness	of	the	fear	with	which	they	inspired	their	victims,	and	of	the	power

over	unfortunate	wretches.

The	theatrical	paraphernalia	surrounding	them	developed,	perhaps,	in	them	a

certain	arrogance.	I	had	for	some	time	an	opportunity	of	meeting	and	observing	at

close	quarters	an	ordinary	executioner.	He	was	a	man	about	forty,	muscular,	dry,

with	 an	 agreeable,	 intelligent	 face,	 surrounded	 by	 long	 curly	 hair.	 His	 manners were	 quiet	 and	 grave,	 his	 general	 demeanour	 becoming.	 He	 replied	 clearly	 and

sensibly	to	all	questions	put	to	him,	but	with	a	sort	of	condescension	as	if	he	were

in	 some	 way	 my	 superior.	 The	 officers	 of	 the	 guard	 spoke	 to	 him	 with	 a	 certain respect,	which	he	fully	appreciated,	for	which	reason,	in	presence	of	his	chiefs,	he

became	polite,	and	more	dignified	than	ever.

He	 never	 departed	 from	 the	 most	 refined	 politeness.	 I	 am	 sure	 that,	 when	 I

was	 speaking	 to	 him,	 he	 felt	 incomparably	 superior	 to	 the	 man	 who	 was

addressing	 him.	 I	 could	 read	 that	 in	 his	 countenance.	 Sometimes	 he	 was	 sent

under	escort,	in	summer,	when	it	was	very	hot,	to	kill	the	dogs	of	the	town	with	a

long,	 very	 thin	 spear.	 These	 wandering	 dogs	 increased	 in	 numbers	 with	 such

prodigious	 rapidity,	 and	 became	 so	 dangerous	 during	 the	 dog	 days,	 that,	 by	 the decision	 of	 the	 authorities,	 the	 executioner	 was	 ordered	 to	 destroy	 them.	 This degrading	duty	did	not	in	any	way	humiliate	him.	It	should	have	been	seen	with

what	gravity	he	walked	through	the	streets	of	the	town,	accompanied	by	a	soldier

escorting	him;	how,	with	a	single	glance,	he	frightened	the	women	and	children;

and	 how,	 from	 the	 height	 of	 his	 grandeur,	 he	 looked	 down	 upon	 the	 passers-by generally.

Executioners	 live	 at	 their	 ease.	 They	 have	 money	 to	 travel	 comfortably,	 and

drink	vodka.	They	derive	most	of	their	income	from	presents	which	the	prisoners

condemned	 to	 be	 flogged	 slip	 into	 their	 hands	 before	 the	 execution.	 When	 they have	to	do	with	convicts	who	are	rich,	they	then	fix	a	sum	to	be	paid	in	proportion

to	 the	 means	 of	 the	 victim.	 They	 will	 exact	 thirty	 roubles,	 sometimes	 more.	 The executioner	has	no	right	to	spare	his	victim;	and	he	does	so	at	the	risk	of	his	own

back.	 But	 for	 a	 suitable	 present	 he	 agrees	 not	 to	 strike	 too	 hard.	 People	 almost always	 give	 what	 he	 asks;	 should	 they	 in	 any	 case	 refuse,	 he	 would	 strike	 like	 a savage;	and	it	is	in	his	power	to	do	so.	He	sometimes	exacts	a	heavy	sum	from	a

man	 who	 is	 very	 poor.	 Then	 all	 the	 relations	 of	 the	 victim	 are	 put	 in	 movement.

They	bargain,	try	and	beat	him	down,	supplicate	him;	but	it	will	not	be	well	if	they

do	not	succeed	in	satisfying	him.	In	such	a	case	the	superstitious	fear	inspired	by

the	 executioner	 stands	 them	 in	 good	 part.	 I	 had	 been	 told	 the	 most	 wonderful things—that	at	one	blow	the	executioner	can	kill	his	man.

“Is	this	your	experience?”	I	asked.

Perhaps	 so.	 Who	 knows?	 Their	 tone	 seemed	 to	 decide,	 if	 there	 could	 be	 any

doubt	about	it.	They	also	told	me	that	he	can	strike	a	criminal	in	such	a	way	that

he	will	not	feel	the	least	pain,	and	without	leaving	a	scar.

Even	 when	 the	 executioner	 receives	 a	 present	 not	 to	 whip	 too	 severely,	 he

gives	the	first	blow	with	all	his	strength.	It	is	the	custom!	Then	he	administers	the other	blows	with	less	severity,	above	all	if	he	has	been	well	paid.

I	do	not	know	why	this	is	done.	Is	it	to	prepare	the	victim	for	the	succeeding

blows,	which	will	appear	less	painful	after	the	first	cruel	one;	or	do	they	want	to

frighten	the	criminal,	so	that	he	may	know	with	whom	he	has	to	deal;	or	do	they

simply	 wish	 to	 display	 their	 vigour	 from	 vanity?	 In	 any	 case	 the	 executioner	 is slightly	excited	before	the	execution,	and	he	is	conscious	of	his	strength	and	of	his

power.	He	is	acting	at	the	time;	the	public	admires	him,	and	is	filled	with	terror.

Accordingly,	it	is	not	without	satisfaction	that	he	cries	out	to	his	victim,	“Look	out!

you	 are	 going	 to	 have	 it!”—customary	 and	 fatal	 words	 which	 precede	 the	 first blow.

It	is	difficult	to	imagine	a	human	being	degraded	to	such	a	point.

The	first	day	of	my	stay	at	the	hospital	I	listened	attentively	to	the	stories	of

the	convicts,	which	broke	the	monotony	of	the	long	days.

In	the	morning,	the	doctor’s	visit	was	the	first	diversion.	Then	came	dinner,

which	 it	 will	 be	 believed	 was	 the	 most	 important	 affair	 of	 our	 daily	 life.	 The portions	 were	 different	 according	 to	 the	 nature	 of	 the	 illness:	 some	 of	 the

prisoners	 received	 nothing	 but	 broth	 with	 groats	 in	 it;	 others	 nothing	 but	 gruel; others	a	kind	of	semolina,	which	was	much	liked.	The	convicts	ended	by	becoming

effeminate	 and	 fastidious.	 The	 convalescents	 received	 a	 piece	 of	 boiled	 beef.	 The best	 food,	 which	 was	 reserved	 for	 the	 scorbutic	 patients,	 consisted	 of	 roast	 beef with	onions,	horseradish,	and	sometimes	a	small	glass	of	spirits.	The	bread	was,

according	to	the	illness,	black	or	brown;	the	precision	preserved	in	distributing	the

rations	would	make	the	patients	laugh.

There	were	some	who	took	absolutely	nothing;	the	portions	were	exchanged

in	such	a	way	that	the	food	intended	for	one	patient	was	eaten	by	another:	those

who	were	being	kept	on	low	diet,	who	received	only	small	rations,	bought	those	of

the	scorbutic	patients;	others	would	give	any	price	for	meat.	There	were	some	who

ate	 two	 entire	 portions;	 it	 cost	 them	 a	 good	 deal,	 for	 they	 were	 generally	 sold	 at five	kopecks	each.	If	one	had	no	meat	to	sell	in	our	room	the	warder	was	sent	to

another	section,	and	if	he	could	not	find	any	there	he	was	asked	to	get	some	from

the	military	“infirmary”—the	free	infirmary,	as	we	called	it.

There	 were	 always	 patients	 ready	 to	 sell	 their	 rations;	 poverty	 was	 general,

and	those	who	possessed	a	few	kopecks	used	to	send	out	to	buy	cakes	and	white bread,	or	other	delicacies,	at	the	market.	Warders	executed	these	commissions	in

a	 disinterested	 manner.	 The	 most	 painful	 moment	 was	 that	 which	 followed	 the

dinner;	some	went	to	sleep,	if	they	had	no	other	way	of	passing	their	time;	others

either	wrangled	or	told	stories	in	a	loud	voice.

When	 no	 new	 patients	 were	 brought	 in,	 everything	 became	 very	 dull.	 The

arrival	 of	 a	 new	 patient	 caused	 always	 a	 certain	 excitement,	 above	 all,	 if	 no	 one knew	anything	about	him;	he	was	questioned	about	his	past	life.

The	 most	 interesting	 ones	 were	 the	 birds	 of	 passage:	 they	 had	 always

something	to	tell.

Of	 course	 they	 never	 spoke	 of	 their	 own	 little	 faults.	 If	 the	 prisoner	 did	 not enter	upon	this	subject	himself,	no	one	questioned	him	about	it.

The	only	thing	he	was	asked	was,	what	quarter	he	came	from?	who	were	with

him	 on	 the	 road?	 what	 state	 the	 road	 was	 in?	 where	 he	 was	 being	 taken	 to?	 etc.

Stimulated	by	the	stories	of	the	new	comers,	our	comrades	in	their	turn	began	to

tell	 what	 they	 had	 seen	 and	 done;	 what	 was	 most	 talked	 about	 was	 the	 convoys, those	in	command	of	them,	the	men	who	carried	the	sentences	into	execution.

About	 this	 time,	 too,	 towards	 evening,	 the	 convicts	 who	 had	 been	 scourged

came	up;	they	always	made	a	rather	strong	impression,	as	I	have	said;	but	it	was

not	 every	 day	 that	 any	 of	 these	 were	 brought	 to	 us,	 and	 everybody	 was	 bored	 to extinction,	 when	 nothing	 happened	 to	 give	 a	 fillip	 to	 the	 general	 relaxed	 and indolent	 state	 of	 feeling.	 It	 seemed,	 then,	 as	 though	 the	 sick	 themselves	 were exasperated	 at	 the	 very	 sight	 of	 those	 near	 them.	 Sometimes	 they	 squabbled

violently.

Our	 convicts	 were	 in	 high	 glee	 when	 a	 madman	 was	 taken	 off	 for	 medical

examination;	 sometimes	 those	 who	 were	 sentenced	 to	 be	 scourged,	 feigned

insanity	that	they	might	get	off.	The	trick	was	found	out,	or	it	would	sometimes	be

that	 they	 voluntarily	 gave	 up	 the	 pretence.	 Prisoners,	 who	 during	 two	 or	 three days	 had	 done	 all	 sorts	 of	 wild	 things,	 suddenly	 became	 steady	 and	 sensible

people,	 quieted	 down,	 and,	 with	 a	 gloomy	 smile,	 asked	 to	 be	 taken	 out	 of	 the hospital.	Neither	the	other	convicts	nor	the	doctors	said	a	word	of	remonstrance

to	 them	 about	 the	 deceit,	 or	 brought	 up	 the	 subject	 of	 their	 mad	 pranks.	 Their names	were	put	down	on	a	list	without	a	word	being	said,	and	they	were	simply

taken	 elsewhere;	 after	 the	 lapse	 of	 some	 days	 they	 came	 back	 to	 us	 with	 their backs	all	wounds	and	blood.

On	 the	 other	 hand,	 the	 arrival	 of	 a	 genuine	 lunatic	 was	 a	 miserable	 thing	 to see	all	through	the	place.	Those	of	the	mentally	unsound	who	were	gay,	lively,	who

uttered	cries,	danced,	sang,	were	greeted	at	first	with	enthusiasm	by	the	convicts.

“Here’s	 fun!”	 said	 they,	 as	 they	 looked	 on	 the	 grins	 and	 contortions	 of	 the unfortunates.	But	the	sight	was	horribly	painful	and	sad.	I	have	never	been	able	to

look	upon	the	mad	calmly	or	with	indifference.	There	was	one	who	was	kept	three

weeks	in	our	room:	we	would	have	hidden	ourselves,	had	there	been	any	place	to

do	it.	When	things	were	at	the	worst	they	brought	in	another.	This	one	affected	me

very	powerfully.

In	 the	 first	 year,	 or,	 to	 be	 more	 exact,	 during	 the	 first	 month	 of	 my	 exile,	 I went	to	work	with	a	gang	of	kiln	men	to	the	tileries	situate	at	two	versts	from	our

prison.	 We	 were	 set	 to	 repairing	 the	 kiln	 in	 which	 the	 bricks	 were	 baked	 in summer.	 That	 morning,	 in	 which	 M—tski	 and	 B.	 made	 me	 acquainted	 with	 the

non-commissioned	 officer,	 superintendent	 of	 the	 works.	 This	 was	 a	 Pole	 already well	 on	 in	 life,	 sixty	 years	 old	 at	 least,	 of	 high	 stature,	 lean,	 of	 decent	 and	 even somewhat	 imposing	 exterior.	 He	 had	 been	 a	 long	 time	 in	 service	 in	 Siberia,	 and although	he	belonged	to	the	lower	orders	he	had	been	a	soldier,	and	in	the	rising

of	 1830—M—tski	 and	 B.	 loved	 and	 esteemed	 him.	 He	 was	 always	 reading	 the

Vulgate.	I	spoke	to	him;	his	talk	was	agreeable	and	intelligent;	he	told	a	story	in	a

most	 interesting	 way;	 he	 was	 straightforward	 and	 of	 excellent	 temper.	 For	 two years	I	never	saw	him	again,	all	I	heard	was	that	he	had	become	a	“case,”	and	that

they	were	inquiring	into	it;	and	then	one	fine	day	they	brought	him	into	our	room;

he	had	gone	quite	mad.

He	 came	 in	 yelling,	 uttering	 shouts	 of	 laughter,	 and	 began	 to	 dance	 in	 the

middle	 of	 the	 room	 with	 indecent	 gestures	 which	 recalled	 the	 dance	 known	 as

Kamarinskaïa.

The	 convicts	 were	 wild	 with	 enthusiasm;	 but,	 for	 my	 part,	 account	 for	 it	 as you	will,	I	felt	utterly	miserable.	Three	days	after,	we	were	all	of	us	upset	with	it;

he	got	into	violent	disputes	with	everybody,	fought,	groaned,	sang	in	the	dead	of

the	night;	his	aberrations	were	so	inordinate	and	disgusting	as	to	bring	our	very

stomachs	up.

He	feared	nobody.	They	put	the	strait-waistcoat	on	him;	but	we	were	no	whit better	 off	 for	 it,	 for	 he	 went	 on	 quarreling	 and	 fighting	 all	 round.	 At	 the	 end	 of three	 weeks,	 the	 room	 put	 up	 an	 unanimous	 entreaty	 to	 the	 head	 doctor	 that	 he might	be	removed	to	the	other	apartment	reserved	for	the	convicts.	But	after	two

days,	at	the	request	of	the	sick	people	in	that	other	room,	they	brought	him	back

to	our	infirmary.	As	we	had	two	madmen	there	at	once,	both	rooms	kept	sending

them	back	and	forward,	and	ended	by	taking	one	or	the	other	of	the	two	lunatics,

turn	and	turn	about.	Everybody	breathed	more	freely	when	they	took	them	away

from	us,	a	good	way	off,	somewhere	or	other.

There	 was	 another	 lunatic	 whom	 I	 remember—a	 very	 remarkable	 creature.

They	had	brought	in,	during	the	summer,	a	man	under	sentence,	who	looked	like	a

solid	 and	 vigorous	 fellow	 enough,	 of	 about	 forty-five	 years.	 His	 face	 was	 sombre and	 sad,	 pitted	 with	 small-pox,	 with	 little	 red	 and	 swollen	 eyes.	 He	 sat	 down	 by my	side.	He	was	extremely	quiet;	spoke	to	nobody,	and	seemed	utterly	absorbed	in

his	own	deep	reflections.

Night	fell;	then	he	addressed	me,	and,	without	a	word	of	preface,	told	me	in	a

hurried	and	excited	way—as	if	it	were	a	mighty	secret	he	were	confiding—that	he

was	to	have	two	thousand	strokes	with	the	rod;	but	that	he	had	nothing	to	fear,	as

the	daughter	of	Colonel	G——	was	taking	steps	on	his	behalf.

I	 looked	 at	 him	 with	 surprise,	 and	 observed	 that,	 as	 I	 saw	 the	 affair,	 the daughter	 of	 a	 Colonel	 could	 be	 of	 little	 use	 in	 such	 a	 case.	 I	 had	 not	 yet	 guessed what	sort	of	person	I	had	to	do	with,	for	they	had	brought	him	to	the	hospital	as	a

bodily	 sick	 person,	 not	 mentally.	 I	 then	 asked	 him	 what	 illness	 he	 was	 suffering from.

He	answered	that	he	knew	nothing	about	it;	that	he	had	been	sent	among	us

for	 something	 or	 other;	 but	 that	 he	 was	 in	 good	 health,	 and	 that	 the	 Colonel’s daughter	 had	 fallen	 in	 love	 with	 him.	 Two	 weeks	 before	 she	 had	 passed	 in	 a carriage	 before	 the	 guard-house,	 where	 he	 was	 looking	 through	 the	 barred

window,	and	she	had	gone	head	over	ears	in	love	at	the	mere	sight	of	him.

After	that	important	moment	she	had	come	three	times	to	the	guard-house	on

different	 pretexts.	 The	 first	 time	 with	 her	 father,	 ostensibly	 to	 visit	 her	 brother, who	was	the	officer	on	service;	the	second	with	her	mother,	to	distribute	alms	to

the	prisoners.	As	she	passed	in	front	of	him	she	had	muttered	that	she	loved	him

and	would	get	him	out	of	prison.

He	 told	 me	 all	 this	 nonsense	 with	 minute	 and	 exact	 details;	 all	 of	 it	 pure figment	of	his	poor	disordered	head.	He	believed	devoutly	and	implicitly	that	his

punishment	 would	 be	 graciously	 remitted.	 He	 spoke	 very	 calmly,	 and	 with	 all

assurance	of	the	passionate	love	he	had	inspired	in	this	young	lady.

This	odd	and	romantic	delusion	about	the	love	of	quite	a	young	girl	of	good

breeding,	 for	 a	 man	 nearly	 fifty	 years	 and	 afflicted	 with	 a	 face	 so	 disfigured	 and gloomy,	simply	showed	the	fearful	effect	produced	by	the	fear	of	the	punishment

he	was	to	have,	upon	the	poor,	timid	creature.

It	may	be	that	he	had	really	seen	some	one	through	the	bars	of	the	window,

and	the	insanity,	germinating	under	excess	of	fear,	had	found	shape	and	form	in

the	delusion	in	question.

This	 unfortunate	 soldier,	 who,	 it	 may	 be	 warranted,	 had	 never	 given	 a

thought	to	young	ladies,	had	got	this	romance	into	his	diseased	fancy,	and	clung

convulsively	to	this	wild	hope.	I	heard	him	in	silence,	and	then	told	the	story	to	the

other	convicts.	When	these	questioned	him	in	their	natural	curiosity,	he	preserved

a	chastely	discreet	silence.

Next	day	the	doctor	examined	him.	As	the	madman	averred	that	he	was	not

ill,	 he	 was	 put	 down	 on	 the	 list	 as	 qualified	 to	 be	 sent	 out.	 We	 learned	 that	 the physician	had	scribbled	” Sanat.	est“	on	the	page,	when	it	was	quite	too	late	to	give him	warning.	Besides,	we	were	ourselves	not	by	any	means	sure	what	was	really

the	matter	with	the	man.

The	error	was	with	the	authorities	who	had	sent	him	to	us,	without	specifying

for	 what	 reason	 it	 was	 thought	 necessary	 to	 have	 him	 come	 into	 the	 hospital—

which	was	unpardonable	negligence.

However,	two	days	later	the	unhappy	creature	was	taken	out	to	be	scourged.

We	 understood	 that	 he	 was	 dumbfounded	 by	 finding,	 contrary	 to	 his	 fixed

expectation,	 that	 he	 really	 was	 to	 have	 the	 punishment.	 To	 the	 last	 moment	 he thought	he	would	be	pardoned,	and	when	conducted	to	the	front	of	the	battalion,

he	began	to	cry	for	help.

As	there	was	no	room	or	bedding-place	now	in	our	apartment	they	sent	him

to	the	infirmary.	I	heard	that	for	eight	entire	days	he	did	not	utter	a	single	word,

and	remained	in	stupid	and	misery-stricken	mental	confusion.	When	his	back	was

cured	they	took	him	off.	I	never	heard	a	single	further	word	about	him.

As	to	the	treatment	of	the	sick	and	the	remedies	prescribed,	those	who	were but	slightly	indisposed	paid	no	attention	whatever	to	the	directions	of	the	doctors,

and	 never	 took	 their	 medicines;	 while,	 speaking	 generally,	 those	 really	 ill	 were very	 careful	 in	 following	 the	 doctor’s	 orders;	 they	 took	 their	 mixtures	 and

powders;	 they	 took	 all	 the	 possible	 care	 they	 could	 of	 themselves;	 but	 they

preferred	external	to	internal	remedies.

Cupping-glasses,	 leeches,	 cataplasms,	 blood-lettings—in	 all	 which	 things	 the

populace	 has	 so	 blind	 a	 confidence—were	 held	 in	 high	 honour	 in	 our	 hospital.

Inflictions	of	that	sort	were	regarded	with	satisfaction.

There	was	one	thing	quite	strange,	and	to	me	interesting.	Fellows,	who	stood

without	a	murmur	the	frightful	tortures	caused	by	the	rods	and	scourges,	howled,

and	grinned,	and	moaned	for	the	least	little	ailment.	Whether	it	was	all	pretence

or	not,	I	really	cannot	say.

We	 had	 cuppings	 of	 a	 quite	 peculiar	 kind.	 The	 machine	 with	 which

instantaneous	incisions	in	the	skin	are	produced,	was	all	out	of	order,	so	they	had

to	use	the	lancet.

For	 a	 cupping,	 twelve	 incisions	 are	 necessary;	 with	 a	 machine	 these	 are	 not

painful	 at	 all,	 for	 it	 makes	 them	 instantaneously;	 with	 the	 lancet	 it	 is	 a	 different affair	 altogether—that	 cuts	 slowly,	 and	 makes	 the	 patient	 suffer.	 If	 you	 have	 to make	ten	openings	there	will	be	about	one	hundred	and	twenty	pricks,	and	these

very	 painful.	 I	 had	 to	 undergo	 it	 myself;	 besides	 the	 pain	 itself,	 it	 caused	 great nervous	 irritation;	 but	 the	 suffering	 was	 not	 so	 great	 that	 one	 could	 not	 contain himself	from	groaning	if	he	tried.

It	 was	 laughable	 to	 see	 great,	 hulking	 fellows	 wriggling	 and	 howling.	 One

couldn’t	 help	 comparing	 them	 to	 some	 men,	 firm	 and	 calm	 enough	 in	 really

serious	circumstances,	but	all	ill-temper	or	caprice	in	the	bosom	of	their	families

for	 nothing	 at	 all;	 if	 dinner	 is	 late	 or	 the	 like,	 then	 they’ll	 scold	 and	 swear; everything	 puts	 them	 out;	 they	 go	 wrong	 with	 everybody;	 the	 more	 comfortable

they	really	are,	the	more	troublesome	are	they	to	other	people.	Characters	of	this

sort,	 common	 enough	 among	 the	 lower	 orders,	 were	 but	 too	 numerous	 in	 our

prison,	by	reason	of	our	company	being	forced	on	one	another.

Sometimes	 the	 prisoners	 chaffed	 or	 insulted	 the	 thin-skins	 I	 speak	 of,	 and

then	 they	 would	 leave	 off	 complaining	 directly;	 as	 if	 they	 only	 wanted	 to	 be

insulted	to	make	them	hold	their	tongues.

Oustiantsef	 was	 no	 friend	 of	 grimacings	 of	 this	 kind,	 and	 never	 let	 slip	 an opportunity	 of	 bringing	 that	 sort	 of	 delinquent	 to	 his	 bearings.	 Besides,	 he	 was fond	of	scolding;	it	was	a	sort	of	necessity	with	him,	engendered	by	illness	and	also

his	 stupidity.	 He	 would	 first	 fix	 his	 gaze	 upon	 you	 for	 some	 time,	 and	 then	 treat you	to	a	long	speech	of	threatening	and	warning,	and	a	tone	of	calm	and	impartial

conviction.	It	looked	as	though	he	thought	his	function	in	this	world	was	to	watch

over	order	and	morality	in	general.

“He	must	poke	his	nose	into	everything,”	the	prisoners	with	a	laugh	used	to

say;	for	they	pitied,	and	did	what	they	could	to	avoid	conflicts	with	him.

“Has	 he	 chattered	 enough?	 Three	 waggons	 wouldn’t	 be	 too	 much	 to	 carry

away	all	his	talk.”

“Why	need	you	put	your	oar	in?	One	is	not	going	to	put	himself	about	for	a

mere	idiot.	What’s	there	to	cry	out	about	at	a	mere	touch	of	a	lancet?”

“What	harm	in	the	world	do	you	fancy	 that	is	going	to	do	you?”

“No,	 comrades,”	 a	 prisoner	 strikes	 in,	 “the	 cuppings	 are	 a	 mere	 nothing.	 I

know	the	taste	of	them.	But	the	most	horrid	thing	is	when	they	pull	your	ears	for	a

long	time	together.	That	just	shuts	you	up.”

All	the	prisoners	burst	out	laughing.

“Have	you	had	them	pulled?”

“By	Jove,	yes,	I	should	think	he	had.”

“That’s	why	they	stick	upright,	like	hop-poles.”

This	convict,	Chapkin	by	name,	really	had	long	and	quite	erect	ears.	He	had

long	led	a	vagabond	life,	was	still	quite	young,	intelligent,	and	quiet,	and	used	to

talk	with	a	dry	sort	of	humour	with	much	seriousness	on	the	surface,	which	made

his	stories	very	comical.

“How	 in	 the	 world	 was	 I	 to	 know	 you	 had	 had	 your	 ears	 pulled	 and

lengthened,	brainless	idiot?”	began	Oustiantsef,	once	more	wrathfully	addressing

Chapkin,	 who,	 however,	 vouchsafed	 no	 attention	 to	 his	 companion’s	 obliging

apostrophe.

“Well,	who	did	pull	your	ears	for	you?”	some	one	asked.

“Why,	 the	 police	 superintendent,	 by	 Jove,	 comrades!	 Our	 offence	 was wandering	 about	 without	 fixed	 place	 of	 abode.	 We	 had	 just	 got	 into	 K——,	 I	 and another	 tramp,	 Eptinie;	 he	 had	 no	 family	 name,	 that	 fellow.	 On	 the	 way	 we	 had fixed	ourselves	up	a	little	in	the	hamlet	of	Tolmina;	yes,	there	is	a	hamlet	that’s	got

just	that	name—Tolmina.	Well,	we	get	to	the	town,	and	are	just	looking	about	us	a

little	to	see	if	there’s	a	good	stroke	of	tramp-business	to	do,	after	which	we	mean

to	flit.	You	know,	out	in	the	open	country	you’re	as	free	as	air;	but	it’s	not	exactly

the	same	thing	in	the	town.	First	thing,	we	go	into	a	public-house;	as	we	open	the

door	we	give	a	sharp	look	all	round.	What’s	there?	A	sunburnt	fellow	in	a	German

coat	all	out	at	elbows,	walks	right	up	to	us.	One	thing	and	another	comes	up,	when

he	says	to	us:

“‘Pray	excuse	me	for	asking	if	you	have	any	papers	passport	with	you?’

“‘No,	we	haven’t.’

“‘Nor	have	we	either.	I	have	two	comrades	besides	these	with	me	who	are	in

the	 service	 of	 General	 Cuckoo	 [forest	 tramps, i.e. ,	 who	 hear	 the	 birds	 sing].	 We have	been	seeing	life	a	bit,	and	just	now	haven’t	a	penny	to	bless	ourselves	with.

May	 I	 take	 the	 liberty	 of	 requesting	 you	 to	 be	 so	 obliging	 as	 to	 order	 a	 quart	 of brandy?’

“‘With	the	greatest	pleasure,’	that’s	what	we	say	to	him.	So	we	drink	together.

Then	they	tell	us	of	a	place	where	there’s	a	real	good	stroke	of	business	to	be	done

—a	 house	 at	 the	 end	 of	 the	 town	 belonging	 to	 a	 wealthy	 merchant	 fellow;	 lots	 of good	things	there,	so	we	make	up	our	minds	to	try	the	job	during	the	night;	five	of

us,	 and	 the	 very	 moment	 we	 are	 going	 at	 it	 they	 pounce	 on	 us,	 take	 us	 to	 the station-house,	 and	 then	 before	 the	 head	 of	 the	 police.	 He	 says,	 ‘I	 shall	 examine them	myself.’	Out	he	goes	with	his	pipe,	and	they	bring	in	for	him	a	cup	of	tea;	a

sturdy	fellow	it	was,	with	whiskers.	Besides	us	five,	there	were	three	other	tramps,

just	 brought	 in.	 You	 know,	 comrades,	 that	 there’s	 nothing	 in	 this	 world	 more funny	 than	 a	 tramp,	 because	 he	 always	 forgets	 everything	 he’s	 done.	 You	 may

thump	 his	 head	 till	 you’re	 tired	 with	 a	 cudgel;	 all	 the	 same,	 you’ll	 get	 but	 one answer,	that	he	has	forgotten	all	about	everything.

“The	police	superintendent	then	turns	to	me	and	asks	me	squarely,

“‘Who	may	you	be?’

“I	answer	just	like	all	the	rest	of	them:

“‘I’ve	forgotten	all	about	it,	your	worship.’

“‘Just	you	wait;	I’ve	a	word	or	two	more	to	say	to	you.	I	know	your	phiz.’

“Then	he	gives	me	a	good	long	stare.	But	I	hadn’t	seen	him	anywhere	before,

that’s	a	fact.

“Then	he	asks	another	of	them,	‘Who	are	you?’

“‘Mizzle-and-scud,	your	worship.’

“‘They	call	you	Mizzle-and-scud?’

“‘Precisely	that,	your	worship.’

“‘Well	and	good,	you’re	Mizzle-and-scud!	And	you?’	to	a	third.

“‘Along-of-him,	your	worship.’

“‘But	what’s	your	name—your	name?’

“‘Me?	I’m	called	Along-of-him,	your	worship.’

“‘Who	gave	you	that	name,	hound?’

“‘Very	 worthy	 people,	 your	 worship.	 There	 are	 lots	 of	 worthy	 people	 about;

nobody	knows	that	better	than	your	worship.’

“‘And	who	may	these	“worthy	people”	be?’

“‘Oh,	 Lord,	 it	 has	 slipped	 my	 memory,	 your	 worship.	 Do	 be	 so	 kind	 and

gracious	as	to	overlook	it.’

“‘So	you’ve	forgotten	them,	all	of	them,	these	“worthy	people”?’

“‘Every	mother’s	son	of	them,	your	worship.’

“‘But	 you	 must	 have	 had	 relations—a	 father,	 a	 mother.	 Do	 you	 remember

them?’

“‘I	suppose	I	must	have	had,	your	worship;	but	I’ve	forgotten	about	’em,	my

memory	 is	 so	 bad.	 Now	 I	 come	 to	 think	 about	 it,	 I’m	 sure	 I	 had	 some,	 your worship.’

“‘But	where	have	you	been	living	till	now?’

“‘In	the	woods,	your	worship.’

“‘Always	in	the	woods?’

“‘Always	in	the	woods!’

“‘Winter	too?’

“‘Never	saw	any	winter,	your	worship.’

“‘Get	along	with	you!	And	you—what’s	your	name?’

“‘Hatchets-and-axes,	your	worship.’

“‘And	yours?’

“‘Sharp-and-mum,	your	worship.’

“‘And	you?’

“‘Keen-and-spry,	your	worship.’

“‘And	not	a	soul	of	you	remembers	anything	that	ever	happened	to	you.’

“‘Not	a	mother’s	son	of	us	anything	whatever.’

“He	couldn’t	help	it;	he	laughed	out	loud.	All	the	rest	began	to	laugh	at	seeing

him	 laugh!	 But	 the	 thing	 does	 not	 always	 go	 off	 like	 that.	 Sometimes	 they	 lay about	 them,	 these	 police,	 with	 their	 fists,	 till	 you	 get	 every	 tooth	 in	 your	 jaw smashed.	Devilish	big	and	strong	these	fellows,	I	can	tell	you.

“‘Take	them	off	to	the	lock-up,’	said	he.	‘I’ll	see	to	them	in	a	bit.	As	for	you,

stop	here!’

“That’s	me.

“‘Just	you	go	and	sit	down	there.’

“Where	he	pointed	to	there	was	paper,	a	pen,	and	ink;	so	thinks	I,	‘What’s	he

up	to	now?’

“‘Sit	down,’	he	says	again;	‘take	the	pen	and	write.’

“And	then	he	goes	and	clutches	at	my	ear	and	gives	it	a	good	pull.	I	looked	at

him	in	the	sort	of	way	the	devil	may	look	at	a	priest.

“‘I	can’t	write,	your	worship.’

“‘Write,	write!’

“‘Have	mercy	on	me,	your	worship!’

“‘Write	your	best;	write,	write!’

“And	 all	 the	 while	 he	 keeps	 pulling	 my	 ear,	 pulling	 and	 twisting.	 Pals,	 I’d rather	have	had	three	hundred	strokes	of	the	cat;	I	tell	you	it	was	hell.

“‘Write,	write!’	that	was	all	he	said.”

“Had	the	fellow	gone	mad?	What	the	mischief	was	it?

“Bless	us,	no!	A	little	while	before,	a	secretary	had	done	a	stroke	of	business	at

Tobolsk:	 he	 had	 robbed	 the	 local	 treasury	 and	 gone	 off	 with	 the	 money;	 he	 had very	big	ears,	just	as	I	have.	They	had	sent	the	fact	all	over	the	country.	I	answered

to	that	description;	that’s	why	he	tormented	me	with	his	‘Write,	write!’	He	wanted

to	find	out	if	I	could	write,	and	to	see	my	hand.

“‘A	regular	sharp	chap	that!	Did	it	hurt?’

“‘Oh,	Lord,	don’t	say	a	word	about	it,	I	beg.’

“Everybody	burst	out	laughing.

“‘Well,	you	did	write?’

“‘What	the	deuce	was	there	to	write?	I	set	my	pen	going	over	the	paper,	and

did	it	to	such	good	account	that	he	left	off	torturing	me.	He	just	gave	me	a	dozen

thumps,	 regulation	 allowance,	 and	 then	 let	 me	 go	 about	 my	 business:	 to	 prison, that	is.’

“‘Do	you	really	know	how	to	write?’

“‘Of	 course	 I	 did.	 What	 d’ye	 mean?	 Used	 to	 very	 well;	 forgotten	 the	 whole

blessed	thing,	though,	ever	since	they	began	to	use	pens	for	it.’”

Thanks	 to	 the	 gossip	 talk	 of	 the	 convicts	 who	 filled	 the	 hospital,	 time	 was somewhat	 quickened	 for	 us.	 But	 still,	 Almighty	 God,	 how	 wearied	 and	 bored	 we were!	Long,	long	were	the	days,	suffocating	in	their	monotony,	one	absolutely	the

same	as	another.	If	only	I	had	had	a	single	book.

For	 all	 that	 I	 went	 often	 to	 the	 infirmary,	 especially	 in	 the	 early	 days	 of	 my banishment,	either	because	I	was	ill	or	because	I	needed	rest,	just	to	get	out	of	the

worse	 parts	 of	 the	 prison.	 In	 those	 life	 was	 indeed	 made	 a	 burden	 to	 us,	 worse even	 than	 in	 the	 hospital,	 especially	 as	 regards	 the	 effect	 upon	 moral	 sentiment and	 good	 feeling.	 We	 of	 the	 nobility	 were	 the	 never-ceasing	 objects	 of	 envious dislike,	quarrels	picked	with	us	all	the	time,	something	done	every	moment	to	put

us	 in	 the	 wrong,	 looks	 filled	 with	 menacing	 hatred	 unceasingly	 directed	 on	 us!

Here,	 in	 the	 sick-rooms,	 one	 lived	 on	 a	 sort	 of	 footing	 of	 equality,	 there	 was something	of	comradeship.

The	 most	 melancholy	 moment	 of	 the	 twenty-four	 hours	 was	 evening,	 when

night	 set	 in.	 We	 went	 to	 bed	 very	 early.	 A	 smoky	 lamp	 just	 gave	 us	 one	 point	 of light	at	the	very	end	of	the	room,	near	the	door.	In	our	corner	we	were	almost	in

complete	darkness.	The	air	was	pestilential,	stifling.	Some	of	the	sick	people	could

not	 get	 to	 sleep,	 would	 rise	 up,	 and	 remain	 sitting	 for	 an	 hour	 together	 on	 their beds,	with	their	heads	bent,	as	though	they	were	in	deep	reflection.	These	I	would

look	at	steadily,	trying	to	guess	what	they	might	be	thinking	of;	thus	I	tried	to	kill

time.	 Then	 I	 became	 lost	 in	 my	 own	 reveries;	 the	 past	 came	 up	 to	 me	 again, showing	itself	to	my	imagination	in	large	powerful	outlines	filled	with	high	lights

and	 massive	 shadows,	 details	 that	 at	 any	 other	 time	 would	 have	 remained	 in

oblivion,	 presented	 themselves	 in	 vivid	 force,	 making	 on	 me	 an	 impression

impossible	under	any	other	circumstances.

Then	 I	 would	 begin	 to	 muse	 dreamily	 on	 the	 future.	 When	 shall	 I	 leave	 this place	 of	 restraint,	 this	 dreadful	 prison?	 Whither	 betake	 myself?	 What	 will	 then befall	 me?	 Shall	 I	 return	 to	 the	 place	 of	 my	 birth?	 So	 I	 brood,	 and	 brood,	 until hope	lives	once	again	in	my	soul.

Another	time	I	would	begin	to	count,	one,	two,	three,	etc.,	to	see	if	sleep	could

be	 won	 that	 way.	 I	 would	 set	 sometimes	 as	 far	 as	 three	 thousand,	 and	 was	 as wakeful	as	ever.	Then	somebody	would	turn	in	his	bed.

Then	 there’s	 Oustiantsef	 coughing,	 that	 cough	 of	 the	 hopelessly-gone

consumptive,	and	then	he	would	groan	feebly,	and	stammer,	“My	God,	I’ve	sinned,

I’ve	sinned!”

How	frightful	it	was,	that	voice	of	the	sick	man,	that	broken,	dying	voice,	in

the	 midst	 of	 that	 silence	 so	 dead	 and	 complete!	 In	 a	 corner	 there	 are	 some	 sick people	 not	 yet	 asleep,	 talking	 in	 a	 low	 voice,	 stretched	 on	 their	 pallets.	 One	 of them	 is	 telling	 the	 story	 of	 his	 life,	 all	 about	 things	 infinitely	 far	 off;	 things	 that have	fled	for	ever;	he	is	talking	of	his	trampings	through	the	world,	of	his	children,

his	wife,	the	old	ways	of	his	life.	And	the	very	accent	of	the	man’s	voice	tells	you

that	all	those	things	are	for	ever	over	for	him,	that	he	is	as	a	limb	cut	off	from	the

world	of	men,	cut	off,	thrown	aside;	there	is	another,	listening	intently	to	what	he

is	saying.	A	weak,	feeble	sort	of	muttering	and	murmuring	comes	to	one’s	ear	from

far-off	 in	 the	 dreary	 room,	 a	 sound	 as	 of	 far-off	 water	 flowing	 somewhere.	 .	 .	 .	 I

remember	 that	 one	 time,	 during	 a	 winter	 night	 that	 seemed	 as	 if	 it	 would	 never end,	 I	 heard	 a	 story	 which	 at	 first	 seemed	 as	 if	 it	 were	 the	 stammerings	 of	 a creature	in	nightmare,	or	the	delirium	of	fever.	Here	it	is:

4	What	I	relate	about	corporal	punishment	took	place	during	my	time.	Now,	as	I	am told,	everything	is	changed,	and	is	changing	still.





CHAPTER	4.

THE	HUSBAND	OF	AKOULKA

It	was	late	at	night,	about	eleven	o’clock.	I	had	been	sleeping	some	time	and

woke	up	with	a	start.	The	wan	and	weak	light	of	the	distant	lamp	barely	lit	the

room.	Nearly	everybody	was	fast	asleep,	even	Oustiantsef;	in	the	quiet	of	the

night	 I	 heard	 his	 difficult	 breathing,	 and	 the	 rattlings	 in	 his	 throat	 with	 every respiration.	 In	 the	 ante-chamber	 sounded	 the	 heavy	 and	 distant	 footsteps	 of	 the patrol	 as	 the	 men	 came	 up.	 The	 butt	 of	 a	 gun	 struck	 the	 floor	 with	 its	 low	 and heavy	sound.

The	door	of	the	room	was	opened,	and	the	corporal	counted	the	sick,	stepping

softly	 about	 the	 place.	 After	 a	 minute	 or	 so	 he	 closed	 the	 door	 again,	 leaving	 a fresh	 sentinel	 there;	 the	 patrol	 went	 off,	 silence	 reigned	 again.	 It	 was	 only	 then that	 I	 observed	 two	 prisoners,	 not	 far	 from	 me,	 who	 were	 not	 sleeping,	 and	 who seemed	 to	 be	 holding	 a	 muttered	 conversation.	 Sometimes,	 in	 fact,	 it	 would

happen	 that	 a	 couple	 of	 sick	 people,	 whose	 beds	 adjoined	 and	 who	 had	 not

exchanged	 a	 word	 for	 weeks,	 would	 all	 of	 a	 sudden	 break	 out	 into	 conversation with	one	another,	in	the	middle	of	the	night,	and	one	of	them	would	tell	the	other

his	history.

Probably	they	had	been	speaking	for	some	considerable	time.	I	did	not	hear

the	beginning	of	it,	and	could	not	at	first	seize	upon	their	words,	but	little	by	little I	got	familiar	with	the	muttered	sounds,	and	understood	all	that	was	going	on.	I

had	not	the	least	desire	for	sleep	on	me,	so	what	could	I	do	but	listen.

One	 of	 them	 was	 telling	 his	 story	 with	 some	 warmth,	 half-lying	 on	 his	 bed,

with	his	head	lifted	and	stretched	towards	his	companion.	He	was	plainly	excited

to	no	little	degree;	the	necessity	of	speech	was	on	him.

The	man	listening	was	sitting	up	on	his	pallet,	with	a	gloomy	and	indifferent

air,	his	legs	stretched	out	flat	on	the	mattress,	and	now	and	again	murmured	some

words	 in	 reply,	 more	 out	 of	 politeness	 than	 interest,	 and	 kept	 stuffing	 his	 nose with	snuff	from	a	horn	box.	This	was	the	soldier	Techérévin,	one	of	the	company

of	 discipline;	 a	 morose,	 cold-reasoning	 pedant,	 an	 idiot	 full	 of	 amour	 propre; while	the	narrator	was	Chichkof,	about	thirty	years	old;	this	was	a	civilian	convict,

whom	up	to	that	time	I	had	not	at	all	observed;	and	during	the	whole	time	I	was	at

the	prison	I	never	could	get	up	the	smallest	interest	in	him,	for	he	was	a	conceited, heady	fellow.

Sometimes	he	would	hold	his	tongue	for	weeks	together,	and	look	sulky	and

brutal	enough	for	anything;	then	all	of	a	sudden	he	would	strike	into	anything	that

was	going	on,	behave	insufferably,	go	into	a	white	heat	about	nothing	at	all,	and

tell	you	long	stories	with	nothing	in	them	whatever	about	one	barrack	or	another,

blowing	abuse	on	all	the	world,	and	acting	like	a	man	beside	himself.	Then	some

one	would	give	him	a	hiding,	and	he	would	have	another	fit	of	silence.	He	was	a

mean	 and	 cowardly	 fellow,	 and	 the	 object	 of	 general	 contempt.	 His	 stature	 was low,	he	had	little	flesh	on	him,	he	had	wandering	eyes,	though	they	sometimes	got

mixed	and	seemed	filled	with	a	stupid	sort	of	thinking.	When	he	told	you	anything

he	worked	himself	into	a	fever,	gesticulated	wildly,	suddenly	broke	off	and	went	to

another	subject,	lost	himself	in	fresh	details,	and	at	last	forgot	altogether	what	he

was	talking	about.	He	often	got	into	squabbles,	this	Chichkof,	and	when	he	poured

insult	on	his	adversary,	he	spoke	with	a	sentimental	whine	and	was	affected	nearly

to	tears.	He	was	not	a	bad	hand	at	playing	the	 balalaika,	and	had	a	weakness	for it;	on	fête	days	he	would	show	you	his	dancing	powers	when	others	set	him	at	it,

and	he	danced	by	no	means	badly.	You	could	easily	enough	make	him	do	what	you

wanted	.	.	.	not	that	he	was	of	a	complying	turn,	but	he	liked	to	please	and	to	get

intimate	with	fellows.

For	 some	 considerable	 time	 I	 couldn’t	 understand	 the	 story	 Chichkoff	 was

telling;	that	night	I	mean.	It	seemed	to	me	as	though	he	were	constantly	rambling

from	the	point	to	talk	of	something	else.	Perhaps	he	had	observed	that	Tchérévine

was	 paying	 little	 attention	 to	 the	 narrative,	 but	 I	 fancy	 that	 he	 was	 minded	 to overlook	this	indifference,	so	as	not	to	take	offence.

“When	 he	 went	 out	 on	 business,”	 he	 continued,	 “every	 one	 saluted	 him

politely,	paid	him	every	respect	.	.	.	a	fellow	with	money	that.”

“You	say	that	he	was	in	some	trade	or	other.”

“Yes;	trade	indeed!	The	trading	class	in	my	country	is	wretchedly	ill-off;	just

poverty-stricken.	 The	 women	 go	 to	 the	 river	 and	 fetch	 water	 from	 ever	 such	 a distance	to	water	their	gardens.	They	wear	themselves	to	the	very	bone,	and,	for

all	 that,	 when	 winter	 comes,	 they	 haven’t	 got	 enough	 to	 make	 a	 mere	 cabbage soup.	I	tell	you	it’s	starvation.	But	that	fellow	had	a	good	lump	of	land,	which	his

labourers	cultivated;	he	had	three.	Then	he	had	hives,	and	sold	his	honey;	he	was

a	cattle-dealer	too;	a	much	respected	man	in	our	parts.	He	was	very	old	and	quite gray,	his	seventy	years	lay	heavy	on	his	old	bones.	When	he	came	to	the	market-place	with	his	fox-skin	pelisse,	everybody	saluted	him.

“‘Good-day,	daddy	Aukoudim	Trophimtych!’

“‘Good-day,’	he’d	return.

“‘How	are	you	getting	along;’	he	never	looked	down	on	any	one.

“‘God	keep	you,	Aukoudim	Trophimtych!’

“‘How	goes	business	with	you?’

“‘Business	is	as	good	as	tallow’s	white	with	me;	and	how’s	yours,	daddy?’

“‘We’ve	just	got	enough	of	a	livelihood	to	pay	the	price	of	sin;	always	sweating

over	our	bit	of	land.’

“‘Lord	preserve	you,	Aukoudim	Trophimtych!’

“He	never	looked	down	on	anybody.	All	his	advice	was	always	worth	having;

every	one	of	his	words	was	worth	a	rouble.	A	great	reader	he	was,	quite	a	man	of

learning;	but	he	stuck	to	religious	books.	He	would	call	his	old	wife	and	say	to	her,

‘Listen,	 woman,	 take	 well	 in	 what	 I	 say;’	 then	 he	 would	 explain	 things.	 His	 old Marie	Stépanovna	was	not	exactly	an	old	woman,	if	you	please;	it	was	his	second

wife;	he	had	married	her	to	have	children,	his	first	wife	had	not	brought	him	any.

He	had	two	boys	still	quite	young,	for	the	second	of	them	was	born	when	his	father

was	 close	 on	 sixty;	 Akoulka,	 his	 daughter,	 was	 eighteen	 years	 old,	 she	 was	 the eldest.”

“Your	wife?	Isn’t	it	so?”

“Wait	 a	 bit,	 wait.	 Then	 Philka	 Marosof	 begins	 to	 kick	 up	 a	 row.	 Says	 he	 to Aukoudim:	‘Let’s	split	the	difference.	Give	me	back	my	four	hundred	roubles.	I’m

not	 your	 beast	 of	 burden;	 I	 don’t	 want	 to	 do	 any	 more	 business	 with	 you,	 and	 I don’t	 want	 to	 marry	 your	 Akoulka.	 I	 want	 to	 have	 my	 fling	 now	 that	 my	 parents are	dead.	I’ll	liquor	away	my	money,	then	I’ll	engage	myself,	‘list	for	a	soldier;	and

in	 ten	 years	 I’ll	 come	 back	 here	 a	 field-marshal!’	 Aukoudim	 gave	 him	 back	 his money—all	 he	 had	 of	 his.	 You	 see	 he	 and	 Philka’s	 father	 had	 both	 put	 in	 money and	done	business	together.

“‘You’re	a	lost	man,’	that’s	what	he	said	to	Philka.

“‘Whether	 I’m	 a	 lost	 man	 or	 not,	 old	 gray-beard,	 you’re	 the	 biggest	 cheat	 I know.	 You’d	 try	 to	 screw	 a	 fortune	 out	 of	 four	 farthings,	 and	 pick	 up	 all	 the	 dirt about	to	do	it	with.	I	spit	upon	it.	There	you	are	piling	up	here,	digging	deep	there,

the	devil	only	knows	why.	I’ve	got	a	will	of	my	own,	I	tell	you.	All	the	same	I	won’t

take	your	Akoulka;	I’ve	slept	with	her	already.’

“‘How	dare	you	insult	a	respectable	father—a	respectable	girl?	When	did	you

sleep	 with	 her,	 you	 spawn	 of	 the	 sucker,	 you	 dog,	 you	 hound,	 you——?’	 said

Aukoudim	shaking	with	passion.	(Philka	told	us	all	this	later).

“‘I’ll	 not	 only	 not	 marry	 your	 daughter,	 but	 I’ll	 take	 good	 care	 that	 nobody marries	her,	not	even	Mikita	Grigoritch,	for	she’s	a	disreputable	girl.	We	had	a	fine

time	 together,	 she	 and	 I,	 all	 last	 autumn.	 I	 don’t	 want	 her	 at	 any	 price.	 All	 the money	in	the	world	wouldn’t	make	me	take	her.’

“Then	the	fellow	went	and	had	high	jinks	for	a	while.	All	the	town	was	as	one

man	in	sending	up	a	cry	against	him.	He	got	a	lot	of	other	fellows	round	him,	for

he	 had	 a	 heap	 of	 money.	 Three	 months	 he	 had	 of	 it.	 Such	 recklessness	 as	 you never	heard	of.	Every	penny	went.

“‘I	want	to	see	the	end	of	this	money.	I’ll	sell	the	house;	everything;	then	I’ll

‘list	or	go	on	the	tramp.’

“He	was	drunk	from	morning	to	evening,	and	went	about	with	a	carriage	and

pair.

“The	girls	liked	him	well,	I	tell	you,	for	he	played	the	guitar	very	nicely.”

“Then	it	is	true	that	he	had	been	too	well	with	this	Akoulka?”

“Wait,	wait,	can’t	you?	I	had	just	buried	my	father.	My	mother	lived	by	baking

gingerbread.	 We	 got	 our	 livelihood	 by	 working	 for	 Aukoudim;	 barely	 enough	 to

eat,	a	precious	hard	life	it	was.	We	had	a	bit	of	land	the	other	side	of	the	woods,

and	 grew	 corn	 there;	 but	 when	 my	 father	 died	 I	 went	 on	 a	 spree.	 I	 made	 my mother	give	me	money;	but	I	had	to	give	her	a	good	hiding	first.”

“You	were	very	wrong	to	beat	her;	a	great	sin	that?”

“Sometimes	I	was	drunk	the	whole	blessed	day.	We	had	a	house	that	was	just

tumbling	to	pieces	with	dry	rot,	still	it	was	our	own;	we	were	as	near	famished	as

could	 be;	 for	 weeks	 together	 we	 had	 nothing	 but	 rags	 to	 chew.	 Mother	 nearly killed	 me	 with	 one	 stupid	 trick	 or	 another,	 but	 I	 didn’t	 care	 a	 curse.	 Philka

Marosof	 and	 I	 were	 always	 together	 day	 and	 night.	 ‘Play	 the	 guitar	 to	 me,’	 he’d say,	‘and	I’ll	lie	in	bed	the	while.	I’ll	throw	money	to	you,	for	I’m	the	richest	chap

in	the	world!’	The	fellow	could	not	speak	without	lying.	There	was	only	one	thing.

He	wouldn’t	touch	a	thing	if	it	had	been	stolen.	‘I’m	no	thief,	I’m	an	honest	man.

Let’s	 go	 and	 daub	 Akoulka’s	 door	 with	 pitch,5	 for	 I	 won’t	 have	 her	 marry	 Mikita Grigoritch,	I’ll	stick	to	that.’

“The	old	man	had	long	meant	to	give	his	daughter	to	this	Mikita	Grigoritch.

He	was	a	man	well	on	in	life,	in	trade	too,	and	wore	spectacles.	When	he	heard	the

story	of	Akoulka’s	bad	conduct,	he	said	to	the	old	father,	‘That	would	be	a	terrible

disgrace	for	me,	Aukoudim	Trophimtych;	on	the	whole,	I’ve	made	up	my	mind	not

to	marry;	it’s	to	late.’

“So	we	went	and	daubed	Akoulka’s	door	all	over	with	pitch.	When	we’d	done

that	her	folks	beat	her	so	that	they	nearly	killed	her.

“Her	 mother,	 Marie	 Stépanovna,	 cried,	 ‘I	 shall	 die	 of	 it,’	 while	 the	 old	 man said,	‘If	we	were	in	the	days	of	the	patriarchs,	I’d	have	hacked	her	to	pieces	on	a

block.	But	now	everything	is	rottenness	and	corruption	in	this	world.’	Sometimes

the	neighbours	from	one	end	of	the	street	to	the	other	heard	Akoulka’s	screams.

She	 was	 whipped	 from	 morning	 to	 evening,	 and	 Philka	 would	 cry	 out	 in	 the

market-place	before	everybody:

“Akoulka’s	a	jolly	girl	to	get	drunk	with.	I’ve	given	it	those	people	between	the

eyes,	they	won’t	forget	me	in	a	hurry.’

“Well,	one	day,	I	met	Akoulka,	she	was	going	for	water	with	her	bucket,	so	I

cried	 out	 to	 her:	 ‘A	 fine	 morning,	 pet	 Akoulka	 Koudimovna!	 you’re	 the	 girl	 who knows	 how	 to	 please	 fellows.	 Who’s	 living	 with	 you	 now,	 and	 where	 do	 you	 get your	money	for	your	finery?’	That’s	just	what	I	said	to	her;	she	opened	her	eyes	as

wide	as	you	please.	No	more	flesh	on	her	than	on	a	log	of	wood.	She	had	only	just

given	me	a	look,	but	her	mother	thought	she	was	larking	with	me,	and	cried	from

her	 door-step,	 ‘Impudent	 hussy,	 what	 do	 you	 mean	 by	 talking	 with	 that	 fellow?’

And	 from	 that	 moment	 they	 began	 to	 beat	 her	 again.	 Sometimes	 they	 hided	 her for	 an	 hour	 together.	 The	 mother	 said,	 ‘I	 give	 her	 the	 whip	 because	 she	 isn’t	 my daughter	any	more.’”

“She	was	then	as	bad	as	they	said?”

“Now	you	just	listen	to	my	story,	nunky,	will	you?	Well,	we	used	to	get	drunk

all	the	time	with	Philka.	One	day	when	I	was	abed,	mother	comes	and	says:

“‘What	d’ye	mean	by	lying	in	bed,	you	hound,	you	thief!’	She	abused	me	for

some	time,	then	she	said,	‘Marry	Akoulka.	They’ll	be	glad	to	give	her	to	you,	and

they’ll	give	three	hundred	roubles	with	her.’

“‘But,’	says	I,	‘all	the	world	knows	that	she’s	a	bad	girl——’

“‘Hist,	the	marriage	ceremony	cures	all	that;	besides,	she’ll	always	be	in	fear

of	 her	 life	 from	 you,	 so	 you’ll	 be	 in	 clover	 together.	 Their	 money	 would	 make	 us comfortable;	 I’ve	 spoken	 about	 the	 marriage	 already	 to	 Marie	 Stépanovna,	 we’re of	one	mind	about	it.’

“So	I	say,	‘Let’s	have	twenty	roubles	down	on	the	spot,	and	I’ll	have	her.’

“Well,	you	needn’t	believe	it	unless	you	please,	but	I	was	drunk	right	up	to	the

wedding-day.	Then	Philka	Marosof	kept	threatening	me	all	the	time.

“‘I’ll	 break	 every	 bone	 in	 your	 body,	 a	 nice	 fellow	 you	 to	 be	 engaged,	 and	 to Akoulka;	if	I	like	I’ll	sleep	every	blessed	night	with	her	when	she’s	your	wife.’

“‘You’re	a	hound,	and	a	liar,’	that’s	what	I	said	to	him.	But	he	insulted	me	so

in	the	street,	before	everybody,	that	I	ran	to	Aukoudim’s	and	said,	‘I	won’t	marry

her	unless	I	have	fifty	roubles	down	this	moment.’”

“And	they	really	did	give	her	to	you	in	marriage?”

“Me?	 Why	 not,	 I	 should	 like	 to	 know?	 We	 were	 respectable	 people	 enough.

Father	had	been	ruined	by	a	fire	a	little	before	he	died;	he	had	been	a	richer	man

than	Aukoudim	Trophimtych.

“‘A	 fellow	 without	 a	 shirt	 to	 his	 back	 like	 you	 ought	 to	 be	 only	 too	 happy	 to marry	my	daughter;’	that’s	what	old	Aukoudim	said.

“‘Just	you	think	of	your	door,	and	the	pitch	that	went	on	it,’	I	said	to	him.

“‘Stuff	and	nonsense,’	said	he,	‘there’s	no	proof	whatever	that	the	girl’s	gone

wrong.’

“‘Please	 yourself.	 There’s	 the	 door,	 and	 you	 can	 go	 about	 your	 business;	 but give	back	the	money	you’ve	had!’

“Then	Philka	Marosof	and	I	settled	it	together	to	send	Mitri	Bykoff	to	Father

Aukoudim	to	tell	him	that	we’d	insult	him	to	his	face	before	everybody.	Well,	I	had

my	skin	as	full	as	it	could	hold	right	up	to	the	wedding-day.	I	wasn’t	sober	till	I	got

into	the	church.	When	they	took	us	home	after	church	the	girl’s	uncle,	Mitrophone Stépanytch,	said:

“‘This	isn’t	a	nice	business;	but	it’s	over	and	done	now.’

“Old	 Aukoudim	 was	 sitting	 there	 crying,	 the	 tears	 rolled	 down	 on	 his	 gray

beard.	 Comrade,	 I’ll	 tell	 you	 what	 I	 had	 done:	 I	 had	 put	 a	 whip	 into	 my	 pocket before	we	went	to	church,	and	I’d	made	up	my	mind	to	have	it	out	of	her	with	that,

so	that	all	the	world	might	know	how	I’d	been	swindled	into	the	marriage,	and	not

think	me	a	bigger	fool	than	I	am.”

“I	see,	and	you	wanted	her	to	know	what	was	in	store	for	her.	Ah,	was——?”

“Quiet,	nunky,	quiet!	Among	our	people	I’ll	tell	you	how	it	is;	directly	after	the

marriage	 ceremony	 they	 take	 the	 couple	 to	 a	 room	 apart,	 and	 the	 others	 remain drinking	till	they	return.	So	I’m	left	alone	with	Akoulka;	she	was	pale,	not	a	bit	of

colour	 on	 her	 cheeks;	 frightened	 out	 of	 her	 wits.	 She	 had	 fine	 hair,	 supple	 and bright	as	flax,	and	great	big	eyes.	She	scarcely	ever	was	known	to	speak;	you	might

have	thought	she	was	dumb;	an	odd	creature,	Akoulka,	if	ever	there	was	one.	Well,

you	can	just	imagine	the	scene.	My	whip	was	ready	on	the	bed.	Well,	she	was	as

pure	a	girl	as	ever	was,	not	a	word	of	it	all	was	true.”

“Impossible!”

“True,	I	swear;	as	good	a	girl	as	any	good	family	might	wish.”

“Then,	brother,	why—why—why	had	she	had	to	undergo	all	that	torture?	Why

had	Philka	Marosof	slandered	her	so?”

“Yes,	why,	indeed?”

“Well,	I	got	down	from	the	bed,	and	went	on	my	knees	before	her,	and	put	my

hands	 together	 as	 if	 I	 were	 praying,	 and	 just	 said	 to	 her,	 ‘Little	 mother,	 pet, Akoulka	 Koudimovna,	 forgive	 me	 for	 having	 been	 such	 an	 idiot	 as	 to	 believe	 all that	slander;	forgive	me.	I’m	a	hound!’

“She	was	seated	on	the	bed,	and	gazed	at	me	fixedly.	She	put	her	two	hands

on	 my	 shoulders	 and	 began	 to	 laugh;	 but	 the	 tears	 were	 running	 all	 down	 her cheeks.	She	sobbed	and	laughed	all	at	once.

“Then	 I	 went	 out	 and	 said	 to	 the	 people	 in	 the	 other	 room,	 ‘Let	 Philka

Marosof	look	to	himself.	If	I	come	across	him	he	won’t	be	long	for	this	world.’

“The	 old	 people	 were	 beside	 themselves	 with	 delight.	 Akoulka’s	 mother	 was ready	to	throw	herself	at	her	daughter’s	feet,	and	sobbed.

“Then	the	old	man	said,	‘If	we	had	known	really	how	it	was,	my	dearest	child,

we	wouldn’t	have	given	you	a	husband	of	that	sort.’

“You	 ought	 to	 have	 seen	 how	 we	 were	 dressed	 the	 first	 Sunday	 after	 our

marriage—when	 we	 left	 church!	 I’d	 got	 a	 long	 coat	 of	 fine	 cloth,	 a	 fur	 cap,	 with plush	breeches.	She	had	a	pelisse	of	hareskin,	quite	new,	and	a	silk	kerchief	on	her

head.	 One	 was	 as	 fine	 as	 the	 other.	 Everybody	 admired	 us.	 I	 must	 say	 I	 looked well,	 and	 pet	 Akoulka	 did	 too.	 One	 oughtn’t	 to	 boast,	 but	 one	 oughtn’t	 to	 sing small.	I	tell	you	people	like	us	are	not	turned	out	by	the	dozen.”

“Not	a	doubt	about	it.”

“Just	 you	 listen,	 I	 tell	 you.	 The	 day	 after	 my	 marriage	 I	 ran	 off	 from	 my guests,	drunk	as	I	was,	and	went	about	the	streets	crying,	‘Where’s	that	scoundrel

of	a	Philka	Marosof?	Just	let	him	come	near	me,	the	hound,	that’s	all!’	I	went	all

over	 the	 market-place	 yelling	 that	 out.	 I	 was	 as	 drunk	 as	 a	 man	 could	 be,	 and stand.

“They	went	after	me	and	caught	me	close	to	Vlassof’s	place.	It	took	three	men

to	get	me	back	again	to	the	house.

“Well,	nothing	else	was	spoken	about	all	over	the	village.	The	girls	said,	when

they	 met	 in	 the	 market-place,	 ‘Well,	 you’ve	 heard	 the	 news—Akoulka	 was	 all

right!’

“A	little	while	after	I	do	come	across	Philka	Marosof,	who	said	to	me	before

everybody,	 strangers	 to	 the	 place,	 too,	 ‘Sell	 your	 wife,	 and	 spend	 the	 money	 on drink.	Jackka	the	soldier	only	married	for	that;	he	didn’t	sleep	one	night	with	his

wife;	but	he	got	enough	to	keep	his	skin	full	for	three	years.’

“I	answered	him,	‘Hound!’

“‘But,’	 says	 he,	 ‘you’re	 an	 idiot!	 You	 didn’t	 know	 what	 you	 were	 about	 when you	married—you	were	drunk.	How	could	you	tell	all	about	it?’

“So	off	I	went	to	the	house,	and	cried	out	to	them	‘You	married	me	when	I	was

drunk.’

“Akoulka’s	 mother	 tried	 to	 fasten	 herself	 on	 me;	 but	 I	 cried,	 ‘Mother,	 you

don’t	know	about	anything	but	money.	You	bring	me	Akoulka!’

“And	didn’t	I	beat	her!	I	tell	you	I	beat	her	for	two	hours	running,	till	I	rolled on	the	floor	myself	with	fatigue.	She	couldn’t	leave	her	bed	for	three	weeks.”

“It’s	 a	 dead	 sure	 thing,”	 said	 Tchérévine	 phlegmatically;	 “if	 you	 don’t	 beat

them	they——	Did	you	find	her	with	her	lover?”

“No;	 to	 tell	 the	 truth,	 I	 never	 actually	 caught	 her,”	 said	 Chichkoff	 after	 a pause,	speaking	with	effort;	“but	I	was	hurt,	a	good	deal	hurt,	for	every	one	made

fun	of	me.	The	cause	of	it	all	was	Philka.	‘Your	wife	is	just	made	for	everybody	to

look	at,’	said	he.

“One	day	he	invited	us	to	see	him,	and	then	he	went	at	it.	‘Do	just	look	what	a

good	little	wife	he	has!	Isn’t	she	tender,	fine,	nicely	brought	up,	affectionate,	full	of kindness	for	all	the	world?	I	say,	my	lad,	have	you	forgotten	how	we	daubed	their

door	with	pitch?’	I	was	full	at	that	moment,	drunk	as	may	be;	then	he	seized	me	by

the	 hair	 and	 had	 me	 down	 upon	 the	 ground	 before	 I	 knew	 where	 I	 was.	 ‘Come along—dance;	aren’t	you	Akoulka’s	husband?	I’ll	hold	your	hair	for	you,	and	you

shall	dance;	it	will	be	good	fun.’	‘Dog!’	said	I	to	him.	‘I’ll	bring	some	jolly	fellows	to your	house,’	said	he,	‘and	I’ll	whip	your	Akoulka	before	your	very	eyes	just	as	long

as	I	please.’	Would	you	believe	it?	For	a	whole	month	I	daren’t	go	out	of	the	house,

I	was	so	afraid	he’d	come	to	us	and	drag	my	wife	through	the	dirt.	And	how	I	did

beat	her	for	it!”

“What	was	the	use	of	beating	her?	You	can	tie	a	woman’s	hands,	but	not	her

tongue.	You	oughtn’t	to	give	them	a	hiding	too	often.	Beat	’em	a	bit,	then	scold	’em

well,	then	fondle	’em;	that’s	what	a	woman	is	made	for.”

Chichkoff	remained	quite	silent	for	a	few	moments.

“I	was	very	much	hurt,”	he	went	on;	“I	began	it	again	just	as	before.	I	beat	her

from	 morning	 till	 night	 for	 nothing;	 because	 she	 didn’t	 get	 up	 from	 her	 seat	 the way	 I	 liked;	 because	 she	 didn’t	 walk	 to	 suit	 me.	 When	 I	 wasn’t	 hiding	 her,	 time hung	 heavy	 on	 my	 hands.	 Sometimes	 she	 sat	 by	 the	 window	 crying	 silently—it

hurt	my	feelings	sometimes	to	see	her	cry,	but	I	beat	her	all	the	same.	Sometimes

her	 mother	 abused	 me	 for	 it:	 ‘You’re	 a	 scoundrel,	 a	 gallows-bird!’	 ‘Don’t	 say	 a word	or	I’ll	kill	you;	you	made	me	marry	her	when	I	was	drunk,	you	swindled	me.’

Old	Aukoudim	wanted	at	first	to	have	his	finger	in	the	pie.	Said	he	to	me	one	day:

‘Look	here,	you’re	not	such	a	tremendous	fellow	that	one	can’t	put	you	down;’	but

he	 didn’t	 get	 far	 on	 that	 track.	 Marie	 Stépanovna	 had	 become	 as	 sweet	 as	 milk.

One	day	she	came	to	me	crying	her	eyes	out	and	said:	‘My	heart	is	almost	broken, Ivan	Semionytch;	what	I’m	going	to	ask	of	you	is	a	little	thing	for	you,	but	it	is	a

good	deal	to	me;	let	her	go,	let	her	leave	you,	daddy	Ivan.’	Then	she	throws	herself

at	my	feet.	‘Do	give	up	being	so	angry!	Wicked	people	slander	her;	you	know	quite

well	she	was	good	when	you	married	her.’	Then	she	threw	herself	at	my	feet	again

and	cried.	But	I	was	as	hard	as	nails.	‘I	won’t	hear	a	word	you	have	to	say;	what	I

choose	 to	 do,	 I	 do,	 to	 you	 or	 anybody,	 for	 I’m	 crazed	 with	 it	 all.	 As	 to	 Philka Marosof,	he’s	my	best	and	dearest	friend.’”

“You’d	begun	to	play	your	pranks	together	again,	you	and	he?”

“No,	by	Jove!	He	was	out	of	the	way	by	this	time;	he	was	killing	himself	with

drink,	nothing	less.	He	had	spent	all	he	had	on	drink,	and	had	‘listed	for	a	soldier,

as	substitute	for	a	citizen	body	in	the	town.	In	our	parts,	when	a	lad	makes	up	his

mind	to	be	substitute	for	another,	he	is	master	of	that	house	and	everybody	there

till	he’s	called	to	the	ranks.	He	gets	the	sum	agreed	on	the	day	he	goes	off,	but	up

to	 then	 he	 lives	 in	 the	 house	 of	 the	 man	 who	 buys	 him,	 sometimes	 six	 whole months,	and	there	isn’t	a	horror	in	the	whole	world	those	fellows	are	not	guilty	of.

It’s	enough	to	make	folks	take	the	holy	images	out	of	the	house.	From	the	moment

he	 consents	 to	 be	 substitute	 for	 the	 son	 of	 the	 family	 then	 he	 considers	 himself their	patron	and	benefactor,	and	makes	them	dance	as	he	pipes,	or	else	he	goes	off

the	bargain.

“So	 Philka	 Marosof	 played	 the	 very	 mischief	 at	 the	 home	 of	 this	 townsman.

He	 slept	 with	 the	 daughter,	 pulled	 the	 master	 of	 the	 house	 by	 the	 beard	 after dinner,	 did	 anything	 that	 came	 into	 his	 head.	 They	 had	 to	 heat	 the	 bath	 for	 him every	 day,	 and,	 what’s	 more,	 give	 him	 brandy	 fumes	 with	 the	 steam	 of	 the	 bath: and	he	would	have	the	women	lead	him	by	the	arms	to	the	bath	room.6

“When	 he	 came	 back	 to	 the	 man’s	 house	 after	 a	 revel	 elsewhere,	 he	 would

stop	right	in	the	middle	of	the	road	and	cry	out:

“‘I	won’t	go	in	by	the	door;	pull	down	the	fence!’

“And	 they	 actually	 had	 to	 pull	 down	 the	 fence,	 though	 there	 was	 the	 door right	at	it	to	let	him	in.	That	all	came	to	an	end	though,	the	day	they	took	him	to

the	 regiment.	 That	 day	 he	 was	 sobered	 sufficiently.	 The	 crowd	 gathered	 all

through	the	street.

“‘They’re	taking	off	Philka	Marosof!’

“He	 made	 a	 salute	 on	 all	 sides,	 right	 and	 left.	 Just	 at	 that	 moment	 Akoulka was	 returning	 from	 the	 kitchen-garden.	 Directly	 Philka	 saw	 her	 he	 cried	 out	 to her:

“‘Stop!’	 and	 down	 he	 jumped	 from	 the	 cart	 and	 threw	 himself	 down	 at	 her

feet.

“‘My	 soul,	 my	 sweet	 little	 strawberry,	 I’ve	 loved	 you	 two	 years	 long.	 Now

they’re	 taking	 me	 off	 to	 the	 regiment	 with	 the	 band	 playing.	 Forgive	 me,	 good honest	 girl	 of	 a	 good	 honest	 father,	 for	 I’m	 nothing	 but	 a	 hound,	 and	 all	 you’ve gone	through	is	my	fault.’

“Then	he	flings	himself	down	before	her	a	second	time.	At	first	Akoulka	was

exceedingly	 frightened;	 but	 she	 made	 him	 a	 great	 bow,	 which	 nearly	 bent	 her

double.

“‘Forgive	me,	too,	my	good	lad;	but	I	am	really	not	at	all	angry	with	you.’

“As	she	went	into	the	house	I	was	at	her	heels.

“‘What	did	you	say	to	him,	you	she-devil,	you?’

“Now	 you	 may	 believe	 it	 or	 not	 as	 you	 like,	 but	 she	 looked	 at	 me	 as	 bold	 as you	please,	and	answered:

“‘I	love	him	better	than	anything	or	anybody	in	this	world.’

“‘I	say!’

“That	day	I	didn’t	utter	one	single	word.	Only	towards	evening	I	said	to	her:

‘Akoulka,	I’m	going	to	kill	you	now.’	I	didn’t	close	an	eye	the	whole	night.	I	went

into	the	little	room	leading	to	ours	and	drank	kwass.	At	daybreak	I	went	into	the

house	 again.	 ‘Akoulka,	 get	 ready	 and	 come	 into	 the	 fields.’	 I	 had	 arranged	 to	 go there	before;	my	wife	knew	it.

“‘You	are	right,’	said	she.	‘It’s	quite	time	to	begin	reaping.	I’ve	heard	that	our

labourer	is	ill	and	doesn’t	work	a	bit.’

“I	put	to	the	cart	without	saying	a	word.	As	you	go	out	of	the	town	there’s	a

forest	fifteen	versts	in	length.	At	the	end	of	it	is	our	field.	When	we	had	gone	about

three	versts	through	the	wood	I	stopped	the	horse.

“‘Come,	get	up,	Akoulka;	your	end	is	come.’

“She	looked	at	me	all	in	a	fright,	and	got	up	without	a	word.

“‘You’ve	tormented	me	enough.	Say	your	prayers.’

“I	seized	her	by	the	hair—she	had	long,	thick	tresses—I	rolled	them	round	my

arm.	 I	 held	 her	 between	 my	 knees;	 took	 out	 my	 knife;	 threw	 her	 head	 back,	 and cut	her	throat.	She	screamed;	the	blood	spurted	out.	Then	I	threw	away	my	knife.	I

pressed	her	with	all	my	might	in	my	arms.	I	put	her	on	the	ground	and	embraced

her,	yelling	with	all	my	might.	She	screamed;	I	yelled;	she	struggled	and	struggled.

The	blood—her	blood—splashed	my	face,	my	hands.	It	was	stronger	than	I	was—

stronger.	Then	I	took	fright.	I	left	her—left	my	horse	and	began	to	run;	ran	back	to

the	house.

“I	 went	 in	 the	 back	 way,	 and	 hid	 myself	 in	 the	 old	 ramshackle	 bath-house,

which	we	never	used	now.	I	lay	myself	down	under	the	seat,	and	remained	hid	till

the	dead	of	the	night.”

“And	Akoulka?”

“She	got	up	to	come	back	to	the	house;	they	found	her	later,	a	hundred	steps

from	the	place.”

“So	you	hadn’t	finished	her?”

“No.”	Chichkoff	stopped	a	while.

“Yes,”	said	Tchérévine,	“there’s	a	vein;	if	you	don’t	cut	it	at	the	first	the	man

will	go	on	struggling;	the	blood	may	flow	fast	enough,	but	he	won’t	die.”

“But	she	was	dead	all	the	same.	They	found	her	in	the	evening,	and	she	was

cold.	They	told	the	police,	and	hunted	me	up.	They	found	me	in	the	night	in	the

old	bath.

“And	 there	 you	 have	 it.	 I’ve	 been	 four	 years	 here	 already,”	 added	 he,	 after	 a pause.

“Yes,	 if	 you	 don’t	 beat	 ’em	 you	 make	 no	 way	 at	 all,”	 said	 Tchérévine

sententiously,	taking	out	his	snuff-box	once	more.	He	took	his	pinches	very	slowly,

with	long	pauses.	“For	all	that,	my	lad,	you	behaved	like	a	fool.	Why,	I	myself—I

came	 upon	 my	 wife	 with	 a	 lover.	 I	 made	 her	 come	 into	 the	 shed,	 and	 then	 I doubled	up	a	halter	and	said	to	her:

“‘To	whom	did	you	swear	to	be	faithful?—to	whom	did	you	swear	it	in	church?

Tell	me	that?’

“And	then	I	gave	it	her	with	my	halter—beat	her	and	beat	her	for	an	hour	and a	half;	till	at	last	she	was	quite	spent,	and	cried	out:

“‘I’ll	wash	your	feet	and	drink	the	water	afterwards.’

“Her	name	was	Crodotia.”

5	Daubing	the	door	of	a	house,	where	a	young	girl	lives,	is	done	to	show	that	she	is dishonoured.

6	A	mark	of	respect	paid	in	Russia	formerly,	now	disused.





CHAPTER	5.

THE	SUMMER	SEASON

April	is	come;	Holy	Week	is	not	far	off.	We	set	about	our	summer	tasks.	The

sun	becomes	hotter	and	more	brilliant	every	day;	the	atmosphere	has	the

spring	in	it,	and	acts	upon	our	nervous	system	powerfully.	The	convict,	in

his	chains,	feels	the	trembling	influence	of	the	lovely	days	like	any	other	creature;

they	 rouse	 desires	 in	 him,	 inexpressible	 longings	 for	 his	 home,	 and	 many	 other things.	I	think	that	he	misses	his	liberty,	yearns	for	freedom	more	when	the	day	is

filled	 with	 sunlight	 than	 during	 the	 rainy	 and	 melancholy	 days	 of	 autumn	 and winter.	You	may	observe	this	positively	among	convicts;	if	they	 do	feel	a	little	joy on	 a	 beautiful	 clear	 day,	 they	 have	 a	 reaction	 into	 greater	 impatience	 and

irritability.

I	noticed	that	in	spring	there	was	much	more	squabbling	in	our	prison;	there

was	 more	 noise,	 the	 yelling	 was	 greater,	 there	 were	 more	 fights;	 during	 the

working	 hours	 we	 would	 see	 a	 man	 sometimes	 fixed	 in	 a	 meditative	 gaze,	 which seemed	 lost	 in	 the	 blue	 distance	 somewhere,	 the	 other	 side	 of	 the	 Irtych,	 where stretched	the	boundless	plain,	with	its	flight	of	hundreds	of	versts,	the	free	Kirghiz

Steppe.	Long-drawn	sighs	came	to	one’s	ear,	sighs	breathed	from	the	depths	of	the

chest;	it	might	seem	that	the	air	of	those	wide	and	free	regions,	haunted	by	their

thought,	forced	the	convicts	to	draw	deep	respirations,	and	was	a	sort	of	solace	to

their	crushed	and	fettered	souls.

“Ah!”	cries	at	last	the	poor	prisoner	all	at	once,	with	a	long,	sighing	cry;	then

he	seizes	his	pick	furiously,	or	picks	up	the	bricks,	which	he	has	to	carry	from	one

place	 to	 another.	 But	 after	 a	 brief	 minute	 he	 seems	 to	 forget	 the	 passing

impression,	and	begins	laughing,	or	insulting	people	near,	so	fitful	is	his	humour;

then	 he	 attacks	 the	 work	 he	 has	 to	 do	 with	 unusual	 fire,	 labours	 with	 might	 and main,	as	if	trying	to	stifle	by	fatigue	the	grief	that	has	him	by	the	throat.	You	see

they	 are	 fellows	 of	 unimpaired	 vigour,	 all	 in	 the	 very	 flower	 of	 life,	 with	 all	 their physical	and	other	strength	about	them.

How	heavy	the	irons	are	during	this	season!	All	this	is	not	sentimentality,	it	is

the	report	of	rigorous	observation.	During	the	hot	season,	under	a	fiery	sun,	when

all	 one’s	 being,	 all	 one’s	 soul,	 is	 vividly	 conscious	 of,	 and	 intimately	 feels,	 the

unspeakably	strong	resurrection	of	nature	going	on	everywhere,	it	is	more	difficult to	support	the	confinement,	the	perpetual	surveillance,	the	tyranny	of	a	will	other

than	one’s	own.

Besides	this,	it	is	in	spring	with	the	first	song	of	the	lark	that	throughout	all

Siberia	and	Russia	men	set	out	on	the	tramp;	God’s	creatures,	if	they	can,	break

their	 prison	 and	 escape	 into	 the	 woods.	 After	 the	 stifling	 ditch	 where	 they	 work, after	the	boats,	the	irons,	the	rods	and	whips,	they	go	vagabondizing	where	they

please,	wherever	they	can	make	it	out	best;	they	eat	and	drink	what	they	can	get,

’tis	 all	 the	 time	 pot-luck	 with	 them;	 and	 by	 night	 they	 sleep	 undisturbed	 in	 the woods	 or	 in	 a	 field,	 without	 a	 care,	 without	 the	 agony	 of	 knowing	 themselves	 in prison,	as	if	they	were	God’s	own	birds;	their	“good-night”	is	said	to	the	stars,	and

the	 eye	 that	 watches	 them	 is	 the	 eye	 of	 God.	 Not	 altogether	 a	 rosy	 life,	 by	 any means;	 sometimes	 hunger	 and	 fatigue	 are	 heavy	 on	 them	 “in	 the	 service	 of

General	Cuckoo.”	Often	enough	the	wanderers	have	not	a	morsel	of	bread	to	keep

their	 teeth	 going	 for	 days	 and	 days.	 They	 have	 to	 hide	 from	 everybody,	 run	 to earth	 like	 marmots;	 sometimes	 they	 are	 driven	 to	 robbery,	 pillage—nay,	 even

murder.

“Send	a	man	there	and	he	becomes	a	child,	and	just	throws	himself	on	all	he

sees”;	that	is	what	people	say	of	those	transported	to	Siberia.	This	saying	may	be

applied	even	more	fitly	to	the	tramps.	They	are	almost	all	brigands	and	thieves,	by

necessity	 rather	 than	 inclination.	 Many	 of	 them	 are	 hardened	 to	 the	 life,

irreclaimable;	 there	 are	 convicts	 who	 go	 off	 after	 having	 served	 their	 time,	 even after	 they	 have	 been	 put	 on	 some	 land	 as	 their	 own.	 They	 ought	 to	 be	 happy	 in their	 new	 state,	 with	 their	 daily	 bread	 assured	 them.	 Well,	 it	 is	 not	 so;	 an irresistible	impulse	sends	them	wandering	off.

This	 life	 in	 the	 woods,	 wretched	 and	 fearful	 as	 it	 is,	 but	 still	 free	 and

adventurous,	 has	 a	 mysterious	 seduction	 for	 those	 who	 have	 experienced	 it;

among	these	fugitives	you	may	find	to	your	surprise,	people	of	good	habit	of	mind,

peaceable	temper,	who	had	shown	every	promise	of	becoming	settled	creatures—

good	 tillers	 of	 the	 land.	 A	 convict	 will	 marry,	 have	 children,	 live	 for	 five	 years	 in the	 same	 place,	 then	 all	 of	 a	 sudden	 he	 will	 disappear	 one	 fine	 morning,

abandoning	 wife	 and	 children,	 to	 the	 stupefaction	 of	 his	 family	 and	 the	 whole neighbourhood.

One	day,	I	was	shown	at	the	convict	establishment	one	of	these	deserters	of

the	 family	 hearthstone.	 He	 had	 committed	 no	 crime—at	 least,	 he	 was	 under suspicion	of	none—but	all	through	his	life	he	had	been	a	deserter,	a	deserter	from

every	post.	He	had	been	to	the	southern	frontier	of	the	empire,	the	other	side	of

the	 Danube,	 in	 the	 Kirghiz	 Steppe,	 in	 Eastern	 Siberia,	 the	 Caucasus,	 in	 a	 word, everywhere.	 Who	 knows?	 under	 other	 conditions	 this	 man	 might	 have	 been	 a

Robinson	Crusoe,	with	the	passion	of	travel	so	on	him.	These	details	I	have	from

other	convicts,	for	he	did	not	like	talk,	and	never	opened	his	mouth	except	when

absolutely	 necessary.	 He	 was	 a	 peasant,	 of	 quite	 small	 size,	 of	 some	 fifty	 years, very	quiet	in	demeanour,	with	a	face	so	still	as	to	seem	quite	without	any	sort	of

meaning,	 impassive	 almost	 to	 idiotcy.	 His	 delight	 was	 to	 sit	 for	 hours	 in	 the	 sun humming	 a	 sort	 of	 song	 between	 his	 teeth	 so	 softly,	 that	 five	 steps	 off	 he	 was inaudible.	His	features	were,	so	to	speak,	petrified;	he	ate	little,	principally	black

bread;	he	never	bought	white	bread	or	spirits;	my	belief	is,	he	never	had	had	any

money,	 and	 that	 he	 couldn’t	 have	 counted	 it	 if	 he	 had.	 He	 was	 indifferent	 to everything.	Sometimes	he	fed	the	prison	dogs	with	his	own	hand,	a	thing	no	one

else	was	known	to	do;	(speaking	generally,	Russians	don’t	like	giving	dogs	things

to	eat	from	the	hand).	People	said	that	he	had	been	married,	twice	even,	and	that

he	 had	 children	 somewhere.	 Why	 he	 had	 been	 sent	 as	 a	 convict,	 I	 have	 not	 the least	idea.	We	fellows	were	always	fancying	that	he	would	escape;	but	his	hour	did

not	 come,	 or	 perhaps	 had	 come	 and	 gone;	 anyhow,	 he	 went	 through	 with	 his

punishment	 without	 resistance.	 He	 seemed	 an	 element	 quite	 foreign	 to	 the

medium	wherein	he	had	his	being,	an	alien,	self-concentrated	creature.	Still,	there

was	nothing	in	this	deep	surface	calm	which	could	be	trusted;	yet,	after	all,	what

good	would	it	have	been	to	him	to	escape	from	the	place?

Compared	with	life	at	the	convict	prison,	the	vagabond	age	of	the	forests	is	as

the	joys	of	Paradise.	The	tramp’s	lot	is	wretched	enough,	but	at	least	free.	So	it	is

that	every	prisoner	all	over	the	soil	of	Russia,	becomes	restless	with	the	first	rays

of	the	smiling	spring.

Comparatively	few	form	any	settled	plan	for	flight,	they	fear	the	hindrances	in

the	 way	 and	 the	 punishment	 that	 may	 ensue;	 only	 one	 in	 a	 hundred,	 not	 more, make	up	his	mind	to	it,	but	how	to	do	it	is	a	thought	that	never	ceases	to	haunt	the

minds	of	the	ninety-nine	others.	Filled	as	they	are	with	this	longing,	anything	that

looks	 like	 giving	 a	 chance	 of	 success	 is	 a	 comfort	 to	 them;	 then	 they	 set	 about comparing	the	facts	with	cases	of	successful	escape.	I	speak	only	of	prisoners	after

and	 under	 sentence,	 for	 prisoners	 not	 yet	 tried	 and	 condemned,	 are	 much	 more

ready	 to	 try	 at	 an	 escape.	 And	 those	 who	 have	 been	 sentenced,	 rarely	 get	 away unless	 they	 attempt	 it	 in	 early	 days.	 When	 they	 have	 spent	 two	 or	 three	 years	 of their	time,	they	put	them	to	a	sort	of	credit-account	in	their	minds,	and	conclude

that	it	is	better	to	finish	with	the	law	and	be	put	on	land	as	a	free	man,	rather	than

forfeit	that	time	if	they	fail	in	escaping,	which	is	always	a	possibility.	Certainly	not more	 than	 one	 convict	 in	 ten	 succeeds	 in	 changing	 his	 lot.	 Those	 who	 do,	 are nearly	always	men	sentenced	to	an	extremely	long	punishment,	or	for	life.	Fifteen,

twenty	years	seem	like	an	eternity	to	them.	Then	there	is	the	branding,	which	is	a

great	difficulty	in	the	way	of	complete	escape.

Changing	your	lot	is	a	technical	expression.	When	a	convict	is	caught	trying

to	 escape,	 he	 is	 subjected	 to	 formal	 interrogatory,	 and	 will	 say	 he	 wanted	 to change	 his	 lot.	 This	 somewhat	 literary	 formula	 exactly	 represents	 the	 act	 in question.	No	escaped	prisoner	ever	hopes	to	become	a	perfectly	free	man,	for	he

knows	 that	 it	 is	 nearly	 impossible;	 what	 he	 looks	 for	 is	 to	 be	 sent	 to	 some	 other convict	 establishment,	 or	 to	 be	 put	 on	 the	 land,	 or	 to	 be	 tried	 again	 for	 some offence	 committed	 when	 on	 the	 tramp;	 in	 a	 word,	 to	 be	 sent	 anywhere	 else,	 it matters	 not	 where,	 so	 that	 he	 get	 out	 of	 his	 present	 prison	 which	 has	 become insufferable	to	him.	All	these	fugitives,	unless	they	find	some	unexpected	shelter

for	the	winter,	unless	they	meet	some	one	interested	in	concealing	them,	or	if—last

resort—they	 cannot	 procure—and	 sometimes	 a	 murder	 does	 it—the	 legal

document,	 which	 enables	 them	 to	 go	 about	 unmolested	 everywhere;	 all	 these

fugitives	 present	 themselves	 in	 crowds,	 during	 the	 autumn,	 in	 the	 towns	 and	 at the	prisons;	they	confess	themselves	to	be	escaped	tramps,	pass	the	winter	in	jail,

and	live	in	the	secret	hope	of	getting	away	the	following	summer.

On	 me,	 as	 well	 as	 others,	 the	 spring	 exercised	 its	 influence.	 Well	 do	 I

remember	the	avidity	with	which	my	gaze	fed	upon	the	horizon	through	the	gaps

in	 the	 palisades;	 long,	 long	 did	 I	 stand	 with	 my	 head	 glued	 to	 the	 pickets, obstinately	 and	 insatiably	 gazing	 on	 the	 grass	 greening	 in	 the	 ditch	 surrounding the	 fortress,	 and	 at	 the	 blue	 of	 the	 distant	 sky	 as	 it	 grew	 denser	 and	 denser.	 My anguish,	 my	 melancholy,	 were	 heavier	 on	 me;	 as	 each	 day	 wore	 away	 the	 jail

became	 odious,	 detestable.	 Hatred	 for	 me,	 as	 a	 man	 of	 the	 nobility,	 filled	 the hearts	 of	 the	 convicts	 during	 these	 first	 years,	 and	 this	 feeling	 of	 theirs	 simply poisoned	my	life	for	me.	Often	did	I	ask	to	be	sent	to	the	hospital,	when	there	was

no	need	of	it,	merely	to	be	out	of	the	punishment	part	of	the	place,	to	feel	myself

out	of	the	range	of	this	unrelenting	and	implacable	hostility.

“You	 nobles	 have	 beaks	 of	 iron,	 and	 you	 tore	 us	 to	 pieces	 with	 your	 beaks when	 we	 were	 serfs,”	 is	 what	 the	 convicts	 used	 to	 say	 to	 us.	 How	 I	 envied	 the people	 of	 the	 lower	 class	 who	 came	 into	 the	 place	 as	 prisoners!	 It	 was	 different with	them,	they	were	in	comradeship	with	all	there	from	the	very	first	moment.	So

was	 it	 that	 in	 the	 spring,	 Freedom	 showing	 herself	 as	 a	 sort	 of	 phantom	 of	 the season,	 the	 joy	 diffused	 throughout	 all	 Nature,	 translated	 themselves	 within	 my soul	into	a	more	than	doubled	melancholy	and	nervous	irritability.

As	the	sixth	week	of	Lent	came	I	had	to	go	through	my	religious	exercises,	for

the	 convicts	 were	 divided	 by	 the	 sub-superintendent	 into	 seven	 sections—

answering	 to	 the	 weeks	 in	 Lent—and	 these	 had	 to	 attend	 to	 their	 devotions

according	 to	 this	 roster.	 Each	 section	 was	 composed	 of	 about	 thirty	 men.	 This week	 was	 a	 great	 solace	 to	 me;	 we	 went	 two	 or	 three	 times	 a	 day	 to	 the	 church, which	was	close	to	the	prison.	I	had	not	been	in	church	for	a	long	time.	The	Lenten

services,	 familiar	 to	 me	 from	 early	 childhood	 in	 my	 father’s	 house,	 the	 solemn prayers,	the	prostrations—all	stirred	in	me	the	fibres	of	the	memory	of	things	long,

long	past,	and	woke	my	earliest	impressions	to	fresh	life.	Well	do	I	remember	how

happy	I	was	when	at	morn	we	went	into	God’s	house,	treading	the	ground	which

had	frozen	in	the	night,	under	the	escort	of	soldiers	with	loaded	guns;	the	escort

remained	outside	the	church.

Once	within	we	were	massed	close	to	the	door	so	that	we	could	scarcely	hear

anything	 except	 the	 deep	 voice	 of	 the	 ministering	 deacon;	 now	 and	 again	 we

caught	a	glimpse	of	a	black	chasuble	or	the	bare	head	of	the	priest.	Then	it	came

into	my	mind	how,	when	a	child,	I	used	to	look	at	the	common	people	who	formed

a	compact	mass	at	the	door,	and	how	they	would	step	back	in	a	servile	way	before

some	 important	 epauletted	 fellow,	 or	 some	 nobleman	 with	 a	 big	 paunch,	 some

lady	 splendidly	 dressed	 and	 of	 high	 devotion	 who,	 in	 a	 hurry	 to	 get	 at	 the	 front benches,	and	ready	for	a	row	if	there	was	any	difficulty	as	to	their	being	honoured

with	the	best	of	places.	As	it	seemed	to	me	then,	it	was	only	 there,	near	the	church door,	 not	 far	 from	 the	 entry,	 that	 prayer	 was	 put	 up	 with	 genuine	 fervour	 and humility,	only	there	that,	when	people	did	prostrate	themselves	on	the	floor	it	was

done	with	real	abasement	of	self	and	full	sense	of	unworthiness.

And	 now	 I	 myself	 was	 in	 that	 place	 of	 the	 common	 people,	 no,	 not	 in	 their place,	 for	 we	 who	 were	 there	 were	 in	 chains	 and	 degradation.	 Everybody	 kept

himself	at	a	distance	from	us.	We	were	feared,	and	alms	were	put	in	our	hands	as

if	 we	 were	 beggars;	 I	 remember	 that	 all	 this	 gave	 me	 the	 strange	 sensation	 of	 a refined	and	subtle	pleasure.	“Let	it	even	be	so!”	such	was	my	thought.	The	convicts

prayed	with	deep	fervour;	every	one	of	them	had	with	him	his	poor	farthing	for	a

little	 candle,	 or	 for	 their	 collection	 for	 the	 church	 expenses.	 “I	 too,	 I	 am	 a	 man,”

each	 one	 of	 them	 perhaps	 said,	 as	 he	 made	 his	 offering;	 “before	 God	 we	 are	 all equal.”

After	 the	 six	 o’clock	 mass	 we	 went	 up	 to	 communion.	 When	 the	 priest,

ciforium	 in	 hand,	 recited	 the	 words,	 “Have	 mercy	 on	 me	 as	 Thou	 hadst	 on	 the thief	 whom	 Thou	 didst	 save,”	 nearly	 all	 the	 convicts	 prostrated	 themselves,	 and their	 chains	 clanked;	 I	 think	 they	 took	 these	 words	 literally	 as	 applied	 to

themselves,	and	not	as	being	in	Scripture.

Holy	 Week	 came.	 The	 authorities	 presented	 each	 of	 us	 with	 an	 Easter	 egg,

and	 a	 small	 piece	 of	 wheaten	 bread.	 The	 townspeople	 loaded	 us	 with

benevolences.	 As	 at	 Christmas	 there	 was	 the	 priest’s	 visitation	 with	 the	 cross, inspecting	visit	of	the	heads	of	departments,	larded	cabbage,	general	enlargement

of	 soul,	 and	 unlimited	 lounging,	 the	 only	 difference	 being,	 that	 one	 could	 now walk	 about	 in	 the	 court-yard,	 and	 warm	 oneself	 in	 the	 sun.	 Everything	 seemed filled	 with	 more	 light,	 larger	 than	 in	 the	 winter,	 but	 also	 more	 fraught	 with sadness.	The	long,	endless,	summer	days	seemed	peculiarly	unbearable	on	Church

holidays.	Work	days	were	at	least	shortened	to	our	sense	by	the	fatigue	of	work.

Our	 summer	 labours	 were	 much	 more	 trying	 than	 the	 winter	 tasks;	 our

business	was	principally	that	of	carrying	out	engineering	works.	The	convicts	were

set	 to	 building,	 digging,	 bricklaying,	 or	 repairing	 Government	 buildings,

locksmith’s	 work,	 or	 carpentering,	 or	 painting.	 Others	 went	 into	 the	 brick-fields, and	that	was	looked	upon	by	us	as	the	hardest	of	all	we	had	laid	on	us.	The	brick-fields	 were	 situated	 about	 four	 versts	 from	 the	 fortress;	 through	 all	 the	 summer they	sent	there,	every	morning	at	six	o’clock,	a	gang	of	fifty	convicts.	For	this	gang

they	 used	 to	 pick	 out	 workmen	 who	 had	 learned	 no	 trade	 in	 particular.	 The

convicts	 took	 with	 them	 their	 bread	 for	 the	 day,	 the	 distance	 was	 too	 great	 for them	to	come	back,	eight	useless	versts,	for	dinner	with	the	others,	so	they	had	a

meal	when	they	returned	in	the	evening.

Work	was	assigned	to	each	for	the	day,	but	there	was	so	much	of	it	that	it	was

all	a	man	could	do,	nay,	more,	to	get	to	the	end	of	it.	First,	we	had	to	dig	and	carry

the	clay,	moisten	it,	and	mould	it	in	the	ditch,	and	then	make	a	goodly	quantity	of

bricks,	two	hundred	or	so,	sometimes	fifty	more	than	that.	I	was	only	twice	sent	to the	 brick-field.	 The	 convicts	 sent	 to	 this	 labour	 came	 back	 in	 the	 evening	 dead tired,	and	every	one	of	them	complained	of	the	others,	that	he	had	had	the	worst

of	 the	 work	 put	 on	 him.	 I	 believe	 that	 reproaches	 of	 this	 kind	 were	 a	 pleasure,	 a consolation	 to	 them.	 Some	 of	 them,	 however,	 liked	 the	 brick-field	 work,	 because they	got	away	from	the	town,	and	to	the	banks	of	the	Irtych	into	open,	agreeable

country,	with	the	sky	overhead;	the	surroundings	were	more	agreeable	than	those

frightful	Government	buildings.	They	were	allowed	to	smoke	there	in	all	freedom,

and	to	remain	lying	down	for	half-an-hour	or	so,	which	was	a	great	pleasure.

As	for	me,	I	was	sent	to	one	of	the	shops,	or	else	to	pound	up	alabaster,	or	to

carry	bricks,	which	last	job	I	had	for	two	months	together.	I	had	to	take	my	tale	of

bricks	from	the	banks	of	the	Irtych	to	a	distance	of	about	140	yards,	and	to	pass

the	ditch	of	the	fortress	before	getting	to	the	barrack	which	they	were	putting	up.

This	 work	 suited	 me	 well	 enough,	 although	 the	 cord	 with	 which	 I	 carried	 my

bricks	 sawed	 my	 shoulders;	 what	 particularly	 pleased	 me	 was	 that	 my	 strength

increased	sensibly.	At	the	outset	I	could	not	carry	more	than	eight	bricks	at	once;

each	 of	 them	 weighed	 about	 twelve	 pounds.	 I	 got	 to	 be	 able	 to	 carry	 twelve,	 or even	 fifteen,	 which	 delighted	 me	 much.	 You	 wanted	 physical	 as	 well	 as	 moral

strength	to	be	able	to	bear	all	the	discomforts	of	that	accursed	life.

There	 was	 this,	 too:	 I	 wanted,	 when	 I	 left	 the	 place,	 really	 to	 live,	 not	 to	 be half-dead.	I	took	pleasure	in	carrying	my	bricks,	then;	it	was	not	merely	that	this

labour	 strengthened	 my	 body,	 but	 because	 it	 took	 me	 always	 to	 the	 banks	 of	 the Irtych.	 I	 speak	 often	 of	 this	 spot,	 it	 was	 the	 only	 one	 where	 we	 saw	 God’s	 own world,	a	pure	and	bright	horizon,	the	free	desert	steppes,	whose	bareness	always

produced	a	strange	impression	on	me.	All	the	other	workyards	were	in	the	fortress

itself,	or	in	its	neighbourhood;	and	the	fortress,	from	the	earliest	days	I	was	there,

was	the	object	of	my	hatred,	and,	above	all,	its	appurtenant	buildings.	The	house

of	the	Major	Commandant	seemed	to	me	a	repulsive,	accursed	place.	I	never	could

pass	it	without	casting	upon	it	a	look	of	detestation;	while	at	the	river-bank	I	could

forget	my	miserable	self	as	I	sent	my	gaze	over	the	immense	desert	space,	just	as	a

prisoner	may	when	he	looks	at	the	world	of	freedom	through	the	barred	casement

of	his	dungeon.	Everything	in	that	place	was	dear	and	gracious	to	my	eyes;	the	sun

shining	 in	 the	 infinite	 blue	 of	 heaven,	 the	 distant	 song	 of	 the	 Kirghiz	 that	 came from	the	opposite	bank.

Sometimes	I	would	fix	my	sight	for	a	long	while	upon	the	poor	smoky	cabin	of some	 baïgouch;	I	would	study	the	bluish	smoke	as	it	curled	in	the	air,	the	Kirghiz woman	busy	with	her	two	sheep.	.	.	.	The	things	I	saw	were	wild,	savage,	poverty-stricken;	but	they	were	free.	I	would	follow	the	flight	of	a	bird	threading	its	way	in

the	pure	transparent	air;	now	it	skims	the	water,	now	disappears	in	the	azure	sky,

now	 suddenly	 comes	 to	 view	 again,	 a	 mere	 point	 in	 space.	 Even	 the	 poor	 wee floweret	fading	in	a	cleft	of	the	bank,	which	would	show	itself	when	spring	began,

fixed	my	attention	and	would	draw	my	tears.	.	.	.	The	melancholy	of	this	first	year

of	 convict	 life	 and	 hard	 labour	 was	 unendurable,	 too	 much	 for	 my	 strength.	 The anguish	of	it	was	so	great,	I	could	not	notice	my	immediate	surroundings	at	all;	I

merely	 shut	 my	 eyes	 and	 would	 not	 see.	 Among	 the	 creatures	 with	 spoiled	 lives with	whom	I	had	to	live,	I	did	not	yet	note	those	who	were	capable	of	thinking	and

feeling,	 in	 spite	 of	 their	 external	 repulsiveness.	 There	 came	 not	 to	 my	 ears	 (or	 if there	 did	 I	 knew	 it	 not)	 one	 word	 of	 kindliness	 in	 the	 midst	 of	 the	 rain	 of poisonous	 talk	 that	 came	 down	 all	 the	 time.	 Still	 one	 such	 utterance	 there	 was, simple,	straightforward,	of	pure	motive,	and	it	came	from	the	heart	of	a	man	who

had	suffered	and	endured	more	than	myself.	But	it	is	useless	to	enlarge	on	this.

The	great	fatigue	I	underwent	was	a	source	of	satisfaction,	it	gave	me	hope	of





sound	 sleep.	 During	 the	 summer	 sleep	 was	 torment,	 more	 intolerable	 than	 the

closeness	and	infection	winter	brought	with	it.	Some	of	the	nights	were	certainly

very	 beautiful.	 The	 sun,	 which	 had	 not	 ceased	 to	 inundate	 the	 court-yard	 all	 the day,	 hid	 itself	 at	 last.	 The	 air	 freshened,	 and	 the	 night,	 the	 night	 of	 the	 steppe, became	comparatively	cold.	The	convicts,	until	shut	up	in	their	barracks,	walked

about	 in	 groups,	 especially	 on	 the	 kitchen	 side;	 for	 that	 was	 the	 place	 where questions	 of	 general	 interest	 were	 by	 preference	 discussed,	 and	 comments	 were

made	 upon	 the	 rumours	 from	 without,	 often	 absurd	 indeed,	 but	 always	 keenly

exciting	to	these	men	cut	off	from	the	world.	For	example,	we	suddenly	learn	that

our	Major	had	been	roughly	dismissed	from	his	post.	Convicts	are	as	credulous	as

children;	they	know	the	news	to	be	false,	or	most	unlikely,	and	that	the	fellow	who

brings	it	is	a	past	master	in	the	art	of	lying,	Kvassoff;	for	all	that	they	clutch	at	the nonsensical	story,	go	into	high	delight	over	it,	are	much	consoled,	and	at	last	quite

ashamed	to	have	been	duped	by	a	Kvassoff.

“I	 should	 like	 to	 know	 who’ll	 show	 him	 the	 door?”	 cries	 one	 convict;	 “don’t you	fear,	he’s	a	fellow	who	knows	how	to	stick	on.”

“But,”	 says	 another,	 “he	 has	 his	 superiors	 over	 him.”	 This	 one	 is	 a	 warm controversialist,	and	has	seen	the	world.

“Wolves	 don’t	 feed	 on	 one	 another,”	 says	 a	 third	 gloomily,	 half	 to	 himself.

This	one	is	an	old	fellow,	growing	gray,	and	he	always	takes	his	sour	cabbage	soup into	a	corner,	and	eats	it	there.

“Do	you	think	his	superiors	will	take	 your	advice	whether	they	shall	show	him

the	door	or	not?”	adds	a	fourth,	who	doesn’t	seem	to	care	about	it	at	all,	giving	a

stroke	to	his	balalaïka.

“Well,	why	not?”	replies	the	second	angrily;	“if	you	 are	asked,	answer	what’s

in	your	mind.	But	no,	with	us	fellows	it’s	all	mere	cry,	and	when	you	ought	to	go	at

things	with	a	will,	everybody	sneaks	out.”

“That’s	 so!”	says	the	one	playing	with	the	balalaïka.	“Hard	labour	and	prison

are	just	the	things	to	cause	 that.”

“It	 was	 like	 that	 the	 other	 day,”	 says	 the	 second	 one,	 without	 hearing	 the

remark	 made	 to	 him.	 “There	 was	 a	 little	 wheat	 left,	 sweepings,	 a	 mere	 nothing; there	was	some	idea	of	turning	the	refuse	into	money;	well,	look	here,	they	took	it

to	him,	and	he	confiscated	it.	All	economy,	you	see.	Was	that	 so,	and	was	it	right—

yes	or	no?”

“But	whom	can	you	complain	to?”

“To	whom?	Why,	the	‘spector	( Inspector)	who’s	coming.”

“What	‘spector?”

“It’s	 true,	 pals,	 a	 ‘spector	 is	 coming	 soon,”	 said	 a	 youthful	 convict,	 who	 had got	some	sort	of	knowledge,	had	read	the	“Duchesse	de	la	Vallière,”	or	some	book

of	that	sort,	and	who	had	been	Quartermaster	in	a	regiment;	a	bit	of	a	wag,	whom,

as	a	man	of	information,	the	convicts	held	in	a	sort	of	respect.	Without	paying	the

least	attention	to	the	exciting	debate,	he	goes	straight	to	the	cook,	and	asks	him	for

some	liver.	Our	cooks	often	deal	in	victuals	of	that	kind;	they	used	to	buy	a	whole

liver,	cut	it	in	pieces,	and	sell	it	to	the	other	convicts.

“Two	kopecks’	worth,	or	four?”	asks	cook.

“A	 four-kopeck	 cut;	 I’ll	 eat,	 the	 others	 shall	 look	 on	 and	 long,”	 says	 this convict.	“Yes,	pals,	a	general,	a	real	general,	is	coming	from	Petersburg	to	‘spect	all

Siberia;	it’s	so,	heard	it	at	the	Governor’s	place.”

This	news	produces	an	extraordinary	effect.	For	a	quarter	of	an	hour	they	ask each	other	who	this	General	can	be?	what’s	his	title?	whether	his	grade	is	higher

than	 that	 of	 the	 Generals	 of	 our	 town?	 The	 convicts	 delight	 in	 discussing	 ranks and	 degrees,	 in	 finding	 out	 who’s	 at	 the	 head	 of	 things,	 who	 can	 make	 the	 other officials	 crook	 their	 backs,	 and	 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 exquartermaster	 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	tomorrow,	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	day

Gavrilka,	 a	 thorough-paced	 rascal,	 known	 as	 a	 tramp,	 but	 of	 very	 gay	 and	 lively turn,	 avowed	 himself	 the	 author	 of	 the	 crime.	 As	 a	 matter	 of	 fact	 I	 don’t	 know whether	he	actually	made	this	avowal	himself,	but	what	is	sure	is	that	the	convicts

held	him	to	be	the	murderer	of	the	Kirghiz.

This	 Gavrilka,	 while	 still	 tramping	 about,	 had	 been	 mixed	 up	 in	 some	 way

with	 the	 Lomofs	 (his	 confinement	 in	 one	 jail	 was	 for	 quite	 a	 short	 sentence,	 for desertion	 from	 the	 army	 and	 tramping).	 He	 had	 cut	 the	 throats	 of	 the	 Kirghiz—

three	 other	 marauding	 fellows	 had	 been	 in	 it	 with	 him—in	 the	 hope	 of	 setting themselves	up	a	bit	with	the	plunder	of	the	farm.

The	Lomofs	were	no	favourites	with	us,	I	really	don’t	know	why.	One	of	them,

the	 nephew,	 was	 a	 sturdy	 fellow,	 intelligent	 and	 sociable;	 but	 his	 uncle,	 the	 one that	struck	Gavrilka	with	the	awl,	was	a	choleric,	stupid	rustic,	always	quarrelling

with	the	convicts,	who	knocked	him	about	like	plaster.	All	the	jail	liked	Gavrilka

for	his	gaiety	and	good-humour.	The	Lomofs	got	to	know,	like	the	rest,	that	he	was

the	man	who	committed	the	crime	they	were	condemned	for;	but	they	never	got

into	any	quarrel	with	him.	Gavrilka	paid	no	attention	whatever	to	them.

The	 row	 with	 Uncle	 Lomof	 began	 about	 some	 disgusting	 girl	 they	 had

quarrelled	 over.	 Gavrilka	 had	 boasted	 of	 the	 favour	 she	 had	 shown	 him.	 The

peasant,	mad	with	jealousy,	ended	by	driving	an	awl	into	his	chest.

Although	the	Lomofs	had	been	ruined	by	their	trial	and	sentence,	they	passed

in	 the	 jail	 for	 being	 very	 rich.	 They	 had	 money,	 a	 samovar,	 and	 drank	 tea.	 Our Major	knew	all	about	it,	and	hated	the	two	Lomofs,	sparing	them	no	vexation.	The

victims	of	his	hate	explained	it	by	a	desire	to	have	them	grease	his	palm	well,	but

they	could	not,	or	would	not,	bring	themselves	to	do	it.

If	 Uncle	 Lomof	 had	 struck	 his	 awl	 one	 hair’s	 breadth	 further	 in	 Gavrilka’s

breast	 he	 would	 certainly	 have	 killed	 him;	 as	 it	 was,	 the	 wound	 did	 not	 much signify.	The	affair	was	reported	to	the	Major.	I	think	I	see	him	now	as	he	came	up

out	 of	 breath,	 but	 with	 visible	 satisfaction.	 He	 addressed	 Gavrilka	 in	 an	 affable, fatherly	way:

“Tell	me,	lad,	can	you	walk	to	the	hospital	or	must	they	carry	you	there?	No,	I

think	 it	 will	 be	 better	 to	 have	 a	 horse;	 let	 them	 put	 a	 horse	 to	 this	 moment!”	 he cried	out	to	the	sub-officer	with	a	gasp.

“But	I	don’t	feel	it	at	all,	your	worship;	he’s	only	given	me	a	bit	of	a	prick,	your

worship.”

“You	 don’t	 know,	 my	 dear	 fellow,	 you	 don’t	 know;	 you’ll	 see.	 A	 nasty	 place

he’s	struck	you	in.	All	depends	upon	the	place.	He	has	given	it	you	just	below	the

heart,	the	scoundrel.	Wait,	wait!”	he	howled	to	Lomof.	“I’ve	got	you	tight;	take	him

to	the	guard-house.”

He	 kept	 his	 promise.	 Lomof	 was	 tried,	 and,	 though	 the	 wound	 was	 slight,

there	was	plainly	malice	aforethought;	his	sentence	of	hard	labour	was	extended

for	several	years,	and	they	gave	him	a	thousand	strokes	with	the	rod.	The	Major

was	delighted.

The	Inspector	arrived	at	last.

The	 day	 after	 he	 reached	 the	 town,	 he	 came	 to	 the	 convict	 establishment	 to

make	his	inspection.	It	was	a	regular	fête-day.	For	some	days	everything	had	been

brilliantly	 clean,	 washed	 with	 great	 precision.	 The	 convicts	 were	 all	 just	 shaven, their	 linen	 quite	 white	 and	 without	 a	 stain.	 (According	 to	 the	 regulations,	 they wore	 in	 summer	 waistcoats	 and	 pantaloons	 of	 canvas.	 Every	 one	 had	 a	 round

black	piece	sown	in	at	the	back,	eight	centimetres	in	diameter.)	For	a	whole	hour

the	prisoners	had	been	drilled	as	to	what	they	should	answer,	the	very	words	to	be

used,	particularly	if	the	high	functionary	should	take	any	notice	of	them.

There	 had	 been	 even	 regular	 rehearsals.	 The	 Major	 seemed	 to	 have	 lost	 his

head.	An	hour	before	the	coming	in	of	the	Inspector,	all	the	convicts	were	at	their

posts,	as	stiff	as	statues,	with	their	little	fingers	on	the	seams	of	their	pantaloons.

At	 last,	 just	 about	 one	 o’clock	 the	 Inspector	 made	 his	 entry.	 He	 was	 a	 General, with	a	most	self-sufficing	bearing,	so	much	so,	that	the	mere	sight	of	it	must	have

sent	a	tremor	into	the	hearts	of	all	the	officials	of	West	Siberia.

He	came	in	with	a	stern	and	majestic	air,	followed	by	a	crowd	of	Generals	and

Colonels	doing	service	in	our	town.	There	was	a	civilian,	too,	of	high	stature	and

regular	 features,	 in	 frock-coat	 and	 shoes.	 This	 personage	 bore	 himself	 very

independently	 and	 airily,	 and	 the	 General	 addressed	 him	 every	 moment	 with

exquisite	politeness.	This	civilian	also	had	come	from	Petersburg.	All	the	convicts

were	terribly	curious	as	to	who	he	could	be,	such	an	important	General	showing

him	such	deference?	We	learned	who	he	was	and	what	his	office	later,	but	he	was a	good	deal	talked	about	before	we	knew.

Our	 Major,	 all	 spick	 and	 span,	 with	 orange-coloured	 collar,	 made	 no	 too

favourable	 impression	 upon	 the	 General;	 the	 blood-shot	 eyes	 and	 fiery	 rubicund complexion	 plainly	 told	 their	 own	 story.	 Out	 of	 respect	 for	 his	 superior	 he	 had taken	off	his	spectacles,	and	stood	some	way	off,	as	straight	as	a	dart,	in	feverish

expectation	 that	 something	 would	 be	 asked	 of	 him,	 that	 he	 might	 run	 and	 carry out	 His	 Excellency’s	 wishes;	 but	 no	 particular	 need	 of	 his	 services	 seemed	 to	 be felt.

The	 General	 went	 all	 through	 the	 barracks	 without	 saying	 a	 word,	 threw	 a

glance	into	the	kitchen,	where	he	tasted	the	sour	cabbage	soup.	They	pointed	me

out	to	him,	telling	him	that	I	was	an	exnobleman,	who	had	done	this,	that,	and	the

other.

“Ah!”	answered	the	General.	“And	how	does	he	conduct	himself?”

“Satisfactorily	for	the	time	being,	your	Excellency,	satisfactorily.”

The	 General	 nodded,	 and	 left	 the	 jail	 in	 a	 couple	 of	 minutes	 more.	 The

convicts	 were	 dazzled	 and	 disappointed,	 and	 did	 not	 know	 what	 to	 be	 at.	 As	 to laying	complaints	against	the	Major,	that	was	quite	over,	could	not	be	thought	of.

He	had,	no	doubt,	been	quite	well	assured	as	to	this	beforehand.





CHAPTER	6.

THE	ANIMALS	AT	THE	CONVICT	ESTABLISHMENT

Gniedko,	a	bay	horse,	was	bought	a	little	while	afterwards,	and	the	event

furnished	 a	 much	 more	 agreeable	 and	 interesting	 diversion	 to	 the

convicts	 than	 the	 visit	 of	 the	 high	 personage	 I	 have	 been	 talking	 about.

We	required	a	horse	at	the	jail	for	carrying	water,	refuse	matter,	etc.	He	was	given

to	a	convict	to	take	care	of	and	use;	this	man	drove	him,	under	escort,	of	course.

Our	horse	had	plenty	to	do	morning	and	night;	it	was	a	worthy	sort	of	beast,	but	a

good	deal	worn,	and	had	been	in	service	for	a	long	time	already.

One	 fine	 morning,	 the	 eve	 of	 St.	 Peter’s	 Day,	 Gniedko,	 our	 bay,	 who	 was

dragging	 a	 barrel	 of	 water,	 fell	 all	 of	 a	 heap,	 and	 gave	 up	 the	 ghost	 in	 a	 few minutes.	He	was	much	regretted,	so	all	the	convicts	gathered	round	him	to	discuss

his	death.	Those	who	had	served	in	the	cavalry,	the	Tsigans,	the	veterinary	fellows,

and	others,	showed	a	profound	knowledge	of	horses	in	general	and	fiercely	argued

the	 question;	 but	 all	 that	 did	 not	 bring	 our	 bay	 horse	 to	 life	 again;	 there	 he	 was stretched	out	and	dead,	with	his	belly	all	swollen.	Every	one	thought	it	incumbent

on	him	to	feel	about	the	poor	thing	with	his	hands;	finally	the	Major	was	informed

of	what	Providence	had	done	in	the	horse’s	case,	and	it	was	decided	that	another

should	be	bought	at	once.

St.	Peter’s	Day,	quite	early	after	mass,	all	the	convicts	being	together,	horses

that	were	on	sale	were	brought	in.	It	was	left	to	the	prisoners	to	choose	an	animal,

for	 there	 were	 some	 thorough	 experts	 among	 them,	 and	 it	 would	 have	 been

difficult	 to	 take	 in	 250	 men,	 with	 whom	 horse-dealing	 had	 been	 a	 speciality.

Tsigans,	 Lesghians,	 professional	 horse-dealers,	 townsmen,	 came	 in	 to	 deal.	 The

convicts	were	exceedingly	eager	about	the	matter	as	each	fresh	horse	was	brought

up,	and	were	as	amused	as	children	about	it	all.	It	seemed	to	tickle	their	fancy	very

much,	that	they	had	to	buy	a	horse	like	free	men,	just	as	if	it	was	for	themselves

and	the	money	was	to	come	out	of	their	own	pockets.	Three	horses	were	brought

and	 taken	 away	 before	 purchase;	 the	 fourth	 was	 settled	 on.	 The	 horse-dealers

seemed	astonished	and	a	little	awed	at	the	soldiers	of	the	escort	who	watched	the

business.	Two	hundred	men,	clean	shaven,	branded	as	they	were,	with	chains	on

their	feet,	were	well	calculated	to	inspire	respect,	all	the	more	as	they	were	in	their

own	place,	at	home	so	to	speak,	in	their	own	convict’s	den,	where	nobody	was	ever

allowed	to	come.

Our	fellows	seemed	to	be	up	to	no	end	of	tricks	for	finding	out	the	real	value

of	a	horse	brought	up;	they	carefully	examined	it,	handled	it	with	the	most	serious

demeanour,	went	on	as	if	the	welfare	of	the	establishment	was	bound	up	with	the

purchase	of	this	beast.	The	Circassians	took	the	liberty	of	jumping	upon	his	back:

their	 eyes	 shone	 wildly,	 they	 chatted	 rapidly	 in	 their	 incomprehensible	 dialect, showed	 their	 white	 teeth,	 dilating	 the	 nostrils	 of	 their	 hooked	 copper-coloured noses.	 There	 were	 some	 Russians	 who	 paid	 the	 most	 lively	 attention	 to	 their

discussion,	 and	 seemed	 ready	 to	 jump	 down	 their	 throats;	 they	 did	 not

understand	a	word,	but	it	was	plain	they	did	what	they	could	to	gather	from	the

expression	of	the	eyes	of	the	fellows	whether	the	horse	was	good	or	not.	But	what

could	 it	 matter	 to	 a	 convict,	 especially	 to	 some	 of	 them,	 who	 were	 creatures altogether	 down	 and	 done	 for,	 who	 never	 ventured	 to	 utter	 a	 single	 word	 to	 the others?	What	 could	it	matter	to	such	as	these,	whether	one	horse	or	another	was

bought?	Yet	it	seemed	as	if	it	did.	The	Circassians	appeared	to	be	most	relied	on

for	their	opinion,	and	besides	these	a	foremost	place	in	the	discussion	was	given	to

the	Tsigans,	and	those	who	had	formerly	been	horse-dealers.

There	was	a	regular	sort	of	duel	between	two	convicts—the	Tsigan	Koulikoff,

who	 had	 been	 a	 horse-dealer	 and	 stealer,	 and	 another	 who	 had	 been	 a

professional	 veterinary,	 a	 tricky	 Siberian	 peasant,	 who	 had	 been	 at	 the

establishment	and	at	hard	labour	for	some	time,	and	who	had	succeeded	in	getting

all	 Koulikoff’s	 practice	 in	 the	 town.	 I	 ought	 to	 mention	 that	 the	 veterinary practitioners	at	the	prison,	though	without	diploma,	were	very	much	sought	after,

and	that	not	only	the	townspeople	and	tradespeople,	but	high	officials	in	the	city,

took	 their	 advice	 when	 their	 horses	 fell	 ill,	 rather	 than	 that	 of	 several	 regularly diplomatised	veterinaries	who	were	at	the	place.

Till	 Jolkin	 came,	 the	 Siberian	 peasant	 Koulikoff	 had	 had	 plenty	 of	 clients

from	whom	he	had	had	fees	in	good	hard	cash.	He	was	looked	on	as	quite	at	the

head	of	his	business.	He	was	a	Tsigan	all	over	in	his	doings,	liar	and	cheat,	and	not

at	 all	 the	 master	 of	 his	 art	 he	 boasted	 of	 being.	 The	 income	 he	 made	 had	 raised him	to	be	a	sort	of	aristocrat	among	our	convicts;	he	was	listened	to	and	obeyed,

but	he	spoke	little,	and	expressed	an	opinion	only	in	great	emergencies.	He	blew

his	own	trumpet	loudly,	but	he	really	was	a	fellow	of	great	energy;	he	was	of	ripe

age,	and	of	quite	marked	intelligence.	When	he	spoke	to	us	of	the	nobility,	he	did

so	 with	 exquisite	 politeness	 and	 perfect	 dignity.	 I	 am	 sure	 that	 if	 he	 had	 been suitably	dressed,	and	introduced	into	a	club	at	the	capital	with	the	title	of	Count,

he	would	have	lived	up	to	it;	played	whist,	talked	to	admiration	like	a	man	used	to

command,	and	one	who	knew	when	to	hold	his	tongue.	I	am	sure	that	the	whole

evening	 would	 have	 passed	 without	 any	 one	 guessing	 that	 the	 “Count”	 was

nothing	 but	 a	 vagabond.	 He	 had	 very	 probably	 had	 a	 very	 large	 and	 varied

experience	in	life;	as	to	his	past,	it	was	quite	unknown	to	us.	They	kept	him	among

the	convicts	who	formed	a	special	section	reserved	from	the	others.

But	 no	 sooner	 had	 Jolkin	 come—he	 was	 a	 simple	 peasant,	 one	 of	 the	 “old

believers,”	but	just	as	tricky	as	it	was	possible	for	a	moujik	to	be—the	veterinary

glory	 of	 Koulikoff	 paled	 sensibly.	 In	 less	 than	 two	 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	a	ditch	used	for	 ejecta,	which	was	in	the	most	distant	corner	of	the	court,	and which	stank	most	horribly	during	the	summer	heats,	for	it	was	rarely	seen	to.

I	think	the	poor	beast	understood	the	fate	in	store	for	him.	It	looked	at	us	one

after	another	in	a	distressed,	scrutinising	way;	at	intervals	it	gave	a	timid	little	wag with	 its	 bushy	 tail	 between	 its	 legs,	 as	 though	 trying	 to	 reach	 our	 hearts	 by showing	 us	 every	 confidence.	 I	 hastened	 away	 from	 the	 convicts,	 who	 finished

their	vile	work	without	hindrance.

As	 to	 the	 geese	 of	 the	 establishment,	 they	 had	 established	 themselves	 there

quite	 fortuitously.	 Who	 took	 care	 of	 them?	 To	 whom	 did	 they	 belong?	 I	 really don’t	know;	but	they	were	a	huge	delight	to	our	convicts,	and	acquired	a	certain

fame	throughout	the	town.

They	 had	 been	 hatched	 in	 the	 convict	 establishment	 somewhere,	 and	 their

head-quarters	was	the	kitchen,	whence	they	emerged	in	gangs	of	their	own,	when

the	gangs	of	convicts	went	out	to	their	work.	But	as	soon	as	the	drum	beat	and	the

prisoners	 massed	 themselves	 at	 the	 great	 gate,	 out	 ran	 the	 geese	 after	 them, cackling	and	flapping	their	wings,	then	they	jumped	one	after	the	other	over	the

elevated	threshold	of	the	gateway;	while	the	convicts	were	at	their	work,	the	geese

pecked	about	at	a	little	distance	from	them.	As	soon	as	they	had	done	and	set	out

for	the	jail,	again	the	geese	joined	the	procession,	and	people	who	passed	by	would

cry	out,	“I	say,	there	are	the	prisoners	with	their	friends,	the	geese!”	“How	did	you

teach	 them	 to	 follow	 you?”	 some	 one	 would	 ask.	 “Here’s	 some	 money	 for	 your

geese,”	another	said,	putting	his	hand	in	his	pocket.	In	spite	of	their	devotion	to

the	convicts	they	had	their	necks	twisted	to	make	a	feast	at	the	end	of	the	Lent	of

some	year,	I	forget	which.

Nobody	 would	 ever	 have	 made	 up	 his	 mind	 to	 kill	 our	 goat	 Vaska,	 unless

something	 particular	 had	 happened;	 as	 it	 did.	 I	 don’t	 know	 how	 it	 got	 into	 our

prison,	or	who	had	brought	it.	It	was	a	white	kid,	and	very	pretty.	After	some	days it	had	won	all	hearts,	it	was	diverting	and	winning.	As	some	excuse	was	needed	for

keeping	it	in	the	jail,	it	was	given	out	that	it	was	quite	necessary	to	have	a	goat	in

the	 stables;	 but	 he	 didn’t	 live	 there,	 but	 in	 the	 kitchen	 principally;	 and	 after	 a while	 he	 roamed	 about	 all	 over	 the	 place.	 The	 creature	 was	 full	 of	 grace	 and	 as playful	as	could	be,	jumped	on	the	tables,	wrestled	with	the	convicts,	came	when	it

was	called,	and	was	always	full	of	spirits	and	fun.

One	 evening,	 the	 Lesghian	 Babaï,	 who	 was	 seated	 on	 the	 stone	 steps	 at	 the

doors	 of	 the	 barracks	 among	 a	 crowd	 of	 other	 convicts,	 took	 it	 into	 his	 head	 to have	a	wrestling	bout	with	Vaska,	whose	horns	were	pretty	long.

They	 butted	 their	 foreheads	 against	 one	 another—that	 was	 the	 way	 the

convicts	amused	themselves	with	him—when	all	of	a	sudden	Vaska	jumped	on	the

highest	 step,	 lifted	 himself	 up	 on	 his	 hind	 legs,	 drew	 his	 fore-feet	 to	 him	 and managed	 to	 strike	 the	 Lesghian	 on	 the	 back	 of	 the	 neck	 with	 all	 his	 might,	 and with	such	effect	that	Babaï	went	headlong	down	the	steps	to	the	great	delight	of	all

who	were	by	as	well	as	of	Babaï	himself.

In	 a	 word,	 we	 all	 adored	 our	 Vaska.	 When	 he	 attained	 the	 age	 of	 puberty,	 a general	and	serious	consultation	was	held,	as	the	result	of	which,	he	was	subjected

to	 an	 operation	 which	 one	 of	 the	 prison	 veterinaries	 executed	 in	 a	 masterly

manner.

“Well,”	 said	 the	 prisoners,	 “he	 won’t	 have	 any	 goat-smell	 about	 him,	 that’s

one	comfort.”

Vaska	then	began	to	lay	on	fat	in	the	most	surprising	way.	I	must	say	that	we

fed	 him	 quite	 unconscionably.	 He	 became	 a	 most	 beautiful	 fellow,	 with

magnificent	horns,	corpulent	beyond	anything.	Sometimes	as	he	walked,	he	rolled

over	on	the	ground	heavily	out	of	sheer	fatness.	He	went	with	us	out	to	work	too,

which	 was	 very	 diverting	 to	 the	 convicts	 and	 all	 others	 who	 saw;	 and	 everybody got	to	know	Vaska,	the	jailbird.

When	 they	 worked	 at	 the	 river	 bank,	 the	 prisoners	 used	 to	 cut	 willow

branches	and	other	foliage,	and	gather	flowers	in	the	ditches	to	ornament	Vaska.

They	 used	 to	 twine	 the	 branches	 and	 flowers	 round	 his	 horns	 and	 decorate	 his body	 with	 garlands.	 Vaska	 then	 came	 back	 at	 the	 head	 of	 the	 gang	 in	 a	 splendid state	of	ornamentation,	and	we	all	came	after	in	high	pride	at	seeing	him	such	a

beauty.

This	 love	 for	 our	 goat	 went	 so	 far	 that	 prisoners	 raised	 the	 question,	 not	 a very	 wise	 one,	 whether	 Vaska	 ought	 not	 to	 have	 his	 horns	 gilded.	 It	 was	 a	 vain idea;	nothing	came	of	it.	I	asked	Akim	Akimitch,	the	best	gilder	in	the	jail,	whether

you	really	could	gild	a	goat’s	horns.	He	examined	Vaska’s	quite	closely,	thought	a

bit,	and	then	said	that	it	could	be	done,	but	that	it	would	not	last,	and	would	be

quite	useless.	So	nothing	came	of	it.	Vaska	would	have	lived	for	many	years	more,

and,	no	doubt,	have	died	of	asthma	at	last,	if,	one	day	as	he	returned	from	work	at

the	 head	 of	 the	 convicts,	 his	 path	 had	 not	 been	 crossed	 by	 the	 Major,	 who	 was seated	in	his	carriage.	Vaska	was	in	particularly	gorgeous	array.

“Halt!”	yelled	the	Major.	“Whose	goat	is	that?”

They	told	him.

“What!	a	goat	in	the	prison!	and	that	without	my	leave?	Sub-officer!”

The	sub-officer	received	orders	to	kill	the	goat	without	a	moment’s	delay;	flay

him,	 and	 sell	 his	 skin;	 and	 put	 the	 proceeds	 to	 the	 prisoners’	 account.	 As	 to	 the meat,	he	ordered	it	to	be	cooked	with	the	convicts’	cabbage	soup.

The	 occurrence	 was	 much	 discussed;	 the	 goat	 was	 much	 mourned;	 but

nobody	 dared	 to	 disobey	 the	 Major.	 Vaska	 was	 put	 to	 death	 close	 to	 the	 ditch	 I spoke	of	just	now.	One	of	the	convicts	bought	the	carcase,	paying	a	rouble	and	fifty

kopecks.	 With	 this	 money	 white	 bread	 was	 bought	 for	 everybody.	 The	 man	 who

had	bought	the	goat	sold	him	at	retail	in	a	roasted	state.	The	meat	was	delicious.

We	 had	 also,	 during	 some	 time,	 in	 our	 prison	 a	 steppe	 eagle;	 a	 quite	 small species.	 A	 convict	 brought	 it	 in,	 wounded,	 half-dead.	 Everybody	 came	 flocking

around	it;	it	could	not	fly,	its	right	wing	being	quite	powerless;	one	of	its	legs	was

badly	hurt.	It	gazed	on	the	curious	crowd	wrathfully,	and	opened	its	crooked	beak,

as	if	prepared	to	sell	its	life	dearly.	When	we	had	looked	at	him	long	enough,	and

the	 crowd	 dispersed,	 the	 lamed	 bird	 went	 off,	 hopping	 on	 one	 paw	 and	 flapping his	wing,	and	hid	himself	in	the	most	distant	part	of	the	place	he	could	find;	there

he	huddled	himself	in	a	corner	against	the	palings.

During	 the	 three	 months	 that	 he	 remained	 in	 our	 court-yard	 he	 never	 came

out	of	his	corner.	At	first	we	went	to	look	at	him	pretty	often,	and	sometimes	they

set	Bull	at	him,	who	threw	himself	forward	with	fury,	but	was	frightened	to	go	too

near,	which	mightily	amused	the	convicts.	“A	wild	chap	that!	He	won’t	stand	any

nonsense!”	 But	 Bull	 after	 a	 while	 got	 over	 his	 fright,	 and	 began	 to	 worry	 him.

When	he	was	roused	to	it,	the	dog	would	catch	hold	of	the	bird’s	bad	wing,	and	the

creature	 defended	 itself	 with	 beak	 and	 claws,	 and	 then	 got	 up	 closer	 into	 his corner	 with	 a	 proud,	 savage	 sort	 of	 demeanour,	 like	 a	 wounded	 king,	 fixing	 his eyes	steadily	on	the	fellows	looking	at	his	misery.

They	tired	of	the	sport	after	a	while,	and	the	eagle	seemed	quite	forgotten;	but

there	 was	 some	 one	 who,	 every	 day,	 put	 close	 to	 him	 a	 bit	 of	 fresh	 meat	 and	 a vessel	with	some	water.	At	first,	and	for	several	days,	the	eagle	would	eat	nothing;

at	last,	he	made	up	his	mind	to	take	what	was	left	for	him,	but	he	never	could	be

got	 to	 take	 anything	 from	 the	 hand,	 or	 in	 public.	 Sometimes	 I	 succeeded	 in

watching	his	proceedings	at	some	distance.

When	 he	 saw	 nobody,	 and	 thought	 he	 was	 alone,	 he	 ventured	 upon	 leaving

his	corner	and	limping	along	the	palisade	for	a	dozen	steps	or	so,	then	went	back;

and	 so	 forwards	 and	 backwards,	 precisely	 as	 if	 he	 were	 taking	 exercise	 for	 his health	 under	 medical	 orders.	 As	 soon	 as	 ever	 he	 caught	 sight	 of	 me	 he	 made	 for his	corner	as	quickly	as	he	possibly	could,	limping	and	hopping.	Then	he	threw	his

head	back,	opened	his	mouth,	ruffled	himself,	and	seemed	to	make	ready	for	fight.

In	vain	I	tried	to	caress	him.	He	bit	and	struggled	as	soon	as	he	was	touched.

Not	once	did	he	take	the	meat	I	offered	him,	and	all	the	time	I	remained	by	him	he

kept	his	wicked,	piercing	eye	upon	me.	Lonely	and	revengeful	he	waited	for	death,

defying,	refusing	to	be	reconciled	with	everything	and	everybody.

At	 last	 the	 convicts	 remembered	 him,	 after	 two	 months	 of	 complete

forgetfulness,	and	then	they	showed	a	sympathy	I	did	not	expect	of	them.	It	was

unanimously	agreed	to	carry	him	out.

“Let	him	die,	but	let	him	die	in	freedom,”	said	the	prisoners.

“Sure	enough,	a	free	and	independent	bird	like	that	will	never	get	used	to	the

prison,”	added	others.

“He’s	not	like	us,”	said	some	one.

“Oh	well,	he’s	a	bird,	and	we’re	human	beings.”

“The	 eagle,	 pals,	 is	 the	 king	 of	 the	 woods,”	 began	 Skouratof;	 but	 that	 day

nobody	paid	any	attention	to	him.

One	afternoon,	when	the	drum	beat	for	beginning	work,	they	took	the	eagle,

tied	his	beak	(for	he	struck	a	desperate	attitude),	and	took	him	out	of	the	prison on	 to	 the	 ramparts.	 The	 twelve	 convicts	 of	 the	 gang	 were	 extremely	 anxious	 to know	 where	 he	 would	 go	 to.	 It	 was	 a	 strange	 thing:	 they	 all	 seemed	 as	 happy	 as though	they	had	themselves	got	their	freedom.

“Oh,	the	wretched	brute.	One	wants	to	do	him	a	kindness,	and	he	tears	your

hand	 for	 you	 by	 way	 of	 thanks,”	 said	 the	 man	 who	 held	 him,	 looking	 almost

lovingly	at	the	spiteful	bird.

“Let	him	fly	off,	Mikitka!”

“It	doesn’t	suit	 him	being	a	prisoner;	give	him	his	freedom,	his	jolly	freedom.”

They	threw	him	from	the	ramparts	on	to	the	steppe.	It	was	just	at	the	end	of

autumn,	a	gray,	cold	day.	The	wind	whistled	on	the	bare	steppe	and	went	groaning

through	 the	 yellow	 dried-up	 grass.	 The	 eagle	 made	 off	 directly,	 flapping	 his

wounded	 wing,	 as	 if	 in	 a	 hurry	 to	 quit	 us	 and	 get	 himself	 a	 shelter	 from	 our piercing	 eyes.	 The	 convicts	 watched	 him	 intently	 as	 he	 went	 along	 with	 his	 head just	above	the	grass.

“Do	you	see	him,	hey?”	said	one	very	pensively.

“He	doesn’t	look	round,”	said	another;	“he	hasn’t	looked	behind	once.”

“Did	you	happen	to	fancy	he’d	come	back	to	thank	us?”	said	a	third.

“Sure	enough,	he’s	free;	he	feels	it.	It’s	 freedom!”

“Yes,	freedom.”

“You	won’t	see	him	any	more,	pals.”

“What	are	you	about	sticking	there?	March,	march!”	cried	the	escort,	and	all

went	slowly	to	their	work.





CHAPTER	7.

GRIEVANCES

At	the	outset	of	this	chapter,	the	editor	of	the	“Recollections”	of	the	late

Alexander	 Petrovitch	 Goriantchikoff	 thinks	 it	 his	 duty	 to	 communicate

what	follows	to	his	readers.

“In	the	first	chapter	of	the	‘Recollections	of	the	House	of	the	Dead,’	something

was	said	about	a	parricide,	of	noble	birth,	who	was	put	forward	as	an	instance	of

the	insensibility	with	which	the	convicts	speak	of	the	crimes	they	have	committed.

It	was	also	stated	that	he	refused	altogether	to	confess	to	the	authorities	and	the

court;	but	that,	thanks	to	the	statements	of	persons	who	knew	all	the	details	of	his

case	and	history,	his	guilt	was	put	beyond	all	doubt.	These	persons	had	informed

the	 author	 of	 the	 ‘Recollections,’	 that	 the	 criminal	 had	 been	 of	 dissolute	 life	 and overwhelmed	 with	 debts,	 and	 that	 he	 had	 murdered	 his	 father	 to	 come	 into	 the property.	 Besides,	 the	 whole	 town	 where	 this	 parricide	 was	 imprisoned	 told	 his story	in	precisely	the	same	way,	a	fact	of	which	the	editor	of	these	‘Recollections’

has	fully	satisfied	himself.	It	was	further	stated	that	this	murderer,	even	when	in

the	jail,	was	of	quite	a	joyous	and	cheerful	frame	of	mind,	a	sort	of	inconsiderate

giddy-pated	person,	although	intelligent,	and	that	the	author	of	the	‘Recollections’

had	never	observed	any	particular	signs	of	cruelty	about	him,	to	which	he	added,

‘So	I,	for	my	part,	never	could	bring	myself	to	believe	him	guilty.’

“Some	time	ago	the	editor	of	the	‘Recollections	of	the	House	of	the	Dead,’	had

intelligence	from	Siberia	of	the	discovery	of	the	innocence	of	this	‘parricide,’	and

that	 he	 had	 undergone	 ten	 years	 of	 the	 imprisonment	 with	 hard	 labour	 for

nothing;	 this	 was	 recognised	 and	 avowed	 by	 the	 authorities.	 The	 real	 criminals had	been	discovered	and	had	confessed,	and	the	unfortunate	man	in	question	set

at	liberty.	All	this	stands	upon	unimpeachable	and	authoritative	grounds.”

To	 say	 more	 would	 be	 useless.	 The	 tragical	 facts	 speak	 too	 clearly	 for

themselves.	 All	 words	 are	 weak	 in	 such	 a	 case,	 where	 a	 life	 has	 been	 ruined	 by such	an	accusation.	Such	mistakes	as	these	are	among	the	dreadful	possibilities	of

life,	 and	 such	 possibilities	 impart	 a	 keener	 and	 more	 vivid	 interest	 to	 the

“Recollections	of	the	House	of	the	Dead,”	which	dreadful	place	we	see	may	contain

innocent	as	well	as	guilty	men.

To	continue.	I	have	said	that	I	became	at	last,	in	some	sense,	accustomed,	if not	reconciled,	to	the	conditions	of	convict	life;	but	it	was	a	long	and	dreadful	time

before	I	was.	It	took	me	nearly	a	year	to	get	used	to	the	prison,	and	I	shall	always

regard	this	year	as	the	most	dreadful	of	my	life,	it	is	graven	deep	in	my	memory,

down	to	the	very	least	details.	I	think	that	I	could	minutely	recall	the	events	and

feelings	of	each	successive	hour	in	it.

I	 have	 said	 that	 the	 other	 prisoners,	 too,	 found	 it	 as	 difficult	 as	 I	 did	 to	 get used	to	the	life	they	had	to	lead.	During	the	whole	of	this	first	year,	I	used	to	ask

myself	 whether	 they	 were	 really	 as	 calm	 as	 they	 seemed	 to	 be.	 Questions	 of	 this kind	pressed	themselves	upon	me.	As	I	have	mentioned	before,	all	the	convicts	felt

themselves	in	an	alien	element	to	which	they	could	not	reconcile	themselves.	The

sense	 of	 home	 was	 an	 impossibility;	 they	 felt	 as	 if	 they	 were	 staying,	 as	 a	 stage upon	a	journey,	in	an	evil	sort	of	inn.	These	men,	exiles	for	and	from	life,	seemed

either	in	a	perpetual	smouldering	agitation,	or	else	in	deep	depression;	but	there

was	 not	 one	 who	 had	 not	 his	 ordinary	 ideas	 of	 one	 thing	 or	 another.	 This

restlessness,	which,	if	it	did	not	come	to	the	surface,	was	still	unmistakable;	those

vague	hopes	of	the	poor	creatures	which	existed	in	spite	of	themselves,	hopes	so

ill-founded	 that	 they	 were	 more	 like	 the	 promptings	 of	 incipient	 insanity	 than aught	else;	all	this	stamped	the	place	with	a	character,	an	originality,	peculiarly	its

own.	 One	 could	 not	 but	 feel	 when	 one	 went	 there	 that	 there	 was	 nothing	 like	 it anywhere	else	in	the	whole	world.	There	everybody	went	about	in	a	sort	of	waking

dream;	 nor	 was	 there	 anything	 to	 relieve	 or	 qualify	 the	 impressions	 the	 place made	 on	 the	 system	 of	 every	 man;	 so	 that	 all	 seemed	 to	 suffer	 from	 a	 sort	 of hyperæsthetic	neurosis,	and	this	dreaming	of	impossibilities	gave	to	the	majority

of	 the	 convicts	 a	 sombre	 and	 morose	 aspect,	 for	 which	 the	 word	 morbid	 is	 not strong	 enough.	 Nearly	 all	 were	 taciturn	 and	 irascible,	 preferring	 to	 keep	 to

themselves	 the	 hopes	 they	 secretly	 and	 vainly	 cherished.	 The	 result	 was,	 that anything	 like	 ingenuousness	 or	 frank	 statement	 was	 the	 object	 of	 general

contempt.	 Precisely	 because	 these	 wild	 hopings	 were	 impossible,	 and,	 despite

themselves,	were	felt	to	be	so,	confessed	to	their	more	lucid	selves	to	be	so,	they

kept	them	jealously	concealed	in	the	most	secret	recesses	of	their	souls;	while	to

renounce	 them	 was	 beyond	 their	 powers	 of	 self-control.	 It	 may	 be	 they	 were

ashamed	of	their	imagination.	God	knows.	The	Russian	character	is,	in	its	normal

conditions,	so	positive	and	sober	in	its	way	of	looking	at	life,	so	pitiless	in	criticism of	its	own	weaknesses.

Perhaps	 it	 was	 this	 inward	 misery	 of	 self-dissatisfaction	 which	 was	 at	 the bottom	of	the	impatience	and	intolerance	the	convicts	showed	among	themselves,

and	of	the	cruel	biting	things	they	said	to	each	other.	If	one	of	them,	more	naïve	or

impartial	 than	 the	 rest,	 put	 into	 words	 what	 every	 one	 of	 them	 had	 in	 his	 mind, painted	 his	 castles	 in	 the	 air,	 told	 his	 dreams	 of	 liberty,	 or	 plans	 of	 escape,	 they shut	him	up	with	brutal	promptitude,	and	made	the	poor	fellow’s	life	a	burden	to

him	 with	 their	 sarcasms	 and	 jests.	 And	 I	 think	 those	 did	 it	 most	 unscrupulously who	 had	 perhaps	 themselves	 gone	 furthest	 in	 cherishing	 futile	 hopes,	 and

indulging	in	senseless	expectations.	I	have	said,	more	than	once,	that	those	among

them	who	were	marked	by	simplicity	and	candour	were	looked	on	rather	as	being

stupid	and	idiotic;	there	was	nothing	but	contempt	for	them.	The	convicts	were	so

soured	and,	in	the	wrong	sense,	sensitive,	that	they	positively	hated	anything	like

amiability	 or	 unselfishness.	 I	 should	 be	 disposed	 to	 classify	 them	 all	 broadly,	 as either	 good	 or	 bad	 men,	 morose	 or	 cheerful,	 putting	 by	 themselves,	 as	 a	 sort	 of separate	 creatures,	 the	 ingenious	 fellows	 who	 could	 not	 hold	 their	 tongues.	 But the	sour-tempered	were	in	far	the	greatest	majority;	some	of	these	were	talkative,

but	these	were	usually	of	slanderous	and	envious	disposition,	always	poking	their

noses	into	other	people’s	business,	though	they	took	good	care	not	to	let	anybody

have	 a	 glimpse	 of	 the	 secret	 thoughts	 of	 their	 own	 souls;	 that	 would	 have	 been against	the	fashions	and	conventions	of	this	strange,	little	world.	As	to	the	fellows

who	 were	 really	 good—very	 few	 indeed	 were	 they—these	 were	 always	 very	 quiet

and	peaceable,	and	buried	their	hopes,	if	they	had	any,	in	strict	silence;	but	more

of	 real	 faith	 went	 with	 their	 hopes	 than	 was	 the	 case	 with	 the	 gloomy-minded among	 the	 convicts.	 Stay,	 there	 was	 one	 category	 further	 among	 our	 convicts,

which	 ought	 not	 to	 be	 forgotten;	 the	 men	 who	 had	 lost	 all	 hope,	 who	 were

despairing	and	desperate,	like	the	old	man	of	Starodoub;	but	these	were	very	few

indeed.

The	old	man	of	Starodoub!	This	was	a	very	subdued,	quiet,	old	man;	but	there

were	 some	 indications	 of	 what	 went	 on	 in	 him,	 which	 he	 could	 not	 help	 giving, and	from	which,	I	could	not	help	seeing,	that	his	inward	life	was	one	of	intolerable

horror;	still	he	had	 something	to	fall	back	upon	for	help	and	consolation—prayer, and	 the	 notion	 that	 he	 was	 a	 martyr.	 The	 convict	 who	 was	 always	 reading	 the Bible,	of	whom	I	spoke	earlier,	the	one	that	went	mad	and	threw	himself,	brick	in

hand,	upon	the	Major,	was	also	probably	one	of	those	whom	hope	had	altogether

abandoned;	and,	as	it	is	perfectly	impossible	to	go	on	living	without	hope	of	some

sort,	 he	 threw	 away	 his	 life	 as	 a	 sort	 of	 voluntary	 sacrifice.	 He	 declared	 that	 he attacked	the	Major	though	he	had	no	grievance	in	particular;	all	he	wanted	was	to

have	some	torments	inflicted	on	himself.

Now,	 what	 sort	 of	 psychological	 operation	 had	 been	 going	 on	 in	 that	 man’s soul?	 No	 man	 lives,	 can	 live,	 without	 having	 some	 object	 in	 view,	 and	 making efforts	 to	 attain	 that	 object.	 But	 when	 object	 there	 is	 none,	 and	 hope	 is	 entirely fled,	anguish	often	turns	a	man	into	a	monster.	The	object	 we	all	had	in	view	was liberty,	and	getting	out	of	our	place	of	confinement	and	hard	labour.

So	I	try	to	place	our	convicts	in	separately-defined	classes	and	categories;	but

it	cannot	well	be	done.	Reality	is	a	thing	of	infinite	diversity,	and	defies	the	most

ingenious	 deductions	 and	 definitions	 of	 abstract	 thought,	 nay,	 abhors	 the	 clear and	precise	classifications	we	so	delight	in.	Reality	tends	to	infinite	subdivision	of

things,	and	truth	is	a	matter	of	infinite	shadings	and	differentiations.	Every	one	of

us	who	were	there	had	his	own	peculiar,	interior,	strictly	personal	life,	which	lay

altogether	outside	of	the	world	of	regulations	and	our	official	superintendence.

But,	as	I	have	said	before,	I	could	not	penetrate	the	depths	of	this	interior	life

in	 the	 early	 part	 of	 my	 prison	 career,	 for	 everything	 that	 met	 my	 eyes,	 or challenged	my	attention	in	any	way,	filled	me	with	a	sadness	for	which	there	are

no	 words.	 Sometimes	 I	 felt	 nothing	 short	 of	 hatred	 for	 poor	 creatures	 whose

martyrdom	 was	 at	 least	 as	 great	 as	 mine.	 In	 those	 first	 days	 I	 envied	 them, because	they	were	among	persons	of	their	own	sort,	and	understood	one	another;

so	 I	 thought,	 but	 the	 truth	 was	 that	 their	 enforced	 companionship,	 the

comradeship	where	the	word	of	command	went	with	the	whip	or	the	rod,	was	as

much	an	object	of	aversion	to	them	as	it	was	to	myself,	and	every	one	of	them	tried

to	keep	himself	as	much	to	himself	as	possible.	This	envious	hatred	of	them,	which

came	 to	 me	 in	 moments	 of	 irritation,	 was	 not	 without	 its	 reasonable	 cause,	 for those	who	tell	you	so	confidently	that	a	cultivated	man	of	the	higher	class	does	not

suffer	as	a	mere	peasant	does,	are	utterly	in	the	wrong.	That	is	a	thing	I	have	often

heard	 said,	 and	 read	 too.	 In	 the	 abstract,	 the	 notion	 seems	 correct,	 and	 it	 is founded	 in	 generous	 sentiment,	 for	 all	 convicts	 are	 human	 beings	 alike;	 but	 in reality	 it	 is	 different.	 In	 the	 real	 living	 facts	 of	 the	 problem	 there	 come	 in	 a quantity	 of	 practical	 complications,	 and	 only	 experience	 can	 pronounce	 upon

these:	 experience	 which	 I	 have	 had.	 I	 do	 not	 mean	 to	 lay	 it	 down	 peremptorily, that	 the	 nobleman	 and	 the	 man	 of	 culture	 feel	 more	 acutely,	 sensitively,	 deeply,

because	of	their	more	highly	developed	conditions	of	being.	On	the	other	hand,	it is	impossible	to	bring	all	souls	to	one	common	level	or	standard;	neither	the	grade

of	 education,	 nor	 any	 other	 thing,	 furnishes	 a	 standard	 according	 to	 which

punishment	can	be	meted	out.

It	 is	 a	 great	 satisfaction	 to	 me	 to	 be	 able	 to	 say	 that	 among	 these	 dreadful sufferers,	in	a	state	of	things	so	barbarous	and	abject,	I	found	abundant	proof	that

the	 elements	 of	 moral	 development	 were	 not	 wanting.	 In	 our	 convict

establishment	 there	 were	 men	 whom	 I	 was	 familiar	 with	 for	 several	 years,	 and whom	 I	 looked	 upon	 as	 wild	 beasts	 and	 abhorred	 as	 such;	 well,	 all	 of	 a	 sudden, when	 I	 least	 expected	 it,	 these	 very	 men	 would	 exhibit	 such	 an	 abundance	 of feeling	of	the	best	kind,	so	keen	a	comprehension	of	the	sufferings	of	others,	seen

in	the	light	of	the	consciousness	of	their	own,	that	one	might	almost	fancy	scales

had	 fallen	 from	 their	 eyes.	 So	 sudden	 was	 it	 as	 to	 cause	 stupefaction;	 one	 could scarcely	believe	one’s	eyes	or	ears.	Sometimes	it	was	just	the	other	way:	educated

men,	well	brought	up,	would	occasionally	display	a	savage,	cynical	brutality	which

nearly	 turned	 one’s	 stomach,	 conduct	 of	 a	 kind	 impossible	 to	 excuse	 or	 justify, however	much	you	might	be	charitably	inclined	to	do	so.

I	 lay	 no	 stress	 on	 the	 entire	 change	 in	 the	 habits	 of	 life,	 the	 food,	 etc.,	 as	 to which	there	come	in	points	where	the	man	of	the	higher	classes	suffers	so	much

more	keenly	than	the	peasant	or	working	man,	who	often	goes	hungry	when	free,

while	he	always	has	his	stomach-full	in	prison.	We	will	leave	all	that	out.	Let	it	be

admitted	that	for	a	man	with	some	force	of	character	these	external	things	are	a

trifle	in	comparison	with	privations	of	a	quite	different	kind;	for	all	that,	such	total change	of	material	conditions	and	habits	is	neither	an	easy	nor	a	slight	thing.	But

in	the	convict’s	 status	there	are	elements	of	horror	before	which	all	other	horrors pale,	even	the	mud	and	filth	everywhere	about,	the	scantiness	and	uncleanness	of

the	food,	the	irons	on	your	limbs,	the	suffocating	sense	of	being	always	held	tight,

as	in	a	vice.

The	capital,	the	most	important	point	of	all	is,	that	after	a	couple	of	hours	or

so,	every	new-comer	to	a	convict	establishment,	who	is	of	the	lower	class,	shakes

down	into	equality	with	the	rest;	he	is	 at	home	among	them,	he	has	his	“freedom”

of	this	city	of	the	enslaved,	this	community	of	convicted	scoundrels,	in	which	one

man	is	superficially	like	every	other	man;	he	understands	and	is	understood,	he	is

looked	upon	by	everybody	as	 one	of	themselves.	Now	all	this	is	 not	so	in	the	case

of	 the	 nobleman.	 However	 kindly,	 just-minded,	 intelligent	 a	 man	 of	 the	 higher class	 may	 be,	 every	 soul	 there	 will	 hate	 and	 despise	 him	 during	 long	 years;	 they will	neither	understand	nor	believe	in	him,	not	one	whit.	He	will	be	neither	friend

nor	 comrade	 in	 their	 eyes;	 if	 he	 can	 get	 them	 to	 stop	 insulting	 him	 it	 will	 be	 as much	as	he	can	do,	but	he	will	be	alien	to	them	from	the	first	to	the	last,	he	will

have	to	feel	the	grief	of	a	ceaseless,	hopeless,	causeless	solitude	and	sequestration.

Sometimes	it	is	the	case	that	sheer	ill-will	on	the	part	of	the	prisoners	has	nothing

to	 do	 with	 bringing	 about	 this	 state	 of	 things,	 it	 simply	 cannot	 be	 helped;	 the nobleman	is	not	one	of	the	gang,	and	there’s	the	whole	secret.

There	is	nothing	more	horrible	than	to	live	out	of	the	social	sphere	to	which

you	 properly	 belong.	 The	 peasant,	 transported	 from	 Taganrog	 to	 Petropavlosk,

finds	 there	 Russian	 peasants	 like	 himself;	 between	 him	 and	 them	 there	 can	 be mutual	intelligence;	in	an	hour	they	will	be	friends,	and	live	comfortably	together

in	the	same	izba	or	the	same	barrack.	With	the	nobleman	it	is	wholly	otherwise;	a

bottomless	abyss	separates	him	from	the	lower	classes, how	deep	and	impassable

is	 only	 seen	 when	 a	 nobleman	 forfeits	 his	 position	 and	 becomes	 as	 one	 of	 the populace	himself.	You	may	be	your	whole	life	in	daily	relations	with	the	peasant,

forty	 years	 you	 may	 do	 business	 with	 him	 regularly	 as	 the	 day	 comes—let	 us

suppose	it	so,	at	all	events—by	the	calls	of	official	position	or	administrative	duty;

you	may	be	his	benefactor,	all	but	a	father	to	him—well,	you’ll	never	know	what	is

at	 the	 bottom	 of	 the	 man’s	 mind	 or	 heart.	 You	 may	 think	 you	 know	 something about	him,	but	it	is	all	optical	illusion,	nothing	more.	My	readers	will	charge	me

with	 exaggeration,	 but	 I	 am	 convinced	 I	 am	 quite	 right.	 I	 don’t	 go	 on	 theory	 or book-reading	in	this;	in	my	case	the	realities	of	life	have	given	me	only	too	ample

time	 and	 opportunity	 for	 reviewing	 and	 correcting	 my	 theoretic	 convictions,

which,	as	to	this,	are	now	fixed.	Perhaps	everybody	will	some	day	learn	how	well

founded	I	am	in	what	I	say	about	this.

All	 this	 was	 theory	 when	 I	 first	 went	 into	 the	 convict	 establishment,	 but

events,	and	things	observed,	soon	came	to	confirm	me	in	such	views,	and	what	I

experienced	 so	 affected	 my	 system	 as	 to	 undermine	 its	 health.	 During	 the	 first summer	 I	 wandered	 about	 the	 place,	 so	 far	 as	 I	 was	 free	 to	 move,	 a	 solitary, friendless	 man.	 My	 moral	 situation	 was	 such	 that	 I	 could	 not	 distinguish	 those among	the	convicts	who,	in	the	sequel,	managed	to	care	for	me	a	little	in	spite	of

the	distance	that	always	remained	between	us.	There	 were	there	men	of	my	own

position,	exnobles	like	myself,	but	their	companionship	was	repugnant	to	me.

Here	 is	 one	 of	 the	 incidents	 which	 obliged	 me	 to	 see	 at	 the	 outset,	 how solitary	a	creature	I	was,	and	all	the	strangeness	of	my	position	at	the	place.	One

day	in	August,	a	fine	warm	day,	about	one	o’clock	in	the	afternoon,	a	time	when,

as	 a	 rule,	 everybody	 took	 a	 nap	 before	 resuming	 work,	 the	 convicts	 rose	 as	 one man	and	massed	themselves	in	the	court-yard.	I	had	not	the	slightest	idea,	up	to

that	moment,	that	anything	was	going	on.	So	deeply	had	I	been	sunk	in	my	own

thoughts,	that	I	saw	nearly	nothing	of	what	was	happening	about	me	of	any	kind.

But	it	seems	that	the	convicts	had	been	in	a	smouldering	sort	of	unusual	agitation

for	 three	 days.	 Perhaps	 it	 had	 begun	 sooner;	 so	 I	 thought	 later	 when	 I

remembered	 stray	 remarks,	 bits	 of	 talk	 that	 had	 come	 to	 my	 ears,	 the	 palpable increase	 of	 ill-humour	 among	 the	 prisoners,	 their	 unusual	 irritability	 for	 some time	past.	I	had	attributed	it	all	to	the	trying	summer	work,	the	insufferably	long

days;	to	their	dreamings	about	the	woods,	and	freedom,	which	the	season	brought

up;	to	the	nights	too	short	for	rest.	It	may	be	that	all	these	things	came	together	to

form	a	mass	of	discontent,	that	only	wanted	a	tolerably	good	reason	for	exploding;

it	was	found	in	the	food.

For	several	days	the	convicts	had	not	concealed	their	dissatisfaction	with	it	in

open	talk	in	their	barracks,	and	they	showed	it	plainly	when	assembled	for	dinner

or	supper;	one	of	the	cooks	had	been	changed,	but,	after	a	couple	of	days,	the	new

comer	was	sent	to	the	right-about,	and	the	old	one	brought	back.	The	restlessness

and	ill-humour	were	general;	mischief	was	brewing.

“Here	 are	 we	 slaving	 to	 death,	 and	 they	 give	 us	 nothing	 but	 filth	 to	 eat,”

grumbled	one	in	the	kitchen.

“If	 you	 don’t	 like	 it,	 why	 don’t	 you	 order	 jellies	 and	 blanc-mange?”	 said

another.

“Sour	 cabbage	 soup,	 why,	 that’s	 good.	 I	 delight	 in	 it;	 there’s	 nothing	 more juicy,”	exclaimed	a	third.

“Well,	if	they	gave	you	nothing	but	beef,	beef,	beef,	for	ever	and	ever,	would

you	like	 that?”

“Yes,	yes;	they	ought	to	give	us	meat,”	said	a	fourth;	“one’s	almost	killed	at	the

workshops;	 and,	 by	 heaven!	 when	 one	 has	 got	 through	 with	 work	 there	 one’s

hungry,	hungry;	and	you	don’t	get	anything	to	satisfy	your	hunger.”

“It’s	true,	the	victuals	are	simply	damnable.”

“He	fills	his	pockets,	don’t	you	fear!”

“It	isn’t	your	business.”

“Whose	business	is	it?	My	belly’s	my	own.	If	we	were	all	to	make	a	row	about

it	together,	you’d	soon	see.”

“Yes.”

“Haven’t	we	been	beaten	enough	for	complaining,	dolt	that	you	are?”

“True	enough!	What’s	done	in	a	hurry	is	never	well	done.	And	how	would	you

set	about	making	a	raid	over	it,	tell	me	that?”

“I’ll	 tell	 you,	 by	 God!	 If	 everybody	 will	 go,	 I’ll	 go	 too,	 for	 I’m	 just	 dying	 of hunger.	It’s	all	very	well	for	those	who	eat	at	a	better	table,	apart,	to	keep	quiet;

but	those	who	eat	the	regulation	food——”

“There’s	a	fellow	with	eyes	that	do	their	work,	bursting	with	envy	 he	is.	Don’t

his	eyes	glisten	when	he	sees	something	that	doesn’t	belong	to	him?”

“Well,	 pals,	 why	 don’t	 we	 make	 up	 our	 minds?	 Have	 we	 gone	 through

enough?	They	flay	us,	the	brigands!	Let’s	go	at	them.”

“What’s	the	good?	I	tell	you	ye	must	chew	what	they	give	you,	and	stuff	your

mouth	 full	 of	 it.	 Look	 at	 the	 fellow,	 he	 wants	 people	 to	 chew	 his	 food	 for	 him.

We’re	in	prison,	and	have	got	to	stand	it.”

“Yes,	that’s	it;	we’re	in	prison.”

“That’s	it	always;	the	people	die	of	hunger,	and	the	Government	fills	its	belly.”

“That’s	true.	Our	eight-eyes	( the	Major)	has	got	finely	fat	over	it;	he’s	bought a	pair	of	gray	horses.”

“He	don’t	like	his	glass	at	all,	that	fellow,”	said	a	convict	ironically.

“He	had	a	bout	at	cards	a	little	while	ago	with	the	vet;	for	two	hours	he	played

without	a	half-penny	in	his	pocket.	Fedka	told	me	so.”

“That’s	why	we	get	cabbage	soup	that’s	fit	for	nothing.”

“You’re	all	idiots!	It	doesn’t	matter; nothing	matters.”

“I	 tell	 you	 if	 we	 all	 join	 in	 complaining	 we	 shall	 see	 what	 he	 has	 to	 say	 for himself.	Let’s	make	up	our	minds.”

” Say	for	himself?	You’ll	get	his	fist	on	your	pate;	that’s	just	all.”

“I	tell	you	they’ll	have	him	up,	and	try	him.”

All	the	prisoners	were	in	great	agitation;	the	truth	is,	the	food	was	execrable.

The	 general	 anguish,	 suffering,	 and	 suspense	 seemed	 to	 be	 coming	 to	 a	 head.

Convicts	are,	by	disposition,	or,	as	such,	quarrelsome	and	rebellious;	but	a	general

revolt	 is	 rare,	 for	 they	 can	 never	 agree	 upon	 it;	 we	 all	 of	 us	 felt	 that	 since	 there was,	as	a	rule,	more	violent	talk	than	doing.

This	time,	however,	the	agitation	did	not	fall	to	the	ground.	The	men	gathered

in	groups	in	their	barracks,	talking	things	over	in	a	violent	way,	and	going	over	all

the	particulars	of	the	Major’s	misdoings,	and	trying	to	get	to	the	bottom	of	them.

In	all	affairs	of	that	sort	there	are	ringleaders	and	firebrands.	The	ringleaders	on

such	 occasions	 are	 generally	 rather	 remarkable	 fellows,	 not	 only	 in	 convict

establishments,	 but	 among	 all	 large	 organisations	 of	 workmen,	 military

detachments,	etc.	They	are	always	people	of	a	peculiar	type,	enthusiastic	men,	who

have	 a	 thirst	 for	 justice,	 very	 naïve,	 simple,	 and	 strong,	 convinced	 that	 their desires	are	fully	capable	of	realisation;	they	have	as	much	sense	as	other	people;

some	are	of	high	intelligence;	but	they	are	too	full	of	warmth	and	zeal	to	measure

their	 acts.	 When	 you	 come	 across	 people	 who	 really	 do	 know	 how	 to	 direct	 the masses,	and	get	what	they	want,	you	find	a	quite	different	sort	of	popular	leaders,

and	 one	 excessively	 rare	 among	 us	 Russians.	 The	 more	 usual	 type	 of	 leader,	 the one	I	first	alluded	to,	does	certainly	in	some	sense	accomplish	their	object,	so	far

as	bringing	about	a	rising	is	concerned;	but	it	all	ends	in	filling	up	the	prisons	and

convict	establishments.	Thanks	to	their	impetuosity	they	always	come	off	second-

best;	 but	 it	 is	 this	 impetuosity	 that	 gives	 them	 their	 influences	 over	 the	 masses; their	ardent,	honest	indignation	does	its	work,	and	draws	in	the	more	irresolute.

Their	 blind	 confidence	 of	 success	 seduces	 even	 the	 most	 hardened	 sceptics,

although	 this	 confidence	 is	 generally	 based	 on	 such	 uncertain,	 childish	 reasons that	it	is	wonderful	how	people	can	put	faith	in	them.

The	secret	of	their	influence	is	that	they	put	themselves	at	the	head,	and	 go

ahead,	without	flinching.	They	dash	forward,	heads	down,	often	without	the	least

knowledge	worth	the	name	of	what	they	are	about,	and	have	nothing	about	them

of	the	jesuitical	practical	faculty	by	dint	of	which	a	vile	and	worthless	man	often

hits	 his	 mark	 and	 comes	 uppermost,	 and	 will	 sometimes	 come	 all	 white	 out	 of	 a tub	 of	 ink.	 They	 must	 dash	 their	 skulls	 against	 stone	 walls.	 Under	 ordinary

circumstances	these	people	are	bilious,	irascible,	intolerant,	contemptuous,	often very	 warm,	 which	 really	 after	 all	 is	 part	 of	 the	 secret	 of	 their	 strength.	 The deplorable	thing	is	that	they	never	go	at	what	is	the	essential,	the	vital	part	of	their task,	they	always	go	off	at	once	into	details	instead	of	going	straight	to	their	mark,

and	this	is	their	ruin.	But	they	and	the	mob	understand	one	another;	that	makes

them	formidable.

I	must	say	a	few	words	about	this	word	“grievance.”

Some	of	the	convicts	had	been	transported	in	connection	with	a	“grievance;”

these	 were	 the	 most	 excited	 among	 them,	 notably	 a	 certain	 Martinoff,	 who	 had formerly	served	in	the	Hussars,	an	eager,	restless,	and	choleric,	but	a	worthy	and

truthful,	fellow.	Another,	Vassili	Antonoff,	could	work	himself	up	into	anger	coolly

and	collectedly;	he	had	a	generally	impudent	expression,	and	a	sarcastic	smile,	but

he,	 too,	 was	 honest,	 and	 a	 man	 of	 his	 word,	 and	 of	 no	 little	 education.	 I	 won’t enumerate;	there	were	plenty	of	them.	Petroff	went	about	in	a	hurried	way	from

one	group	to	another.	He	spoke	few	words,	but	he	was	quite	as	highly	excited	as

any	 one	 there,	 for	 he	 was	 the	 first	 to	 spring	 out	 of	 the	 barrack	 when	 the	 others massed	themselves	in	the	court-yard.

Our	 sergeant,	 who	 acted	 as	 sergeant-major,	 came	 up	 very	 soon	 in	 quite	 a

fright.	 The	 convicts	 got	 into	 rank,	 and	 politely	 begged	 him	 to	 tell	 the	 Major	 that they	wanted	to	speak	with	him	and	put	him	a	few	questions.	Behind	the	sergeant

came	 all	 the	 invalids,	 who	 ranked	 themselves	 in	 face	 of	 the	 convicts.	 What	 they asked	the	sergeant	to	do	frightened	the	man	out	of	his	wits	almost,	but	he	dared

not	 refuse	 to	 go	 and	 report	 to	 the	 Major,	 for	 if	 the	 convicts	 mutinied,	 God	 only knows	 what	 might	 happen.	 All	 the	 men	 set	 over	 us	 showed	 themselves	 great

poltroons	in	handling	the	prisoners;	then,	even	if	nothing	further	worse	happened,

if	the	convicts	thought	better	of	it	and	dispersed,	the	sub-officer	was	still	in	duty

bound	 to	 inform	 the	 authorities	 of	 what	 had	 been	 going	 on.	 Pale,	 and	 trembling with	 fright,	 he	 went	 headlong	 to	 the	 Major,	 without	 even	 an	 effort	 to	 bring	 the convicts	 to	 reason.	 He	 saw	 that	 they	 were	 not	 minded	 to	 put	 up	 with	 any	 of	 his talk,	no	doubt.

Without	the	least	idea	of	what	was	going	on,	I	went	into	rank	myself	(it	was

only	later	that	I	heard	the	earlier	details	of	the	story).	I	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	after	the	gangs	went

off,	 the	 Major	 betook	 himself	 to	 the	 guard-house,	 where	 he	 began	 to	 make	 his dispositions	as	to	the	“ringleaders,”	but	he	did	not	push	matters	far.	It	was	easy	to

see	that	he	wanted	to	be	done	with	the	whole	business	as	soon	as	possible.	One	of

the	 men	 charged	 told	 us	 later	 that	 he	 had	 begged	 for	 forgiveness,	 and	 that	 the officer	had	let	him	go	immediately.	There	can	be	no	doubt	that	our	Major	did	not

feel	firm	in	the	saddle;	he	had	had	a	fright,	I	fancy,	for	a	mutiny	is	always	a	ticklish thing,	and	although	this	complaint	of	the	convicts	about	the	food	did	not	amount

really	to	mutiny	(only	the	Major	had	been	reported	to	about	it,	and	the	Governor

himself),	yet	it	was	an	uncomfortable	and	dangerous	affair.	What	gave	him	most

anxiety	 was	 that	 the	 prisoners	 had	 been	 unanimous	 in	 their	 movement,	 so	 their discontent	 had	 to	 be	 got	 over	 somehow,	 at	 any	 price.	 The	 ringleaders	 were	 soon set	free.	Next	day	the	food	was	passable,	but	this	improvement	did	not	last	long;

on	the	days	ensuing	the	disturbance,	the	Major	went	about	the	prison	much	more

than	 usual,	 and	 always	 found	 something	 irregular	 to	 be	 stopped	 and	 punished.

Our	sergeant	came	and	went	in	a	puzzled,	dazed	sort	of	way,	as	if	he	could	not	get

over	 his	 stupefaction	 at	 what	 had	 happened.	 As	 to	 the	 convicts,	 it	 took	 long	 for them	 to	 quiet	 down	 again,	 but	 their	 agitation	 seemed	 to	 wear	 quite	 a	 different character;	 they	 were	 restless	 and	 perplexed.	 Some	 went	 about	 with	 their	 heads down,	without	saying	a	word;	others	discussed	the	event	in	a	grumbling,	helpless

kind	 of	 way.	 A	 good	 many	 said	 biting	 things	 about	 their	 own	 proceedings	 as

though	they	were	quite	out	of	conceit	with	themselves.

“I	say,	pal,	take	and	eat!”	said	one.

“Where’s	the	mouse	that	was	so	ready	to	bell	the	cat?”

“Let’s	think	ourselves	lucky	that	he	did	not	have	us	all	well	beaten.”

“It	would	be	a	good	deal	better	if	you	thought	more	and	chattered	less.”

“What	 do	 you	 mean	 by	 lecturing	 me?	 Are	 you	 schoolmaster	 here,	 I’d	 like	 to

know?”

“Oh,	you	want	putting	to	the	right-about.”

“Who	are	you,	I’d	like	to	know?”

“I’m	a	man!	What	are	you?”

“A	man!	You’re——”

“You’re——”

“I	 say!	 Shut	 up,	 do!	 What’s	 the	 good	 of	 all	 this	 row?”	 was	 the	 cry	 from	 all sides.

On	the	evening	of	the	day	the	“mutiny”	took	place,	I	met	Petroff	behind	the

barracks	after	the	day’s	work.	He	was	looking	for	me.	As	he	came	near	me,	I	heard

him	 exclaim	 something,	 which	 I	 didn’t	 understand,	 in	 a	 muttering	 sort	 of	 way; then	he	said	no	more,	and	walked	by	my	side	in	a	listless,	mechanical	fashion.

“I	say,	Petroff,	your	fellows	are	not	vexed	with	us,	are	they?”

“Who’s	vexed?”	he	asked,	as	if	coming	to	himself.

“The	convicts	with	us—with	us	nobles.”

“Why	should	they	be	vexed?”

“Well,	because	we	did	not	back	them	up.”

“Oh,	 why	 should	 you	 have	 kicked	 up	 a	 dust?”	 he	 answered,	 as	 if	 trying	 to

enter	into	my	meaning:	“you	have	a	table	to	yourselves,	you	fellows.”

“Oh,	 well,	 there	 are	 some	 of	 you,	 not	 nobles,	 who	 don’t	 eat	 the	 regulation

food,	and	who	went	in	with	you.	We	ought	to	back	you	up,	we’re	in	the	same	place;

we	ought	to	be	comrades.”

“Oh,	I	 say.	Are	you	our	comrades?”	he	asked,	with	unfeigned	astonishment.

I	 looked	 at	 him;	 it	 was	 clear	 that	 he	 had	 not	 the	 least	 comprehension	 of	 my meaning;	 but	 I,	 on	 the	 other	 hand,	 entered	 only	 too	 thoroughly	 into	 his.	 I	 saw now,	 quite	 thoroughly,	 something	 of	 which	 I	 had	 before	 only	 a	 confused	 idea; what	I	had	before	guessed	at	was	now	sad	certainty.

It	was	forced	on	my	perceptions	that	any	sort	of	real	fellowship	between	the

convicts	and	myself	could	never	be;	not	even	were	I	to	remain	in	the	place	as	long

as	life	should	last.	I	was	a	convict	of	the	“special	section,”	a	creature	for	ever	apart.

The	 expression	 of	 Petroff	 when	 he	 said,	 “are	 we	 comrades,	 how	 can	 that	 be?”

remains,	and	will	always	remain	before	my	eyes.	There	was	a	look	of	such	frank,

naïve	 surprise	 in	 it,	 such	 ingenuous	 astonishment	 that	 I	 could	 not	 help	 asking myself	 if	 there	 was	 not	 some	 lurking	 irony	 in	 the	 man,	 just	 a	 little	 spiteful mockery.	Not	at	all,	it	was	simply	meant.	I	was	not	their	comrade,	and	could	not

be;	 that	 was	 all.	 Go	 you	 to	 the	 right,	 we’ll	 go	 to	 the	 left!	 your	 business	 is	 yours, ours	is	ours.

I	really	fancied	that,	after	the	mutiny,	they	would	attack	us	mercilessly	so	far

as	they	dared	and	could,	and	that	our	life	would	become	a	hell.	But	nothing	of	the

sort	 happened;	 we	 did	 not	 hear	 the	 slightest	 reproach,	 there	 was	 not	 even	 an unpleasant	 allusion	 to	 what	 had	 happened,	 it	 was	 all	 simply	 passed	 over.	 They went	on	teasing	us	as	before	when	opportunity	served,	no	more.	Nobody	seemed

to	bear	malice	against	those	who	would	not	join	in,	but	remained	in	the	kitchens,

or	against	those	who	were	the	first	to	cry	out	that	they	had	nothing	to	complain	of.

It	was	all	passed	over	without	a	word,	to	my	exceeding	astonishment.

7	An	insulting	phrase	which	is	untranslatable.

8	French	in	the	original	Russian.





CHAPTER	8.

MY	COMPANIONS

As	will	be	understood,	those	to	whom	I	was	most	drawn	were	people	of	my

own	sort,	that	is,	those	of	“noble”	birth,	especially	in	the	early	days;	but	of

the	three	exnobles	in	the	place,	who	were	Russians,	I	knew	and	spoke	to

but	 one,	 Akim	 Akimitch;	 the	 other	 two	 were	 the	 spy	 A——n,	 and	 the	 supposed

parricide.	Even	with	Akim	I	never	exchanged	a	word	except	when	in	extremity,	in

moments	 when	 the	 melancholy	 on	 me	 was	 simply	 unendurable,	 and	 when	 I

thought	I	really	never	should	have	the	chance	of	getting	close	to	any	other	human

being	again.

In	 the	 last	 chapter	 I	 have	 tried	 to	 show	 that	 the	 convicts	 were	 of	 different types,	and	tried	to	classify	them;	but	when	I	think	of	Akim	Akimitch	I	don’t	know

how	 to	 place	 him,	 he	 was	 quite	 sui	 generis,	 so	 far	 as	 I	 could	 observe,	 in	 that establishment.

There	 may	 be,	 elsewhere,	 men	 like	 him,	 to	 whom	 it	 seemed	 as	 absolutely	 a

matter	of	indifference	whether	he	was	a	free	man,	or	in	jail	at	hard	labour;	at	that

place	 he	 stood	 alone	 in	 this	 curious	 impartiality	 of	 temperament.	 He	 had	 settled down	in	the	jail	as	if	he	was	going	to	pass	his	whole	life,	and	didn’t	mind	it	at	all.

All	 his	 belongings,	 mattress,	 cushions,	 utensils,	 were	 so	 ordered	 as	 to	 give	 the impression	that	he	was	living	in	a	furnished	house	of	his	own;	there	was	nothing

provisional,	 temporary,	 bivouac-like,	 about	 him,	 or	 his	 words,	 or	 his	 habits.	 He had	a	good	many	years	still	to	spend	in	punishment,	but	I	much	doubt	whether	he

ever	gave	a	thought	to	the	time	when	he	would	get	out.	He	was	entirely	reconciled

to	 his	 condition,	 not	 because	 he	 had	 made	 any	 effort	 to	 be	 so,	 but	 simply	 out	 of natural	submissiveness;	but,	as	far	as	his	comfort	went,	it	came	to	the	same	thing.

He	was	not	at	all	a	bad	fellow,	and	in	the	early	days	his	advice	and	help	were	quite

useful	to	me;	but	sometimes,	I	can’t	help	saying	it,	his	peculiarities	deepened	my

natural	melancholy	until	it	became	almost	intolerable	anguish.

When	I	became	desperate	with	silence	and	solitude	of	soul,	I	would	get	into

talk	with	him;	I	wanted	to	hear,	and	reply	to	 some	words	falling	from	a	living	soul, and	the	more	filled	with	gall	and	hatred	with	all	our	surroundings	they	had	been,

the	 more	 would	 they	 have	 been	 in	 sympathy	 with	 my	 wretched	 mood;	 but	 he

would	just	barely	talk,	quietly	go	on	sizing	his	lanterns,	and	then	begin	to	tell	me some	story	as	to	how	he	had	been	at	a	review	of	troops	in	18—,	that	their	general

of	division	was	so-and-so,	that	the	manoeuvring	had	been	very	pretty,	that	there

had	been	a	change	in	the	skirmisher’s	system	of	signalling,	and	the	like;	all	of	it	in

level	imperturbable	tones,	like	water	falling	drop	by	drop.	He	did	not	put	any	life

into	 them	 even	 when	 he	 told	 me	 of	 a	 sharp	 affair	 in	 which	 he	 had	 been,	 in	 the Caucasus,	for	which	his	sword	had	got	the	decoration	of	the	Riband	of	St.	Anne.

The	only	difference	was,	that	his	voice	became	a	little	more	measured	and	grave;

he	lowered	his	tones	when	he	pronounced	the	name	“St.	Anne,”	as	though	he	were

telling	a	great	secret,	and	then,	for	three	minutes	at	least,	did	not	utter	a	word,	but

only	looked	solemn.

During	 all	 that	 first	 year	 I	 had	 strange	 passages	 of	 feeling,	 in	 which	 I	 hated Akim	Akimitch	with	a	bitter	hatred,	I	am	sure	I	cannot	say	why,	moments	when	I

would	 despairingly	 curse	 the	 fate	 which	 made	 him	 my	 next	 neighbour	 on	 my

camp-bed,	 so	 close	 indeed	 that	 our	 heads	 nearly	 touched.	 An	 hour	 afterwards	 I bitterly	reproached	myself	for	such	extravagance.	It	was,	however,	only	during	my

first	year	of	confinement	that	these	violent	feelings	overpowered	me.	As	time	went

on,	 I	 got	 used	 to	 Akim	 Akimitch’s	 singular	 character,	 and	 was	 ashamed	 of	 my former	explosions.	I	don’t	remember	that	he	and	I	ever	got	into	anything	like	an

open	quarrel.

Besides	 the	 three	 Russian	 nobles	 of	 whom	 I	 have	 spoken,	 there	 were	 eight

others	 there	 during	 my	 time;	 with	 some	 of	 whom	 I	 came	 to	 be	 on	 a	 footing	 of intimate	 friendship.	 Even	 the	 best	 of	 them	 were	 morbid	 in	 mind,	 exclusive,	 and intolerant	to	the	very	last	degree;	with	two	of	them	I	was	obliged	to	discontinue	all

spoken	 intercourse.	 There	 were	 only	 three	 who	 had	 any	 education,	 B—ski,	 M—

tski,	and	the	old	man,	J—ski,	who	had	formerly	been	a	professor	of	mathematics,

an	excellent	fellow,	highly	eccentric,	and	of	very	narrow	mental	horizon	in	spite	of

his	learning.	M—tski	and	B—ski	were	of	a	mould	quite	different	from	his.	Between

M—tski	and	myself	there	was	an	excellent	understanding	from	the	first	set-off.	He

and	 I	 never	 once	 got	 into	 any	 sort	 of	 dispute;	 I	 respected	 him	 highly,	 but	 could never	 become	 sincerely	 attached	 to	 him,	 though	 I	 tried	 to.	 He	 was	 sour,

embittered,	and	mistrustful,	with	much	self-control;	this	was	quite	antipathetic	to

me;	the	man	had	a	closed	soul,	closed	to	everybody,	and	he	made	you	feel	it.	I	felt

it	so	strongly	that	perhaps	I	was	wrong	about	it.	After	all,	his	character,	I	must	say,

was	 stamped	 with	 both	 nobleness	 and	 strength.	 His	 inveterate	 scepticism	 made

him	 very	 prudent	 in	 his	 relations	 with	 everybody	 about	 him,	 and	 in	 conducting these	 he	 gave	 proof	 of	 remarkable	 tact	 and	 skill.	 Sceptic	 as	 he	 was,	 there	 was another	and	a	reverse	side	in	his	nature,	for	in	some	things	he	was	a	profound	and

unalterable	believer	with	faith	and	hope	unshakable.	In	spite	of	his	tact	in	dealing

with	men,	he	got	into	open	hostilities	with	B—ski	and	his	friend	T—ski.

The	 first	 of	 these,	 B—ski,	 was	 a	 man	 of	 infirm	 health,	 of	 consumptive

tendency,	irascible,	and	of	a	weak,	nervous	system;	but	a	good	and	generous	man.

His	 nervous	 irritability	 went	 so	 far	 that	 he	 was	 as	 capricious	 as	 a	 child;	 a temperament	of	that	kind	was	too	much	for	me	there,	so	I	soon	saw	as	little	of	B—

ski	as	I	could	possibly	help,	though	I	never	ceased	to	like	him	much.	It	was	just	the

other	way	so	far	as	M—tski	was	concerned;	with	him	I	always	was	on	easy	terms,

though	 I	 did	 not	 like	 him	 at	 all.	 When	 I	 edged	 away	 from	 B—ski,	 I	 had	 to	 break also,	more	or	less,	with	T—ski,	of	whom	I	spoke	in	the	last	chapter,	which	I	much

regretted,	for,	though	of	little	education,	he	had	an	excellent	heart;	a	worthy,	very

spiritual	man.	He	loved	and	respected	B—ski	so	much	that	those	who	broke	with

that	friend	of	his	he	regarded	as	his	personal	enemies.	He	quarrelled	with	M—tski

on	account	of	B—ski,	and	they	kept	up	the	difference	a	long	while.	All	these	people

were	as	bilious	as	they	could	be,	humoursome,	mistrustful,	the	victims	of	a	moral

and	 physical	 supersensitiveness.	 It	 is	 not	 to	 be	 wondered	 at;	 their	 position	 was trying	indeed,	much	more	so	than	ours;	they	were	all	exiled,	transported,	for	ten

or	 twelve	 years;	 and	 what	 made	 their	 sojourn	 in	 the	 prison	 most	 distressing	 to them	 was	 their	 rooted,	 ingrained	 prejudice,	 especially	 their	 unfortunate	 way	 of regarding	 the	 convicts,	 which	 they	 could	 not	 get	 over;	 in	 their	 eyes	 the	 unhappy fellows	 were	 mere	 wild	 beasts,	 without	 a	 single	 recognisable	 human	 quality.

Everything	in	their	previous	career	and	their	present	circumstances	combined	to

produce	this	unhappy	feeling	in	them.

Their	 life	 at	 the	 jail	 was	 perpetual	 torment	 to	 them.	 They	 were	 kindly	 and

conversible	with	the	Circassians,	with	the	Tartars,	with	Isaiah	Fomitch;	but	for	the

other	 prisoners	 they	 had	 nothing	 but	 contempt	 and	 aversion.	 The	 only	 one	 they had	any	real	respect	for	was	the	aged	“old	believer.”	For	all	this,	during	all	the	time

I	 spent	 at	 the	 convict	 establishment,	 I	 never	 knew	 a	 single	 prisoner	 to	 reproach them	 with	 either	 their	 birth,	 or	 religious	 opinions,	 or	 convictions,	 as	 is	 so	 usual with	 our	 common	 people	 in	 their	 relations	 with	 people	 of	 different	 condition, especially	 if	 these	 happen	 to	 be	 foreigners.	 The	 fact	 is,	 they	 cannot	 take	 the foreigner	seriously;	to	the	Russian	common	people	he	seems	a	merely	grotesque,

comical	creature.	Our	convicts	had	and	showed	much	more	respect	for	the	Polish nobles	than	for	us	Russians,	but	I	don’t	think	the	Poles	cared	about	the	matter,	or

took	any	notice	of	the	difference.

I	spoke	just	now	of	T—ski,	and	have	something	more	to	say	of	him.	When	he

had	with	his	friend	to	leave	the	first	place	assigned	to	them	as	residence	in	their

banishment	 to	 come	 to	 our	 fortress,	 he	 carried	 his	 friend	 B——	 nearly	 the	 whole way.	 B——	 was	 of	 quite	 a	 weak	 frame,	 and	 in	 bad	 health,	 and	 became	 exhausted before	half	of	the	first	march	was	accomplished.	They	had	first	been	banished	to	Y

—gorsk,	where	they	lived	in	tolerable	comfort;	life	was	much	less	hard	there	than

in	our	fortress.	But	in	consequence	of	a	correspondence	with	the	exiles	in	one	of

the	other	towns—a	quite	innocent	exchange	of	letters—it	was	thought	necessary	to

remove	 them	 to	 our	 jail	 to	 be	 under	 the	 more	 direct	 surveillance	 of	 the

government.	 Until	 they	 came	 M—tski	 had	 been	 quite	 alone,	 and	 dreadful	 must

have	been	his	sufferings	in	that	first	year	of	his	banishment.

J—ski	was	the	old	man	always	deep	in	prayer,	of	whom	I	spoke	a	little	earlier.

All	the	political	convicts	were	quite	young	men	while	J—ski	was	at	least	fifty	years

old.	 He	 was	 a	 worthy,	 gentlemanlike	 person,	 if	 eccentric.	 T—ski	 and	 B—ski

detested	 him,	 and	 never	 spoke	 to	 him;	 they	 insisted	 upon	 it	 that	 he	 was	 too obstinate	and	troublesome	to	put	up	with,	and	I	was	obliged	to	admit	it	was	so.	I

believe	that	at	a	convict	establishment—as	in	every	place	where	people	have	to	be

together,	 whether	 they	 like	 it	 or	 not—people	 are	 more	 ready	 to	 quarrel	 with	 and detest	 one	 another	 than	 under	 other	 circumstances.	 Many	 causes	 contributed	 to

the	 squabbles	 that	 were,	 unfortunately,	 always	 going	 on.	 J—ski	 was	 really

disagreeable	and	narrow-minded;	not	one	of	those	about	him	was	on	good	terms

with	 him.	 He	 and	 I	 did	 not	 come	 to	 a	 rupture,	 but	 we	 were	 never	 on	 a	 really friendly	footing.	I	fancy	that	he	was	a	strong	mathematician.	One	day	he	explained

to	me	in	his	half-Russian,	half-Polish	jargon,	a	system	of	astronomy	of	his	own;	I

have	 been	 told	 that	 he	 had	 written	 a	 work	 upon	 the	 subject	 which	 the	 learned world	 had	 received	 with	 derision;	 I	 fancy	 his	 reasonings	 on	 some	 things	 had	 got twisted.	 He	 used	 to	 be	 on	 his	 knees	 praying	 for	 a	 whole	 day	 sometimes,	 which made	 the	 convicts	 respect	 him	 exceedingly	 during	 the	 remnant	 of	 life	 he	 had	 to pass	there;	he	died	under	my	eyes	at	the	jail	after	a	very	trying	illness.	He	had	won

the	 consideration	 of	 the	 prisoners,	 from	 the	 first	 moment	 of	 his	 coming	 in,	 on account	of	what	had	happened	with	the	Major	and	him.	When	they	were	brought

afoot	from	Y—gorsk	to	our	fortress,	they	were	not	shaved	on	the	road	at	all,	their

hair	 and	 beards	 had	 grown	 to	 great	 lengths	 when	 they	 were	 brought	 before	 the Major.	That	worthy	foamed	like	a	madman;	he	was	wild	with	indignation	at	such

infraction	of	discipline,	though	it	was	none	of	their	fault.

“My	God!	did	you	ever	see	anything	like	it?”	he	roared;	“they	are	vagabonds,

brigands.”

J—ski	 knew	 very	 little	 Russian,	 and	 fancied	 that	 he	 was	 asking	 them	 if	 they were	brigands	or	vagabonds,	so	he	answered:

“We	are	political	prisoners,	not	rogues	and	vagabonds.”

“So-o-o!	 You	 mean	 impudence!	 Clod!”	 howled	 the	 Major.	 “To	 the	 guard-

house	with	him;	a	hundred	strokes	of	the	rod	at	once,	this	instant,	I	say!”

They	gave	the	old	man	the	punishment;	he	lay	flat	on	the	ground	under	the

strokes	without	the	slightest	resistance,	kept	his	hand	in	his	teeth,	and	bore	it	all

without	a	murmur,	and	without	moving	a	muscle.	B—ski	and	T—ski	arrived	at	the

jail	as	this	was	all	going	on,	and	M—ski	was	waiting	for	them	at	the	principal	gate,

knowing	that	they	were	just	coming	in;	he	threw	himself	on	their	neck,	although

he	 had	 never	 seen	 them	 before.	 Utterly	 disgusted	 at	 the	 way	 the	 Major	 had

received	them,	they	told	M—ski	all	about	the	cruel	business	that	had	just	occurred.

M—ski	told	me	later	that	he	was	quite	beside	himself	with	rage	when	he	heard	it.

“I	 could	 not	 contain	 myself	 for	 passion,”	 he	 said,	 “I	 shook	 as	 though	 with

ague.	 I	 waited	 for	 J—ski	 at	 the	 great	 gate,	 for	 he	 would	 come	 straight	 that	 way from	the	guard-house	after	his	punishment.	The	gate	was	opened,	and	there	I	saw

pass	before	me	J—ski,	his	lips	all	white	and	trembling,	his	face	pale	as	death;	he

did	 not	 look	 at	 a	 single	 person,	 and	 passed	 through	 the	 groups	 of	 convicts

assembled	 in	 the	 court-yard—they	 knew	 a	 noble	 had	 just	 been	 subjected	 to

punishment—went	 into	 the	 barrack,	 went	 straight	 to	 his	 place,	 and,	 without	 a

word,	 dropped	 down	 on	 his	 knees	 for	 prayer.	 The	 prisoners	 were	 surprised	 and even	affected.	When	I	saw	this	old	man	with	white	hairs,	who	had	left	behind	him

at	 home	 a	 wife	 and	 children,	 kneeling	 and	 praying	 after	 that	 scandalous

treatment,	 I	 rushed	 away	 from	 the	 barrack,	 and	 for	 a	 couple	 of	 hours	 felt	 as	 if	 I had	gone	stark,	staring,	raving	mad,	or	blind	drunk.	.	.	.	From	that	first	moment

the	convicts	were	full	of	deference	and	consideration	for	J—ski;	what	particularly

pleased	them,	was	that	he	did	not	utter	a	cry	when	undergoing	the	punishment.”

But	one	must	be	fair	and	tell	the	truth	about	this	sort	of	thing;	this	sad	story	is

not	 an	 instance	 of	 what	 frequently	 occurs	 in	 the	 treatment	 by	 the	 authorities	 of transported	 noblemen,	 Russian	 or	 Polish;	 and	 this	 isolated	 case	 affords	 no	 basis for	 passing	 judgment	 upon	 that	 treatment.	 My	 anecdote	 merely	 shows	 that	 you

may	light	upon	a	bad	man	anywhere	and	everywhere.	And	if	it	happen	that	such	a

one	 is	 in	 absolute	 command	 of	 a	 jail,	 and	 if	 he	 happen	 to	 have	 a	 grudge	 against one	 of	 the	 prisoners,	 the	 lot	 of	 such	 a	 one	 will	 be	 indeed	 very	 far	 from	 enviable.

But	the	administrative	chiefs	who	regulate	and	supervise	convict	labour	in	Siberia,

and	from	whom	subordinates	take	their	tone	as	well	as	their	orders,	are	careful	to

exercise	a	discriminating	treatment	in	the	case	of	persons	of	noble	birth,	and,	in

some	cases,	grant	them	special	indulgences	as	compared	with	the	lot	of	convicts	of

lower	 condition.	 There	 are	 obvious	 reasons	 for	 this;	 these	 heads	 of	 departments are	 nobles	 themselves,	 they	 know	 that	 men	 of	 that	 class	 must	 not	 be	 driven	 to extremity;	 cases	 have	 been	 known	 where	 nobles	 have	 refused	 to	 submit	 to

corporal	punishment,	and	flung	themselves	desperately	on	their	tormentors	with

very	 grave	 and	 serious	 consequences	 indeed;	 moreover—and	 this,	 I	 think,	 is	 the leading	 cause	 of	 the	 good	 treatment—some	 time	 ago,	 thirty-five	 years	 at	 least, there	were	transported	to	Siberia	quite	a	crowd	of	noblemen;9	these	were	of	such correct	 and	 irreproachable	 demeanour,	 and	 held	 themselves	 so	 high,	 that	 the

heads	 of	 departments	 fell	 into	 the	 way,	 which	 they	 never	 afterwards	 left,	 of regarding	 criminals	 of	 noble	 birth	 and	 ordinary	 convicts	 in	 quite	 a	 different manner;	and	men	in	lower	place	took	their	cue	from	them.

Many	 of	 these,	 no	 doubt,	 were	 little	 pleased	 with	 that	 disposition	 in	 their

superiors;	such	persons	were	pleased	enough	when	they	could	do	exactly	as	they

liked	 in	 the	 matter,	 but	 this	 did	 not	 often	 happen,	 they	 were	 kept	 well	 within bounds;	 I	 have	 reason	 to	 be	 satisfied	 of	 this	 and	 I	 will	 say	 why.	 I	 was	 put	 in	 the second	 category,	 a	 classification	 of	 those	 condemned	 to	 hard	 labour,	 which	 was primarily	and	principally	composed	of	convicts	who	had	been	serfs,	under	military

superintendence;	 now	 this	 second	 category,	 or	 class,	 was	 much	 harder	 than	 the first	(of	the	mines)	or	the	third	(manufacturing	work).	It	was	harder,	not	only	for

the	 nobles	 but	 for	 the	 other	 convicts	 too,	 because	 the	 governing	 and

administrative	methods	and	 personnel	in	it	were	wholly	military,	and	were	pretty much	the	same	in	type	as	those	of	the	convict	establishments	in	Russia.	The	men

in	official	position	were	severer,	the	general	treatment	more	rigorous	than	in	the

two	 other	 classes;	 the	 men	 were	 never	 out	 of	 irons,	 an	 escort	 of	 soldiers	 was always	present,	you	were	always,	or	nearly	so,	within	stone	walls;	and	things	were

quite	 different	 in	 the	 other	 classes,	 at	 least	 so	 the	 convicts	 said,	 and	 there	 were those	among	them	who	had	every	reason	to	know.	They	would	all	have	gladly	gone

off	to	the	mines,	which	the	law	classified	as	the	worst	and	last	punishment,	it	was

their	constant	dream	and	desire	to	do	so.	All	those	who	had	been	in	the	Russian

convict	establishments	spoke	with	horror	of	them,	and	declared	that	there	was	no

hell	 like	 them,	 that	 Siberia	 was	 a	 paradise	 compared	 with	 confinement	 in	 the fortresses	in	Russia.

If,	then,	it	is	the	case	that	we	nobles	were	treated	with	special	consideration	in

the	 establishment	 I	 was	 confined	 in,	 which	 was	 under	 direct	 control	 of	 the

Governor–General,	 and	 administered	 entirely	 on	 military	 principles,	 there	 must

have	been	some	greater	kindliness	in	the	treatment	of	the	convicts	of	the	first	and

third	category	or	class.	I	think	I	can	speak	with	some	authority	about	what	went

on	throughout	Siberia	in	these	respects,	and	I	based	my	views,	as	to	this,	upon	all

that	 I	 heard	 from	 convicts	 of	 these	 classes.	 We,	 in	 our	 prison,	 were	 under	 much more	rigorous	surveillance	than	was	elsewhere	practised;	we	were	favoured	with

no	sort	of	exemptions	from	the	ordinary	rules	as	regards	work	and	confinement,

and	the	wearing	of	chains;	we	could	not	do	anything	for	ourselves	to	get	immunity

from	the	rules,	for	I,	at	least,	knew	quite	well	that, in	the	good	old	time	which	was quite	of	yesterday,	there	had	been	so	much	intriguing	to	undermine	the	credit	of officials	 that	 the	 authorities	 were	 greatly	 afraid	 of	 informers,	 and	 that,	 as	 things stood,	 to	 show	 indulgence	 to	 a	 convict	 was	 regarded	 as	 a	 crime.	 Everybody,

therefore,	authorities	and	convicts	alike,	was	in	fear	of	what	might	happen;	we	of

the	nobles	were	thus	quite	down	to	the	level	of	the	other	convicts;	the	only	point

we	 were	 favoured	 in	 was	 in	 regard	 to	 corporal	 punishment—but	 I	 think	 that	 we should	have	had	even	that	inflicted	on	us	had	we	done	anything	for	which	it	was

prescribed,	for	equality	as	to	punishment	was	strictly	enjoined	or	practised;	what	I

mean	 is,	 that	 we	 were	 not	 wantonly,	 causelessly,	 mishandled	 like	 the	 other

prisoners.

When	the	Governor	got	to	know	of	the	punishment	inflicted	on	J—ski,	he	was

seriously	angry	with	the	Major,	and	ordered	him	to	be	more	careful	for	the	future.

The	thing	got	very	generally	known.	We	learned	also	that	the	Governor–General,

who	 had	 great	 confidence	 in	 our	 Major,	 and	 who	 liked	 him	 because	 of	 his	 exact observance	of	legal	bounds,	and	thought	highly	of	his	qualities	in	the	service,	gave

him	a	sharp	scolding.	And	our	Major	took	the	lesson	to	heart.	I	have	no	doubt	it

was	this	prevented	his	having	M—ski	beaten,	which	he	would	much	have	liked	to

do,	being	much	influenced	by	the	slanderous	things	A—f	said	about	M——;	but	the Major	could	never	get	a	fair	pretext	for	doing	so,	however	much	he	persecuted	and

set	spies	upon	his	proposed	victim;	so	he	had	to	deny	himself	that	pleasure.	The	J

—ski	 affair	 became	 known	 all	 through	 the	 town,	 and	 public	 opinion	 condemned

the	Major;	some	persons	reproached	him	openly	for	what	he	had	done,	and	some

even	insulted	him.

The	 first	 occasion	 on	 which	 the	 man	 crossed	 my	 path	 may	 as	 well	 be

mentioned.	We	had	alarming	things	reported	to	us—to	me	and	another	nobleman

under	sentence—about	the	abominable	character	of	this	man,	while	we	were	still

at	Tobolsk.	Men	who	had	been	sentenced	a	long	while	back	to	twenty-five	years	of

the	 misery,	 nobles	 as	 we	 were,	 and	 who	 had	 visited	 us	 so	 kindly	 during	 our provisional	sojourn	in	the	first	prison,	had	warned	us	what	sort	of	man	we	were	to

be	under;	they	had	also	promised	to	do	all	they	could	for	us	with	their	friends	to

see	 that	 he	 hurt	 us	 as	 little	 as	 possible.	 And,	 in	 fact,	 they	 did	 write	 to	 the	 three daughters	of	the	Governor–General,	who,	I	believe,	interceded	on	our	behalf	with

their	father.	But	what	could	he	do?	No	more,	of	course,	than	tell	the	Major	to	be

fair	 in	 applying	 the	 rules	 and	 regulations	 to	 our	 case.	 It	 was	 about	 three	 in	 the afternoon	that	my	companion	and	myself	arrived	in	the	town;	our	escort	took	us

at	 once	 to	 our	 tyrant.	 We	 remained	 waiting	 for	 him	 in	 the	 ante-chamber	 while they	 went	 to	 find	 the	 next-incommand	 at	 the	 prison.	 As	 soon	 as	 the	 latter	 had come,	in	walked	the	Major.	We	saw	an	inflamed	scarlet	face	that	boded	no	good,

and	affected	us	quite	painfully;	he	seemed	like	a	sort	of	spider	about	to	throw	itself

on	a	poor	fly	wriggling	in	its	web.

“What’s	your	name,	man?”	said	he	to	my	companion.	He	spoke	with	a	harsh,

jerky	voice,	as	if	he	wanted	to	overawe	us.

My	friend	gave	his	name.

“And	you?”	said	he,	turning	to	me	and	glaring	at	me	behind	his	spectacles.

I	gave	mine.

“Sergeant!	take	’em	to	the	prison,	and	let	’em	be	shaved	at	the	guard-house,

civilian-fashion,	 hair	 off	 half	 their	 skulls,	 and	 let	 ’em	 be	 put	 in	 irons	 tomorrow.

Why,	 what	 sort	 of	 cloaks	 have	 you	 got	 there?”	 said	 he	 brutally,	 when	 he	 saw	 the gray	 cloaks	 with	 yellow	 sewn	 at	 the	 back	 which	 they	 had	 given	 to	 us	 at	 Tobolsk.

“Why,	 that’s	 a	 new	 uniform,	 begad—a	 new	 uniform!	 They’re	 always	 getting	 up

something	 or	 other.	 That’s	 a	 Petersburg	 trick,”	 he	 said,	 as	 he	 inspected	 us	 one after	the	other.	“Got	anything	with	them?”	he	said	abruptly	to	the	gendarme	who

escorted	us.

“They’ve	 got	 their	 own	 clothes,	 your	 worship,”	 replied	 he;	 and	 the	 man

carried	arms,	just	as	if	on	parade,	not	without	a	nervous	tremor.	Everybody	knew

the	fellow,	and	was	afraid	of	him.

“Take	their	clothes	away	from	them.	They	can’t	keep	anything	but	their	linen,

their	white	things;	take	away	all	their	coloured	things	if	they’ve	got	any,	and	sell

them	off	at	the	next	sale,	and	put	the	money	to	the	prison	account.	A	convict	has

no	 property,”	 said	 he,	 looking	 severely	 at	 us.	 “Hark	 ye!	 Behave	 prettily;	 don’t	 let me	 have	 any	 complaining.	 If	 I	 do—cat-o’-nine-tails!	 The	 smallest	 offence,	 and	 to the	sticks	you	go!”

This	way	of	receiving	me,	so	different	from	anything	I	had	ever	known,	made

me	nearly	ill	that	night.	It	was	a	frightful	thing	to	happen	at	the	very	moment	of

entering	the	infernal	place.	But	I	have	already	told	that	part	of	my	story.

Thus	 we	 had	 no	 sort	 of	 exemption	 or	 immunity	 from	 any	 of	 the	 miseries

inflicted	 there,	 no	 lightening	 of	 our	 labours	 when	 with	 the	 other	 convicts;	 but friends	tried	to	help	us	by	getting	us	sent	for	three	months,	B—ski	and	me,	to	the

bureau	of	the	Engineers,	to	do	copying	work.	This	was	done	quietly,	and	as	much

as	possible	kept	from	being	talked	about	or	observed.	This	piece	of	kindness	was

done	for	us	by	the	head	engineers,	during	the	short	time	that	Lieutenant–Colonel

G—kof	was	Governor	at	our	prison.	This	gentleman	had	command	there	only	for

six	short	months,	for	he	soon	went	back	to	Russia.	He	really	seemed	to	us	all	like

an	angel	of	goodness	sent	from	heaven,	and	the	feeling	for	him	among	the	convicts

was	of	the	strongest	kind;	it	was	not	mere	love,	it	was	something	like	adoration.	I

cannot	help	saying	so.	How	he	did	it	I	don’t	know,	but	their	hearts	went	out	to	him

from	the	moment	they	first	set	eyes	on	him.

“He’s	 more	 like	 a	 father	 than	 anything	 else,”	 the	 prisoners	 kept	 continually

saying	during	all	the	time	he	was	there	at	the	head	of	the	engineering	department.

He	 was	 a	 brilliant,	 joyous	 fellow.	 He	 was	 of	 low	 stature,	 with	 a	 bold,	 confident expression,	 and	 he	 was	 all	 gracious	 kindness	 to	 the	 convicts,	 for	 whom	 he	 really did	 seem	 to	 entertain	 a	 fatherly	 sort	 of	 affection.	 How	 was	 it	 he	 was	 so	 fond	 of them?	It	is	hard	to	say,	but	he	seemed	never	to	be	able	to	pass	a	prisoner	without	a

bit	 of	 pleasant	 talk	 and	 a	 little	 laughing	 and	 joking	 together.	 There	 was	 nothing

that	smacked	of	authority	in	his	pleasantries,	nothing	that	reminded	them	of	his position	over	them.	He	behaved	just	as	if	he	was	one	of	themselves.	In	spite	of	this

kind	 condescension,	 I	 don’t	 remember	 any	 one	 of	 the	 convicts	 ever	 failing	 in respect	 to	 him	 or	 taking	 the	 slightest	 liberty—quite	 the	 other	 way.	 The	 convict’s face	would	light	up	in	a	wonderful,	sudden	way	when	he	met	the	Governor;	it	was

odd	to	see	how	the	face	smiled	all	over,	and	the	hand	went	to	the	cap,	when	the

Governor	was	seen	in	the	distance	making	for	the	poor	man.	A	word	from	him	was

regarded	 as	 a	 signal	 honour.	 There	 are	 some	 people	 like	 that,	 who	 know	 how	 to win	all	hearts.

G—kof	had	a	bold,	jaunty	air,	walked	with	long	strides,	holding	himself	very

straight;	“a	regular	eagle,”	the	convicts	used	to	call	him.	He	could	not	do	much	to

lighten	 their	 lot	 materially,	 for	 his	 office	 was	 that	 of	 superintending	 the

engineering	work,	which	had	to	be	done	in	ways	and	quantities,	settled	absolutely

and	 unalterably	 by	 the	 regulations.	 But	 if	 he	 happened	 to	 come	 across	 a	 gang	 of convicts	who	had	actually	got	through	their	work,	he	allowed	them	to	go	back	to

quarters	 before	 beat	 of	 drum,	 without	 waiting	 for	 the	 regulation	 moment.	 The

prisoners	 loved	 him	 for	 the	 confidence	 he	 showed	 in	 them,	 and	 because	 of	 his aversion	 for	 all	 mean,	 trifling	 interferences	 with	 them,	 which	 are	 so	 irritating when	 prison	 superiors	 are	 addicted	 to	 that	 sort	 of	 thing.	 I	 am	 absolutely	 certain that	if	he	had	lost	a	thousand	roubles	in	notes,	there	was	not	a	thief	in	the	prison,

however	 hardened,	 who	 would	 not	 have	 brought	 them	 to	 him,	 if	 the	 man	 lit	 on them.	I	am	sure	of	it.

How	 the	 prisoners	 all	 felt	 for	 him,	 and	 with	 him	 when	 they	 learned	 that	 he was	at	daggers	drawn	with	our	detested	Major.	That	came	about	a	month	after	his

arrival.	Their	delight	knew	no	bounds.	The	Major	had	formerly	served	with	him	in

the	same	detachment;	so,	when	they	met,	after	a	long	separation,	they	were	at	first

boon	companions,	but	the	intimacy	could	not	and	did	not	last.	They	came	to	blows

—figuratively—and	G—kof	became	the	Major’s	sworn	enemy.	Some	would	have	it

that	it	was	 more	than	figuratively,	that	they	came	to	actual	fisticuffs,	a	likely	thing enough	 as	 far	 as	 the	 Major	 was	 concerned,	 for	 the	 man	 had	 no	 objection	 to	 a scrimmage.

When	 the	 convicts	 heard	 of	 the	 quarrel	 they	 really	 could	 not	 contain	 their

delight.

“Old	 Eight-eyes	 and	 the	 Commandant	 get	 on	 finely	 together! He’s	 an	 eagle;

but	the	other’s	a	 bad	’un!”

Those	who	believed	in	the	fight	were	mighty	curious	to	know	which	of	the	two

had	had	the	worst	of	it,	and	got	a	good	drubbing.	If	it	had	been	proved	there	had

been	no	fighting	our	convicts,	I	think,	would	have	been	bitterly	disappointed.

“The	Commandant	gave	him	fits,	you	may	bet	your	life	on	it,”	said	they;	“he’s

a	little	’un,	but	as	bold	as	a	lion;	the	other	one	got	into	a	blue	funk,	and	hid	under

the	bed	from	him.”

But	 G—kof	 went	 away	 only	 too	 soon,	 and	 keenly	 was	 he	 regretted	 in	 the

prison.

Our	 engineers	 were	 all	 most	 excellent	 fellows;	 we	 had	 three	 or	 four	 fresh

batches	of	them	while	I	was	there.

“Our	 eagles	 never	 remain	 very	 long	 with	 us,”	 said	 the	 prisoners;	 “especially

when	they	are	good	and	kind	fellows.”

It	 was	 this	 G—kof	 who	 sent	 B—ski	 and	 myself	 to	 work	 in	 his	 bureau,	 for	 he was	partial	to	exiled	nobles.	When	he	left,	our	condition	was	still	fairly	endurable,

for	 there	 was	 another	 engineer	 there	 who	 showed	 us	 much	 sympathy	 and

friendship.	We	copied	reports	for	some	time,	and	our	handwriting	was	getting	to

be	 very	 good,	 when	 an	 order	 came	 from	 the	 authorities	 that	 we	 were	 to	 be	 sent back	to	hard	labour	as	before;	some	spiteful	person	had	been	at	work.	At	bottom

we	were	rather	pleased,	for	we	were	quite	tired	of	copying.

For	 two	 whole	 years	 I	 worked	 in	 company	 with	 B—ski,	 all	 the	 time	 in	 the

shops,	 and	 many	 a	 gossip	 did	 we	 have	 about	 our	 hopes	 for	 the	 future	 and	 our notions	 and	 convictions.	 Good	 B—ski	 had	 a	 very	 odd	 mind,	 which	 worked	 in	 a

strange,	exceptional	way.	There	are	some	people	of	great	intelligence	who	indulge

in	 paradox	 unconscionably;	 but	 when	 they	 have	 undergone	 great	 and	 constant

sufferings	for	their	ideas	and	made	great	sacrifices	for	them,	you	can’t	drive	their

notions	out	of	their	heads,	and	it	is	cruel	to	try	it.	When	you	objected	something	to

B—ski’s	propositions,	he	was	really	hurt,	and	gave	you	a	violent	answer.	He	was,

perhaps,	more	in	the	right	than	I	was	as	to	some	things	wherein	we	differed,	but

we	were	obliged	to	give	one	another	up,	very	much	to	my	regret,	for	we	had	many

thoughts	in	common.

As	years	went	on	M—tski	became	more	and	more	sombre	and	melancholy;	he

became	 a	 prey	 to	 despair.	 During	 the	 earliest	 part	 of	 my	 imprisonment	 he	 was

communicative	enough,	and	let	us	see	what	was	going	on	in	him.	When	I	arrived at	the	prison	he	had	just	finished	his	second	year.	At	first	he	took	a	lively	interest

in	the	news	I	brought,	for	he	knew	nothing	of	what	had	been	going	on	in	the	outer

world;	 he	 put	 questions	 to	 me,	 listened	 eagerly,	 showed	 emotion,	 but,	 bit	 by	 bit, his	 reserve	 grew	 on	 him	 and	 there	 was	 no	 getting	 at	 his	 thoughts.	 The	 glowing coals	were	all	covered	up	with	ashes.	Yet	it	was	plain	that	his	temper	grew	sourer

and	sourer.	” Je	hais	ces	brigands,” 10	he	would	say,	speaking	of	convicts	I	had	got to	know	something	of;	I	never	could	make	him	see	any	good	in	them.	He	really	did

not	seem	to	fully	enter	into	the	meaning	of	anything	I	said	on	their	behalf,	though

he	would	sometimes	seem	to	agree	in	a	listless	sort	of	way.	Next	day	it	was	just	as

before:	” je	hais	ces	brigands.”	(We	used	often	to	speak	French	with	him;	so	one	of the	overseers	of	the	works,	the	soldier,	Dranichnikof,	used	always	to	call	us	 aides

chirurgiens,	God	knows	why!)	M—tski	never	seemed	to	shake	off	his	usual	apathy

except	when	he	spoke	of	his	mother.

“She	 is	 old	 and	 infirm,”	 he	 said;	 “she	 loves	 me	 better	 than	 anything	 in	 the world,	 and	 I	 don’t	 even	 know	 if	 she’s	 still	 living.	 If	 she	 learns	 that	 I’ve	 been whipped——”

M—tski	 was	 not	 a	 noble,	 and	 had	 been	 whipped	 before	 he	 was	 transported.

When	the	recollection	of	this	came	up	in	his	mind	he	gnashed	his	teeth,	and	could

not	 look	 anybody	 in	 the	 face.	 In	 the	 latest	 days	 of	 his	 imprisonment	 he	 used	 to walk	 to	 and	 fro,	 quite	 alone	 for	 the	 most	 part.	 One	 day,	 at	 noon,	 he	 was

summoned	to	the	Governor,	who	received	him	with	a	smile	on	his	lips.

“Well,	M—tski,	what	were	your	dreams	last	night?”	asked	the	Governor.

Said	M—tski	to	me	later,	“When	he	said	that	to	me	a	shudder	ran	through	me;

I	felt	struck	at	the	heart.”

His	answer	was,	“I	dreamed	that	I	had	a	letter	from	my	mother.”

“Better	 than	 that,	 better!”	 replied	 the	 Governor.	 “You	 are	 free;	 your	 mother

has	petitioned	the	Emperor,	and	he	has	granted	her	prayer.	Here,	here’s	her	letter,

and	the	order	for	your	dismissal.	You	are	to	leave	the	jail	without	delay.”

He	came	to	us	pale,	scarcely	able	to	believe	in	his	good	fortune.

We	congratulated	him.	He	pressed	our	hands	with	his	own,	which	were	quite

cold,	 and	 trembled	 violently.	 Many	 of	 the	 convicts	 wished	 him	 joy;	 they	 were really	glad	to	see	his	happiness.

He	settled	in	Siberia,	establishing	himself	in	our	town,	where	a	little	after	that they	gave	him	a	place.	He	used	often	to	come	to	the	jail	to	bring	us	news,	and	tell

us	all	that	was	going	on,	as	often	as	he	could	talk	with	us.	It	was	political	news	that

interested	him	chiefly.

Besides	the	four	Poles,	the	political	convicts	of	whom	I	spoke	just	now,	there

were	 two	 others	 of	 that	 nation,	 who	 were	 sentenced	 for	 very	 short	 periods;	 they had	 not	 much	 education,	 but	 were	 good,	 simple,	 straightforward	 fellows.	 There

was	another,	A—tchoukooski,	quite	a	colourless	person;	one	more	I	must	mention,

B—in,	 a	 man	 well	 on	 in	 years,	 who	 impressed	 us	 all	 very	 unfavourably	 indeed.	 I don’t	know	what	he	had	been	sentenced	for,	although	he	used	to	tell	us	some	story

or	other	about	it	pretty	frequently.	He	was	a	person	of	a	vulgar,	mean	type,	with

the	 coarse	 manner	 of	 an	 enriched	 shopkeeper.	 He	 was	 quite	 without	 education,

and	 seemed	 to	 take	 interest	 in	 nothing	 except	 what	 concerned	 his	 trade,	 which was	 that	 of	 a	 painter,	 a	 sort	 of	 scene-painter	 he	 was;	 he	 showed	 a	 good	 deal	 of talent	in	his	work,	and	the	authorities	of	the	prison	soon	came	to	know	about	his

abilities,	 so	 he	 got	 employment	 all	 through	 the	 town	 in	 decorating	 walls	 and ceilings.	In	two	years	he	beautified	the	rooms	of	nearly	all	the	prison	officials,	who

remunerated	 him	 handsomely,	 so	 he	 lived	 pretty	 comfortably.	 He	 was	 sent	 to

work	 with	 three	 other	 prisoners,	 two	 of	 whom	 learned	 the	 business	 thoroughly; one	 of	 these,	 T—jwoski,	 painted	 nearly	 as	 well	 as	 B—in	 himself.	 Our	 Major,	 who had	 rooms	 in	 one	 of	 the	 government	 buildings,	 sent	 for	 B—in,	 and	 gave	 him	 a commission	 to	 decorate	 the	 walls	 and	 ceilings	 there,	 which	 he	 did	 so	 effectively, that	 the	 suite	 of	 rooms	 of	 the	 Governor–General	 were	 quite	 put	 out	 of

countenance	by	those	of	the	Major.	The	house	itself	was	a	ramshackle	old	place,

while	the	interior,	thanks	to	B—in,	was	as	gay	as	a	palace.	Our	worthy	Major	was

hugely	 delighted,	 went	 about	 rubbing	 his	 hands,	 and	 told	 everybody	 that	 he

should	look	out	for	a	wife	at	once,	“a	fellow	 can’t	remain	single	when	he	lives	in	a place	like	that;”	he	was	quite	serious	about	it.	The	Major’s	satisfaction	with	B—in

and	his	assistants	went	on	increasing.	They	occupied	a	month	in	the	work	at	the

Major’s	 house.	 During	 those	 memorable	 days	 the	 Major	 seemed	 to	 get	 into	 a

different	 frame	 of	 mind	 about	 us,	 and	 began	 to	 be	 quite	 kind	 to	 us	 political prisoners.	One	day	he	sent	for	J—ski.

“J—ski,”	said	he,	“I’ve	done	you	wrong;	I	had	you	beaten	for	nothing.	I’m	very

sorry.	Do	you	understand?	I’m	very	sorry.	I,	Major	——”

J—ski	answered	that	he	understood	perfectly.

“Do	you	understand?	I,	who	am	set	over	you,	I	have	sent	for	you	to	ask	your

pardon.	You	can	hardly	realise	it,	I	suppose.	What	are	you	to	me,	fellow?	A	worm,

less	than	a	crawling	worm;	you’re	a	convict,	while	I,	by	God’s	grace, 11	am	a	Major; Major	——, do	you	understand?”

J—ski	answered	that	he	quite	well	understood	it	all.

“Well,	I	want	to	be	friends	with	you.	But	can	you	appreciate	what	I’m	doing?

Can	you	feel	the	greatness	of	soul	I’m	showing—feel	and	appreciate	it?	Just	think

of	it;	I,	I,	the	Major!”	etc.	etc.

J—ski	told	me	of	this	scene.	There	was,	then,	some	human	feeling	left	in	this

drunken,	unruly,	and	tormenting	brute.	Allowing	for	the	man’s	notions	of	things,

and	feeble	faculties,	one	cannot	deny	that	this	was	a	generous	proceeding	on	his

part.	Perhaps	he	was	a	little	less	drunk	than	usual,	perhaps	more;	who	can	tell?

The	Major’s	glorious	idea	of	marrying	came	to	nothing;	the	rooms	got	all	their

bravery,	 but	 the	 wife	 was	 not	 forthcoming.	 Instead	 of	 going	 to	 the	 altar	 in	 that agreeable	 way,	 he	 was	 pulled	 up	 before	 the	 authorities	 and	 sent	 to	 trial.	 He received	orders	to	send	in	his	resignation.	Some	of	his	old	sins	had	found	him	out,

it	seems;	things	done	when	he	had	been	superintendent	of	police	in	our	town.	This

crushing	 blow	 came	 down	 upon	 him	 without	 notice,	 quite	 suddenly.	 All	 the

convicts	were	greatly	rejoiced	when	they	heard	the	great	news;	it	was	high	day	and

holiday	 all	 through	 the	 jail.	 The	 story	 went	 abroad	 that	 the	 Major	 sobbed,	 and cried,	and	howled	like	an	old	woman.	But	he	was	helpless	in	the	matter.	He	was

obliged	 to	 leave	 his	 place,	 sell	 his	 two	 gray	 horses,	 and	 everything	 he	 had	 in	 the world;	 and	 he	 fell	 into	 complete	 destitution.	 We	 came	 across	 him	 occasionally afterwards	 in	 civilian,	 threadbare	 clothes,	 and	 wearing	 a	 cap	 with	 a	 cockade;	 he glanced	at	us	convicts	as	spitefully	and	maliciously	as	you	please.	But	without	his

Major’s	 uniform,	 all	 the	 man’s	 glory	 was	 gone.	 While	 placed	 over	 us,	 he	 gave himself	 the	 airs	 of	 a	 being	 higher	 than	 human,	 who	 had	 got	 into	 coat	 and

breeches;	 now	 it	 was	 all	 over,	 he	 looked	 like	 the	 lackey	 he	 was,	 and	 a	 disgraced lackey	to	boot.

With	fellows	of	this	sort,	the	uniform	is	the	only	saving	grace;	that	gone,	all’s

gone.

9	The	Decembrists.

10	French	in	the	original	Russian.

11	Our	Major	was	not	the	only	officer	who	spoke	of	himself	in	that	lofty	way;	a	good many	officers	did	the	same,	men	who	had	risen	from	the	ranks	chiefly.





CHAPTER	9.

THE	ESCAPE

Alittle	while	after	the	Major	resigned,	our	prison	was	subjected	to	a

thorough	 reorganization.	 The	 “hard	 labour”	 hitherto	 inflicted,	 and	 the

other	 regulations,	 were	 abolished,	 and	 the	 place	 put	 upon	 the	 footing	 of

the	military	convict	establishments	of	Russia.	As	a	result	of	this,	prisoners	of	the

second	 category	 were	 no	 longer	 sent	 there;	 this	 class	 was,	 for	 the	 future,	 to	 be composed	of	prisoners	who	were	regarded	as	still	on	the	military	footing,	that	is	to

say,	men	who,	in	spite	of	sentence,	did	not	forfeit	for	ever	their	civic	 status.	They were	soldiers	still,	but	had	undergone	corporal	punishment;	they	were	sentenced

for	 comparatively	 short	 periods,	 six	 years	 at	 most;	 when	 they	 had	 served	 their time,	or	in	case	of	pardon,	they	went	into	the	ranks	again,	as	before.	Men	guilty	of

a	second	offence	were	sentenced	to	twenty	years	of	imprisonment.	Up	to	the	time	I

speak	 of,	 we	 had	 a	 section	 of	 soldier-prisoners	 among	 us,	 but	 only	 because	 they did	not	know	where	else	to	dispose	of	them.	Now	the	place	was	to	be	occupied	by

soldiers	 exclusively.	 As	 to	 the	 civilian	 convicts,	 who	 were	 stripped	 of	 all	 civic rights,	 branded,	 cropped,	 and	 shaven,	 these	 were	 to	 remain	 in	 the	 fortress	 to finish	their	time;	but	as	no	fresh	prisoners	of	this	class	were	to	come	in,	and	those

there	would	get	their	discharge	successively,	at	the	end	of	ten	years	there	would	be

no	 civilian	 convicts	 left	 in	 the	 place,	 according	 to	 the	 arrangements.	 The	 line	 of division	between	the	classes	of	prisoners	there	was	maintained;	from	time	to	time

there	 came	 in	 other	 military	 criminals	 of	 high	 position,	 sent	 to	 our	 place	 for security,	 before	 being	 forwarded	 to	 Eastern	 Siberia,	 for	 the	 more	 aggravated

penalties	that	awaited	them	there.

There	 was	 no	 change	 in	 our	 general	 way	 of	 life.	 The	 work	 we	 had	 to	 do	 and the	 discipline	 observed	 were	 the	 same	 as	 before;	 but	 the	 administrative	 system was	 entirely	 altered,	 and	 made	 more	 complex.	 An	 officer,	 commandant	 of

companies,	was	assigned	to	be	at	the	head	of	the	prison;	he	had	under	his	orders

four	 subaltern	 officers	 who	 mounted	 guard	 by	 turns.	 The	 “invalids”	 were

superseded	by	twelve	non-commissioned	officers,	and	an	arsenal	superintendent.

The	convicts	were	divided	into	sections	of	ten,	and	corporals	chosen	among	them;

the	power	of	these	over	the	others	was,	as	may	be	supposed,	nominal.	As	might	be

expected,	Akim	Akimitch	got	this	promotion.

All	these	new	arrangements	were	confided	to	the	Governor	to	carry	out,	who remained	 in	 superior	 command	 over	 the	 whole	 establishment.	 The	 changes	 did

not	 go	 further	 than	 this.	 At	 first	 the	 convicts	 were	 not	 a	 little	 excited	 by	 this movement,	 and	 discussed	 their	 new	 guardians	 a	 good	 deal	 among	 themselves,

trying	 to	 make	 out	 what	 sort	 of	 fellows	 they	 were;	 but	 when	 they	 saw	 that

everything	went	on	pretty	much	as	usual	they	quieted	down,	and	things	resumed

their	 ordinary	 course.	 We	 had	 got	 rid	 of	 the	 Major,	 and	 that	 was	 something; everybody	took	fresh	breath	and	fresh	courage.	The	fear	that	was	in	all	hearts	grew

less;	we	had	some	assurance	that	in	case	of	need	we	could	go	to	our	superiors	and

lodge	 our	 complaint,	 and	 that	 a	 man	 could	 not	 be	 punished	 without	 cause,	 and would	not,	unless	by	mistake.

Brandy	 was	 brought	 in	 as	 before,	 although	 we	 had	 subaltern	 officers	 now

where	“invalids”	were	before.	These	subalterns	were	all	worthy,	careful	men,	who

knew	 their	 place	 and	 business.	 There	 were	 some	 among	 them	 who	 had	 the	 idea

that	they	might	give	themselves	grand	airs,	and	treat	us	like	common	soldiers,	but

they	 soon	 gave	 it	 up	 and	 behaved	 like	 the	 others.	 Those	 who	 did	 not	 seem	 to	 be well	able	to	get	into	their	heads	what	the	ways	of	our	prison	really	were,	had	sharp

lessons	about	it	from	the	convicts	themselves,	which	led	to	some	lively	scenes.	One

sub-officer	 was	 confronted	 with	 brandy,	 which	 was	 of	 course	 too	 much	 for	 him; when	he	was	sober	again	we	had	a	little	explanation	with	him;	we	pointed	out	that

he	 had	 been	 drinking	 with	 the	 prisoners,	 and	 that,	 accordingly,	 etc.	 etc.;	 he became	quite	tractable.	The	end	of	it	was	that	the	subalterns	closed	their	eyes	to

the	brandy	business.	They	went	to	market	for	us,	just	as	the	invalids	used	to,	and

brought	the	prisoners	white	bread,	meat,	anything	that	could	be	got	in	without	too

much	 risk.	 So	 I	 never	 could	 understand	 why	 they	 had	 gone	 to	 the	 trouble	 of turning	the	place	into	a	military	prison.	The	change	was	made	two	years	before	I

left	the	place;	I	had	two	years	to	bear	of	it	still.

I	 see	 little	 use	 in	 recording	 all	 I	 saw	 and	 went	 through	 later	 at	 the	 convict establishment	 day	 by	 day.	 If	 I	 were	 to	 tell	 it	 all,	 all	 the	 daily	 and	 hourly occurrences,	I	might	write	twice	or	thrice	as	many	chapters	as	this	book	ought	to

contain,	 but	 I	 should	 simply	 tire	 the	 reader	 and	 myself.	 Substantially	 all	 that	 I might	write	has	been	already	embodied	in	the	narrative	as	it	stands	so	far;	and	the

reader	 has	 had	 the	 opportunity	 of	 getting	 a	 tolerable	 idea	 of	 what	 the	 life	 of	 a convict	 of	 the	 second	 class	 really	 was.	 My	 wish	 has	 been	 to	 portray	 the	 state	 of things	at	the	establishment,	and	as	it	affected	myself,	accurately	and	yet	forcibly;

whether	 I	 have	 done	 so	 others	 must	 judge.	 I	 cannot	 pronounce	 upon	 my	 own work,	but	I	think	I	may	well	draw	it	to	a	close;	as	I	move	among	these	recollections

of	a	dreadful	past,	the	old	suffering	comes	up	again	and	all	but	strangles	me.

Besides,	I	cannot	be	sure	of	my	memory	as	to	all	I	saw	in	these	last	years,	for

the	faculty	seems	blunted	as	regards	the	later	compared	with	the	earlier	period	of

my	 imprisonment,	 there	 is	 a	 good	 deal	 I	 am	 sure	 I	 have	 quite	 forgotten.	 But	 I remember	 only	 too	 well	 how	 very,	 very	 slow	 these	 last	 two	 years	 were,	 how	 very sad,	how	the	days	seemed	as	if	they	never	would	come	to	evening,	something	like

water	falling	drop	by	drop.	I	remember,	too,	that	I	was	filled	with	a	mighty	longing

for	 my	 resurrection	 from	 that	 grave	 which	 gave	 me	 strength	 to	 bear	 up,	 to	 wait, and	to	hope.	And	so	I	got	to	be	hardened	and	enduring;	I	lived	on	expectation,	I

counted	every	passing	day;	if	there	were	a	thousand	more	of	them	to	pass	at	the

prison	I	found	satisfaction	in	thinking	that	one	of	them	was	gone,	and	only	nine

hundred	and	ninety-nine	to	come.	I	remember,	too,	that	though	I	had	round	me	a

hundred	persons	in	like	case,	I	felt	myself	more	and	more	solitary,	and	though	the

solitude	was	awful	I	came	to	love	it.	Isolated	thus	among	the	convict-crowd	I	went

over	 all	 my	 earlier	 life,	 analysing	 its	 events	 and	 thoughts	 minutely;	 I	 passed	 my former	doings	in	review,	and	sometimes	was	pitiless	in	condemnation	of	myself;

sometimes	I	went	so	far	as	to	be	grateful	to	fate	for	the	privilege	of	such	loneliness,

for	 only	 that	 could	 have	 caused	 me	 so	 severely	 to	 scrutinise	 my	 past,	 so

searchingly	 to	 examine	 its	 inner	 and	 outer	 life.	 What	 strong	 and	 strange	 new germs	 of	 hope	 came	 in	 those	 memorable	 hours	 up	 in	 my	 soul!	 I	 weighed	 and

decided	all	sorts	of	issues,	I	entered	into	a	compact	with	myself	to	avoid	the	errors

of	 former	 years,	 and	 the	 rocks	 on	 which	 I	 had	 been	 wrecked;	 I	 laid	 down	 a programme	for	my	future,	and	vowed	that	I	would	stick	to	it;	I	had	a	sort	of	blind

and	complete	conviction	that,	once	away	from	that	place,	I	should	be	able	to	carry

out	everything	I	made	my	mind	up	to;	I	looked	for	my	freedom	with	transports	of

eager	 desire;	 I	 wanted	 to	 try	 my	 strength	 in	 a	 renewed	 struggle	 with	 life;

sometimes	I	was	clutched,	as	by	fangs,	by	an	impatience	which	rose	to	fever	heat.

It	 is	 painful	 to	 go	 back	 to	 these	 things,	 most	 painful;	 nobody,	 I	 know,	 can	 care much	 about	 it	 at	 all	 except	 myself;	 but	 I	 write	 because	 I	 think	 people	 will understand,	and	because	there	are	those	who	have	been,	those	who	yet	will	be,	like

myself,	condemned,	imprisoned,	cut	off	from	life,	in	the	flower	of	their	age,	and	in

the	full	possession	of	all	their	strength.

But	all	this	is	useless.	Let	me	end	my	memoirs	with	a	narrative	of	something

interesting,	for	I	must	not	close	them	too	abruptly.

What	 shall	 it	 be?	 Well,	 it	 may	 occur	 to	 some	 to	 ask	 whether	 it	 was	 quite

impossible	to	escape	from	the	jail,	and	if	during	the	time	I	spent	there	no	attempt

of	the	kind	was	made.	I	have	already	said	that	a	prisoner	who	has	got	through	two

or	three	years	thinks	a	good	deal	of	it,	and,	as	a	rule,	concludes	that	it	is	best	to

finish	his	time	without	running	more	risks,	so	that	he	may	get	his	settlement,	on

the	 land	 or	 otherwise,	 when	 set	 at	 liberty.	 But	 those	 who	 reckon	 in	 this	 way	 are convicts	 sentenced	 for	 comparatively	 short	 times;	 those	 who	 have	 many	 years	 to serve	 are	 always	 ready	 to	 run	 some	 chances.	 For	 all	 that	 the	 attempts	 at	 escape were	 quite	 infrequent.	 Whether	 that	 was	 attributable	 to	 the	 want	 of	 spirit	 in	 the convicts,	 the	 severity	 of	 the	 military	 discipline	 enforced,	 or,	 after	 all,	 to	 the situation	 of	 the	 town,	 little	 favourable	 to	 escapes,	 for	 it	 was	 in	 the	 midst	 of	 the open	 steppe,	 I	 really	 cannot	 say.	 All	 these	 motives	 no	 doubt	 contributed	 to	 give pause.	 It	 was	 difficult	 enough	 to	 get	 out	 of	 the	 prison	 at	 all;	 in	 my	 time	 two convicts	tried	it;	they	were	criminals	of	importance.

When	 our	 Major	 had	 been	 got	 rid	 of,	 A—v,	 the	 spy,	 was	 quite	 alone	 with

nobody	to	back	him	up.	He	was	still	quite	young,	but	his	character	grew	in	force

with	every	year;	he	was	a	bold,	self-asserting	fellow,	of	considerable	intelligence.	I

think	 if	 they	 had	 set	 him	 at	 liberty	 he	 would	 have	 gone	 on	 spying	 and	 getting money	in	every	sort	of	shameful	way,	but	I	don’t	think	he	would	have	let	himself

be	caught	again;	he	would	have	turned	his	experiences	as	a	convict	to	far	too	much

good	 for	 that.	 One	 trick	 he	 practised	 was	 that	 of	 forging	 passports,	 at	 least	 so	 I heard	from	some	of	the	convicts.	I	think	this	fellow	was	ready	to	risk	everything

for	a	change	in	his	position.	Circumstances	gave	me	the	opportunity	of	getting	to

the	 bottom	 of	 this	 man’s	 disposition	 and	 seeing	 how	 ugly	 it	 was;	 he	 was	 simply revolting	in	his	cold,	deep	wickedness,	and	my	disgust	with	him	was	more	than	I

could	 get	 over.	 I	 do	 believe	 that	 if	 he	 wanted	 a	 drink	 of	 brandy,	 and	 could	 only have	got	it	by	killing	some	one,	he	would	not	have	hesitated	one	moment	if	it	was

pretty	certain	the	crime	would	not	come	out.	He	had	learned	there,	in	that	jail,	to

look	on	everything	in	the	coolest	calculating	way.	It	was	on	him	that	the	choice	of

Koulikoff—of	the	special	section—fell,	as	we	are	to	see.

I	have	spoken	before	of	Koulikoff.	He	was	no	longer	young,	but	full	of	ardour,

life,	 and	 vigour,	 and	 endowed	 with	 extraordinary	 faculties.	 He	 felt	 his	 strength, and	wanted	still	to	have	a	life	of	his	own;	there	are	some	men	who	long	to	live	in	a

rich,	abounding	life,	even	when	old	age	has	got	hold	of	them.	I	should	have	been	a good	deal	surprised	if	Koulikoff	had	 not	tried	to	escape;	but	he	did.	Which	of	the two,	 Koulikoff	 and	 A—v,	 had	 the	 greater	 influence	 over	 the	 other	 I	 really	 cannot say;	 they	 were	 a	 goodly	 couple,	 and	 suited	 each	 other	 to	 a	 hair,	 so	 they	 soon became	 as	 thick	 as	 possible.	 I	 fancy	 that	 Koulikoff	 reckoned	 on	 A—v	 to	 forge	 a passport	 for	 him;	 besides,	 the	 latter	 was	 of	 the	 noble	 class,	 belonged	 to	 good society,	a	circumstance	out	of	which	a	good	deal	could	be	made	if	they	managed	to

get	back	into	Russia.	Heaven	only	knows	what	compacts	they	made,	or	what	plans

and	hopes	they	formed;	if	they	got	as	far	as	Russia	they	would	at	all	events	leave

behind	them	Siberia	and	vagabondage.	Koulikoff	was	a	versatile	man,	capable	of

playing	 many	 a	 part	 on	 the	 stage	 of	 life,	 and	 had	 plenty	 of	 ability	 to	 go	 upon, whatever	 direction	 his	 efforts	 took.	 To	 such	 persons	 the	 jail	 is	 strangulation	 and suffocation.	So	the	two	set	about	plotting	their	escape.

But	to	get	away	without	a	soldier	to	act	as	escort	was	impossible;	so	a	soldier

had	 to	 be	 won.	 In	 one	 of	 the	 battalions	 stationed	 at	 our	 fortress	 was	 a	 Pole	 of middle	 life—an	 energetic	 fellow	 worthy	 of	 a	 better	 fate—serious,	 courageous.

When	 he	 arrived	 first	 in	 Siberia,	 quite	 young,	 he	 had	 deserted,	 for	 he	 could	 not stand	 his	 sufferings	 from	 nostalgia.	 He	 was	 captured	 and	 whipped.	 During	 two

years	 he	 formed	 part	 of	 the	 disciplinary	 companies	 to	 which	 offenders	 are	 sent; then	 he	 rejoined	 his	 battalion,	 and,	 showing	 himself	 zealous	 in	 the	 service,	 had been	rewarded	by	promotion	to	the	rank	of	corporal.	He	had	a	good	deal	of	self-love,	and	spoke	like	a	man	who	had	no	small	conceit	of	himself.

I	 took	 particular	 notice	 of	 the	 man	 sometimes	 when	 he	 was	 among	 the

soldiers	who	had	charge	of	us,	for	the	Poles	had	spoken	to	me	about	him;	and	I	got

the	idea	that	his	longing	for	his	native	country	had	taken	the	form	of	a	chill,	fixed,

deadly	hatred	for	those	who	kept	him	away	from	it.	He	was	the	sort	of	man	to	stick

at	nothing,	and	Koulikoff	showed	that	his	scent	was	good,	when	he	pitched	on	this

man	to	be	an	accomplice	in	his	flight.	This	corporal’s	name	was	Kohler.	Koulikoff

and	he	settled	their	plans	and	fixed	the	day.	It	was	the	month	of	June,	the	hottest

of	 the	 year.	 The	 climate	 of	 our	 town	 and	 neighbourhood	 was	 pretty	 equable,

especially	 in	 summer,	 which	 is	 a	 very	 good	 thing	 for	 tramps	 and	 vagabonds.	 To make	 off	 far	 after	 leaving	 the	 fortress	 was	 quite	 out	 of	 the	 question,	 it	 being situated	 on	 rising	 ground	 and	 in	 uncovered	 country,	 for	 though	 surrounded	 by

woods,	these	are	a	considerable	distance	away.	A	disguise	was	indispensable,	and

to	 procure	 it	 they	 must	 manage	 to	 get	 into	 the	 outskirts	 of	 the	 town,	 where

Koulikoff	had	taken	care	some	time	before	to	prepare	a	den	of	some	sort.	I	don’t know	whether	his	worthy	friends	in	that	part	of	the	town	were	in	the	secret.	It	may

be	presumed	they	were,	though	there	is	no	evidence.	That	year,	however,	a	young

woman	who	led	a	gay	life	and	was	very	pretty,	settled	down	in	a	nook	of	that	same

part	of	the	city,	near	the	county.	This	young	person	attracted	a	good	deal	of	notice,

and	 her	 career	 promised	 to	 be	 something	 quite	 remarkable;	 her	 nickname	 was

“Fire	and	Flame.”	I	think	that	she	and	the	fugitives	concerted	the	plans	of	escape

together,	for	Koulikoff	had	lavished	a	good	deal	of	attention	and	money	on	her	for

more	 than	 a	 year.	 When	 the	 gangs	 were	 formed	 each	 morning,	 the	 two	 fellows, Koulikoff	and	A—v,	managed	to	get	themselves	sent	out	with	the	convict	Chilkin,

whose	 trade	 was	 that	 of	 stove-maker	 and	 plasterer,	 to	 do	 up	 the	 empty	 barracks when	the	soldiers	went	into	camp.	A—v	and	Koulikoff	were	to	help	in	carrying	the

necessary	materials.	Kohler	got	himself	put	into	the	escort	on	the	occasion;	as	the

rules	 required	 three	 soldiers	 to	 act	 as	 escort	 for	 two	 prisoners,	 they	 gave	 him	 a young	recruit	whom	he	was	doing	corporal’s	duty	upon,	drilling	and	training	him.

Our	fugitives	must	have	exercised	a	great	deal	of	influence	over	Kohler	to	deceive

him,	to	cast	his	lot	in	with	them,	serious,	intelligent,	and	reflective	man	as	he	was,

with	so	few	more	years	of	service	to	pass	in	the	army.

They	 arrived	 at	 the	 barracks	 about	 six	 o’clock	 in	 the	 morning;	 there	 was

nobody	 with	 them.	 After	 having	 worked	 about	 an	 hour,	 Koulikoff	 and	 A—v	 told

Chilkin	 that	 they	 were	 going	 to	 the	 workshop	 to	 see	 some	 one,	 and	 fetch	 a	 tool they	 wanted.	 They	 had	 to	 go	 carefully	 to	 work	 with	 Chilkin,	 and	 speak	 in	 as natural	a	tone	as	they	could.	The	man	was	from	Moscow,	by	trade	a	stove-maker,

sharp	 and	 cunning,	 keen-sighted,	 not	 talkative,	 fragile	 in	 appearance,	 with	 little flesh	 on	 his	 bones.	 He	 was	 the	 sort	 of	 person	 who	 might	 have	 been	 expected	 to pass	his	life	in	honest	working	dress,	in	some	Moscow	shop,	yet	here	he	was	in	the

“special	 section,”	 after	 many	 wanderings	 and	 transfers	 among	 the	 most

formidable	military	criminals;	so	fate	had	ordered.

What	 had	 he	 done	 to	 deserve	 such	 severe	 punishment?	 I	 had	 not	 the	 least

idea;	he	never	showed	the	least	resentment	or	sour	feeling,	and	went	on	in	a	quiet,

inoffensive	way;	now	and	then	he	got	as	drunk	as	a	lord;	but,	apart	from	that,	his

conduct	 was	 perfectly	 good.	 Of	 course	 he	 was	 not	 in	 the	 secret,	 so	 he	 had	 to	 be thrown	off	the	scent.	Koulikoff	told	him,	with	a	wink,	that	they	were	going	to	get

some	 brandy,	 which	 had	 been	 hidden	 the	 day	 before	 in	 the	 workshop,	 which

suited	 Chilkin’s	 book	 perfectly;	 he	 had	 not	 the	 least	 notion	 of	 what	 was	 up,	 and

remained	alone	with	the	young	recruit,	while	Koulikoff,	A—v,	and	Kohler	betook themselves	to	the	suburbs	of	the	town.

Half-an-hour	passed;	the	men	did	not	come	back.	Chilkin	began	to	think,	and

the	truth	dawned	upon	him.	He	remembered	that	Koulikoff	had	not	seemed	at	all

like	himself,	that	he	had	seen	him	whispering	and	winking	to	A—v;	he	was	sure	of

that,	and	the	whole	thing	seemed	suspicious	to	him.	Kohler’s	behaviour	had	struck

him,	 too;	 when	 he	 went	 off	 with	 the	 two	 convicts,	 the	 corporal	 had	 given	 the recruit	orders	what	he	was	to	do	in	his	absence,	which	he	had	never	known	him	do

before.	The	more	Chilkin	thought	over	the	matter	the	less	he	liked	it.	Time	went

on;	 the	 convicts	 did	 not	 return;	 his	 anxiety	 was	 great;	 for	 he	 saw	 that	 the authorities	 would	 suspect	 him	 of	 connivance	 with	 the	 fugitives,	 so	 that	 his	 own skin	 was	 in	 danger.	 If	 he	 made	 any	 delay	 in	 giving	 information	 of	 what	 had occurred,	suspicion	of	himself	would	grow	into	conviction	that	he	knew	what	the

men	intended	when	they	left	him,	and	he	would	be	dealt	with	as	their	accomplice.

There	was	no	time	to	lose.

It	 came	 into	 his	 mind,	 then,	 that	 Koulikoff	 and	 A—v	 had	 become	 markedly

intimate	 for	 some	 time,	 and	 that	 they	 had	 been	 often	 seen	 laying	 their	 heads together	 behind	 the	 barracks,	 by	 themselves.	 He	 remembered,	 too,	 that	 he	 had

more	than	once	fancied	that	they	were	up	to	something	together.

He	 looked	 attentively	 at	 the	 soldier	 with	 him	 as	 escort;	 the	 fellow	 was

yawning,	leaning	on	his	gun,	and	scratching	his	nose	in	the	most	innocent	manner

imaginable;	so	Chilkin	did	not	think	it	necessary	to	speak	of	his	anxieties	to	this

man:	he	told	him	simply	to	come	with	him	to	the	engineers’	workshops.	His	object

was	 to	 ask	 if	 anybody	 there	 had	 seen	 his	 companions;	 but	 nobody	 there	 had,	 so Chilkin’s	 suspicions	 grew	 stronger	 and	 stronger.	 If	 only	 he	 could	 think	 that	 they had	gone	to	get	drunk	and	have	a	spree	in	the	outskirts	of	the	town,	as	Koulikoff

often	 did.	 No,	 thought	 Chilkin,	 that	 was	 not	 so.	 They	 would	 have	 told	 him,	 for there	 was	 no	 need	 to	 make	 a	 mystery	 of	 that.	 Chilkin	 left	 his	 work,	 and	 went straight	back	to	the	jail.

It	 was	 about	 nine	 o’clock	 when	 he	 reached	 the	 sergeant-major,	 to	 whom	 he

mentioned	 his	 suspicions.	 That	 officer	 was	 frightened,	 and	 at	 first	 could	 not believe	there	was	anything	in	it	all.	Chilkin	had,	in	fact,	expressed	no	more	than	a

vague	 misgiving	 that	 all	 was	 not	 as	 it	 should	 be.	 The	 sergeant-major	 ran	 to	 the Major,	who	in	his	turn	ran	to	the	Governor.	In	a	quarter-of-an-hour	all	necessary

measures	 were	 taken.	 The	 Governor–General	 was	 communicated	 with.	 As	 the convicts	 in	 question	 were	 persons	 of	 importance,	 it	 might	 be	 expected	 that	 the matter	 would	 be	 seriously	 viewed	 at	 St.	 Petersburg.	 A—v	 was	 classed	 among

political	 prisoners,	 by	 a	 somewhat	 random	 official	 proceeding,	 it	 would	 seem;

Koulikoff	was	a	convict	of	the	“special	section,”	that	is	to	say,	as	a	criminal	of	the

blackest	dye,	and,	what	was	worse,	was	an	exsoldier.	It	was	then	brought	to	notice

that	 according	 to	 the	 regulations	 each	 convict	 of	 the	 “special	 section”	 ought	 to have	 two	 soldiers	 assigned	 as	 escort	 when	 he	 went	 to	 work;	 the	 regulations	 had not	 been	 observed	 as	 to	 this,	 so	 that	 everybody	 was	 exposed	 to	 serious	 trouble.

Expresses	 were	 sent	 off	 to	 all	 the	 district	 offices	 of	 the	 municipality,	 and	 all	 the little	neighbouring	towns,	to	warn	the	authorities	of	the	escape	of	the	two	convicts,

and	a	full	description	furnished	of	their	persons.	Cossacks	were	sent	out	to	hunt

them	 up,	 letters	 sent	 to	 the	 authorities	 of	 all	 adjoining	 Governmental	 districts.

And	everybody	was	frightened	to	death.

The	 excitement	 was	 quite	 as	 great	 all	 through	 the	 prison;	 as	 the	 convicts

returned	from	work,	they	heard	the	tremendous	news,	which	spread	rapidly	from

man	 to	 man;	 all	 received	 it	 with	 deep,	 though	 secret	 satisfaction.	 Their	 emotion was	 as	 natural	 as	 it	 was	 great.	 The	 affair	 broke	 the	 monotony	 of	 their	 lives,	 and gave	 them	 something	 to	 think	 of;	 but,	 above	 all,	 it	 was	 an	 escape,	 and	 as	 such, something	to	sympathise	with	deeply,	and	stirred	fibres	in	the	poor	fellows	which

had	 long	 been	 without	 any	 exciting	 stimulus;	 something	 like	 hope	 and	 a

disposition	to	confront	their	fate	set	their	hearts	beating,	for	the	incident	seemed

to	show	that	their	hard	lot	was	not	hopelessly	unchangeable.

“Well,	you	see	they’ve	got	off	in	spite	of	them!	Why	shouldn’t	we?”

The	thought	came	into	every	man’s	mind,	and	made	him	stiffen	his	back	and

look	at	his	neighbours	in	a	defiant	sort	of	way.	All	the	convicts	seemed	to	grow	an

inch	taller	on	the	strength	of	it,	and	to	look	down	a	bit	upon	the	sub-officers.	The

heads	of	the	place	soon	came	running	up,	as	you	may	imagine.	The	Governor	now

arrived	in	person.	We	fellows	looked	at	them	all	with	some	assurance,	with	a	touch

of	contempt,	and	with	a	very	set	expression	of	face,	as	though	to	say:	“Well,	you

there?	We	can	get	out	of	your	clutches	when	we’ve	a	mind	to.”

All	the	men	were	quite	sure	there	would	be	a	general	searching	of	everything

and	everybody;	so	everything	that	was	at	all	contraband	was	carefully	hidden;	for

the	authorities	would	want	to	show	that	precious	wisdom	of	theirs	which	may	be

reckoned	 on	 after	 the	 event.	 The	 expectation	 was	 verified;	 there	 was	 a	 mighty turning	of	everything	upside	down	and	topsy-turvy,	a	general	rummage,	with	the

discovery	of	exactly	nothing,	as	they	might	have	known.

When	the	time	came	for	going	out	to	work	after	dinner	the	usual	escorts	were

doubled.	When	night	came,	the	officers	and	sub-officers	on	service	came	pouncing

on	us	at	every	moment	to	see	if	we	were	off	our	guard,	and	if	anything	could	be	got

out	 of	 us;	 the	 lists	 were	 gone	 over	 once	 more	 than	 the	 usual	 number	 of	 times, which	extra	mustering	only	gave	more	trouble	for	nothing;	we	were	hunted	out	of

the	 court-yard	 that	 our	 names	 might	 be	 gone	 through	 again.	 Then,	 when	 in

barrack,	they	reckoned	us	up	another	time,	as	if	they	never	could	be	done	with	the

exercise.

The	convicts	were	not	at	all	disturbed	by	all	this	bustling	absurdity.	They	put

on	 a	 very	 unconcerned	 demeanour,	 and,	 as	 is	 always	 the	 case	 in	 such	 a

conjuncture,	 behaved	 in	 the	 prettiest	 manner	 all	 that	 evening	 and	 night.	 “We

won’t	give	them	any	handle	anyhow,”	was	the	general	feeling.	The	question	with

the	authorities	was	whether	some	among	us	were	not	in	complicity	with	those	who

had	 got	 away,	 so	 a	 careful	 watch	 was	 kept	 over	 our	 doings,	 and	 a	 careful	 ear	 for our	conversations;	but	nothing	came	of	it.

“Not	 such	 fools,	 those	 fellows,	 as	 to	 leave	 anybody	 behind	 who	 was	 in	 the

secret!”

“When	you	go	at	that	sort	of	thing	you	lie	low	and	play	low!”

“Koulikoff	 and	 A—v	 know	 enough	 to	 have	 covered	 up	 their	 tracks.	 They’ve

done	the	trick	in	first-rate	style,	keeping	things	to	themselves;	they’ve	mizzled,	the

rascals;	clever	chaps,	those,	they	could	get	through	shut	doors!”

The	 glory	 of	 Koulikoff	 and	 A—v	 had	 grown	 a	 hundred	 cubits	 higher	 than	 it

was.	 Everybody	 was	 proud	 of	 them.	 Their	 exploit,	 it	 was	 felt,	 would	 be	 handed down	to	the	most	distant	posterity,	and	outlive	the	jail	itself.

“Rattling	fellows,	those!”	said	one.

“Can’t	 get	 away	 from	 here,	 eh? That’s	 their	 notion,	 is	 it?	 Just	 look	 at	 those chaps!”

“Yes,”	 said	 a	 third,	 looking	 very	 superior,	 “but	 who	 is	 it	 that	 has	 got	 away?

Tip-top	fellows. You	can’t	hold	a	candle	to	them.”

At	any	other	time	the	man	to	whom	anything	of	that	sort	was	said	would	have replied	angrily	enough,	and	defended	himself;	now	the	observation	was	met	with

modest	silence.

“True	enough,”	was	said.	“Everybody’s	not	a	Koulikoff	or	an	A—v,	you’ve	got

to	show	what	you’re	made	of	before	you’ve	a	right	to	speak.”

“I	 say,	 pals,	 after	 all,	 why	 do	 we	 remain	 in	 the	 place?”	 struck	 in	 a	 prisoner seated	 by	 the	 kitchen	 window;	 he	 spoke	 drawlingly,	 but	 the	 man,	 you	 could	 see, enjoyed	it	all;	he	slowly	rubbed	his	cheek	with	the	palm	of	his	hand.	“Why	do	we

stop?	 It’s	 no	 life	 at	 all,	 we’ve	 been	 buried,	 though	 we’re	 alive	 and	 kicking.	 Now isn’t	it	so?”

“Oh,	curse	it,	you	can’t	get	out	of	prison	as	easy	as	shaking	off	an	old	boot.	I

tell	you	it	sticks	to	your	calves.	What’s	the	good	of	pulling	a	long	face	over	it?”

“But,	look	here;	there	is	Koulikoff	now,”	began	one	of	the	most	eager,	a	mere

lad.

“Koulikoff!”	 exclaimed	 another,	 looking	 askance	 at	 the	 young	 fellow.

“Koulikoff!	They	don’t	turn	out	Koulikoffs	by	the	dozen.”

“And	A—v,	pals,	there’s	a	lad	for	you!”

“Aye,	 aye,	 he’ll	 get	 Koulikoff	 just	 where	 he	 wants	 him,	 as	 often	 as	 he	 wants him.	He’s	up	to	everything,	he	is.”

“I	wonder	how	far	they’ve	got;	that’s	what	 I	want	to	know,”	said	one.

Then	 the	 talk	 went	 off	 into	 details:	 Had	 they	 got	 far	 from	 the	 town?	 What

direction	 did	 they	 go	 off	 in? Which	 gave	 them	 the	 best	 chance?	 Then	 they discussed	distances,	and	as	there	were	convicts	who	knew	the	neighbourhood	well,

these	were	attentively	listened	to.

Next,	they	talked	over	the	inhabitants	of	the	neighbouring	villages,	of	whom

they	 seemed	 to	 think	 as	 badly	 as	 possible.	 There	 was	 nobody	 in	 the

neighbourhood,	the	convicts	believed,	who	would	hesitate	at	all	as	to	the	course	to

be	pursued;	nothing	would	induce	them	to	help	the	runaways;	quite	the	other	way,

these	people	would	hunt	them	down.

“If	you	only	knew	what	bad	fellows	these	peasants	are!	Rascally	brutes!”

“Peasants,	indeed!	Worthless	scamps!”

“These	 Siberians	 are	 as	 bad	 as	 bad	 can	 be.	 They	 think	 nothing	 of	 killing	 a man.”

“Oh,	well,	our	fellows——”

“Yes,	 that’s	 it,	 they	 may	 come	 off	 second	 best.	 Our	 fellows	 are	 as	 plucky	 as plucky	can	be.”

“Well,	if	we	live	long	enough,	we	shall	hear	something	about	them	soon.”

“Well,	now,	what	do	you	 think?	Do	you	think	they	really	will	get	clean	away?”

“I	am	sure,	as	I	live,	that	they’ll	never	be	caught,”	said	one	of	the	most	excited,

giving	the	table	a	great	blow	with	his	fist.

“Hm!	That’s	as	things	turn	out.”

“I’ll	tell	you	what,	friends,”	said	Skouratof,	“if	I	once	got	out,	I’d	stake	my	life

they’d	never	get	me	again.”

” You? “

Everybody	 burst	 out	 laughing.	 They	 would	 hardly	 condescend	 to	 listen	 to

him;	but	Skouratof	was	not	to	be	put	down.

“I	tell	you	I’d	stake	my	life	on	it!”	with	great	energy.	“Why,	I	made	my	mind

up	 to	 that	 long	 ago.	 I’d	 find	 means	 of	 going	 through	 a	 key-hole	 rather	 than	 let them	lay	hands	on	me.”

“Oh,	 don’t	 you	 fear,	 when	 your	 belly	 got	 empty	 you’d	 just	 go	 creeping	 to	 a peasant	and	ask	him	for	a	morsel	of	something.”

Fresh	laughter.

“I	ask	him	for	victuals?	You’re	a	liar!”

“Hold	 your	 jaw,	 can’t	 you?	 We	 know	 what	 you	 were	 sent	 here	 for.	 You	 and

your	Uncle	Vacia	killed	some	peasant	for	bewitching	your	cattle. ”12

More	 laughter.	 The	 more	 serious	 among	 them	 seemed	 very	 angry	 and

indignant.

“You’re	 a	 liar,”	 cried	 Skouratof;	 “it’s	 Mikitka	 who	 told	 you	 that;	 I	 wasn’t	 in that	at	all,	it	was	Uncle	Vacia;	don’t	you	mix	my	name	up	in	it.	I’m	a	Moscow	man,

and	I’ve	been	on	the	tramp	ever	since	I	was	a	very	small	thing.	Look	here,	when

the	priest	taught	me	to	read	the	liturgy,	he	used	to	pinch	my	ears,	and	say,	‘Repeat

this	after	me:	Have	pity	on	me,	Lord,	out	of	Thy	great	goodness;’	and	he	used	to make	me	say	with	him,	‘They’ve	taken	me	up	and	brought	me	to	the	police-station

out	of	Thy	great	goodness,’	and	the	like.	I	tell	you	that	went	on	when	I	was	quite	a

little	fellow.”

All	laughed	heartily	again;	that	was	what	Skouratof	wanted;	he	liked	playing

clown.	 Soon	 the	 talk	 became	 serious	 again,	 especially	 among	 the	 older	 men	 and those	 who	 knew	 a	 good	 deal	 about	 escapes.	 Those	 among	 the	 younger	 convicts

who	 could	 keep	 themselves	 quiet	 enough	 to	 listen,	 seemed	 highly	 delighted.	 A

great	 crowd	 was	 assembled	 in	 and	 about	 the	 kitchen.	 There	 were	 none	 of	 the

warders	 about;	 so	 everybody	 could	 give	 vent	 to	 his	 feelings	 in	 talk	 or	 otherwise.

One	man	I	noticed	who	was	particularly	enjoying	himself,	a	Tartar,	a	little	fellow

with	 high	 cheek-bones,	 and	 a	 remarkably	 droll	 face.	 His	 name	 was	 Mametka,	 he could	 scarcely	 speak	 Russian	 at	 all,	 but	 it	 was	 odd	 to	 see	 the	 way	 he	 craned	 his neck	forward	into	the	crowd,	and	the	childish	delight	he	showed.

“Well,	Mametka,	my	lad, iakchi.”

” Iakchi,	ouk,	iakchi! “	said	Mametka	as	well	as	he	could,	shaking	his	grotesque head.	” Iakchi. “

“They’ll	never	catch	them,	eh? Iok. “

” Iok,	iok! “	and	Mametka	waggled	his	head	and	threw	his	arms	about.

“You’re	a	liar,	then,	and	I	don’t	know	what	you’re	talking	about.	Hey!”

“That’s	it,	that’s	it, iakchi!”	answered	poor	Mametka.

“All	right,	good, iakchi	it	is!”

Skouratof	 gave	 him	 a	 thump	 on	 the	 head,	 which	 sent	 his	 cap	 down	 over	 his

eyes,	and	went	out	in	high	glee,	and	Mametka	was	quite	chapfallen.

For	a	week	or	so	a	very	tight	hand	was	kept	on	everybody	in	the	jail,	and	the

whole	neighbourhood	was	repeatedly	and	carefully	searched.	How	they	managed

it	 I	 cannot	 tell,	 but	 the	 prisoners	 always	 seemed	 to	 know	 all	 about	 the	 measures taken	by	the	authorities	for	recovering	the	runaways.	For	some	days,	according	to

all	 we	 heard,	 things	 went	 very	 favourably	 for	 them;	 no	 traces	 whatever	 of	 them could	be	found.	Our	convicts	made	very	light	of	all	the	authorities	were	about,	and

were	 quite	 at	 their	 ease	 about	 their	 friends,	 and	 kept	 saying	 that	 nothing	 would ever	be	found	out	about	them.

All	the	peasants	round	about	were	roused,	we	were	told,	and	watching	all	the likely	places,	woods,	ravines,	etc.

“Stuff	and	nonsense!”	said	our	fellows,	who	had	a	grin	on	their	faces	most	of

the	time,	“they’re	hidden	at	somebody’s	place	who’s	a	friend.”

“That’s	 certain;	 they’re	 not	 the	 fellows	 to	 chance	 things,	 they’ve	 made	 all

sure.”

The	general	idea	was,	in	fact,	that	they	were	still	concealed	in	the	suburbs	of

the	 town,	 in	 a	 cellar,	 waiting	 till	 the	 hue	 and	 cry	 was	 over,	 and	 for	 their	 hair	 to grow;	that	they	would	remain	there	perhaps	six	months	at	least,	and	then	quietly

go	 off.	 All	 the	 prisoners	 were	 in	 the	 most	 fanciful	 and	 romantic	 state	 of	 mind about	the	things.	Suddenly,	eight	days	after	the	escape,	a	rumour	spread	that	the

authorities	 were	 on	 their	 track.	 This	 rumour	 was	 at	 first	 treated	 with	 contempt, but	 towards	 evening	 there	 seemed	 to	 be	 more	 in	 it.	 The	 convicts	 became	 much excited.	Next	morning	it	was	said	in	the	town	that	the	runaways	had	been	caught,

and	 were	 being	 brought	 back.	 After	 dinner	 there	 were	 further	 details;	 the	 story was	that	they	had	been	seized	at	a	hamlet,	seventy	versts	away	from	the	town.	At

last	 we	 had	 fully	 confirmed	 tidings.	 The	 sergeant-major	 positively	 asserted,

immediately	 after	 an	 interview	 with	 the	 Major,	 that	 they	 would	 be	 brought	 into the	guard-house	that	very	night.	They	were	taken;	there	could	be	no	doubt	of	it.

It	is	difficult	to	convey	an	adequate	idea	of	the	way	the	convicts	were	affected

by	 the	 news.	 At	 first	 their	 rage	 was	 great,	 then	 they	 were	 deeply	 dejected.	 Then they	 began	 to	 be	 bitter	 and	 sarcastic,	 pouring	 all	 their	 scorn,	 not	 on	 the

authorities,	but	on	the	runaways	who	had	been	such	fools	as	to	get	caught.	A	few

began	 this,	 then	 nearly	 all	 joined,	 except	 a	 small	 number	 of	 the	 more	 serious, thoughtful	 ones,	 who	 held	 their	 tongues,	 and	 seemed	 to	 regard	 the	 thoughtless fellows	with	great	contempt.

Poor	 Koulikoff	 and	 A—v	 were	 now	 just	 as	 heartily	 abused	 as	 they	 had	 been

glorified	 before;	 the	 men	 seemed	 to	 take	 a	 delight	 in	 running	 them	 down,	 as though	 in	 being	 caught	 they	 had	 done	 something	 wantonly	 offensive	 to	 their

mates.	It	was	said,	with	high	contempt,	that	the	fellows	had	probably	got	hungry

and	 couldn’t	 stand	 it,	 and	 had	 gone	 into	 a	 village	 to	 ask	 bread	 of	 the	 peasants, which,	 according	 to	 tramp	 etiquette,	 it	 appears,	 is	 to	 come	 down	 very	 low	 in	 the world	 indeed.	 In	 this	 supposition	 the	 men	 turned	 out	 to	 be	 quite	 mistaken;	 for what	 had	 happened	 was	 that	 the	 tracks	 of	 the	 runaways	 out	 of	 the	 town	 were

discovered	and	followed	up;	they	were	ascertained	to	have	got	into	a	wood,	which was	surrounded,	so	that	the	fugitives	had	no	recourse	but	to	give	themselves	up.

They	were	brought	in	that	night,	tied	hands	and	feet,	under	armed	escort.	All

the	convicts	ran	hastily	to	the	palisades	to	see	what	would	be	done	with	them;	but

they	saw	nothing	except	the	carriages	of	the	Governor	and	the	Major,	which	were

waiting	 in	 front	 of	 the	 guard-house.	 The	 fugitives	 were	 ironed	 and	 locked	 up separately,	 their	 punishment	 being	 adjourned	 till	 the	 next	 day.	 The	 prisoners

began	all	to	sympathise	with	the	unhappy	fellows	when	they	heard	how	they	had

been	 taken,	 and	 learned	 that	 they	 could	 not	 help	 themselves,	 and	 the	 anxiety about	the	issue	was	keen.

“They’ll	get	a	thousand	at	least.”

“A	thousand,	is	it?	I	tell	you	they’ll	have	it	till	the	life	is	beaten	out	of	them.	A

—v	may	get	off	with	a	thousand,	but	the	other	they’ll	kill;	why,	he’s	in	the	‘special

section.’”

They	 were	 wrong.	 A—v	 was	 sentenced	 to	 five	 hundred	 strokes,	 his	 previous

good	conduct	told	in	his	favour,	and	this	was	his	first	prison	offence.	Koulikoff,	I

believe,	 had	 fifteen	 hundred.	 The	 punishment,	 upon	 the	 whole,	 was	 mild	 rather than	severe.

The	two	men	showed	good	sense	and	feeling,	for	they	gave	nobody’s	name	as

having	 helped	 them,	 and	 positively	 declared	 that	 they	 had	 made	 straight	 for	 the woods	without	going	into	anybody’s	house.	I	was	very	sorry	for	Koulikoff;	to	say

nothing	of	the	heavy	beating	he	got;	he	had	thrown	away	all	his	chances	of	having

his	lot	as	a	prisoner	lightened.	Later	he	was	sent	to	another	convict	establishment.

A—v	did	not	get	all	he	was	sentenced	to;	the	physicians	interfered,	and	he	was	let

off.	But	as	soon	as	he	was	safe	in	the	hospital	he	began	blowing	his	trumpet	again,

and	 said	 he	 would	 stick	 at	 nothing	 now,	 and	 that	 they	 should	 soon	 see	 what	 he would	do.	Koulikoff	was	not	changed	a	bit,	as	decorous	as	ever,	and	gave	himself

just	 the	 same	 airs	 as	 ever;	 manner	 or	 words	 to	 show	 that	 he	 had	 had	 such	 an adventure.	 But	 the	 convicts	 looked	 on	 him	 quite	 differently;	 he	 seemed	 to	 have come	down	a	good	deal	in	their	estimation,	and	now	to	be	on	their	own	level	every

way,	 instead	 of	 being	 a	 superior	 creature.	 So	 it	 was	 that	 poor	 Koulikoff’s	 star paled;	success	is	everything	in	this	world.

12	 The	 expression	 of	 the	 original	 is	 untranslatable;	 literally	 “you	 killed	 a	 cattle-kill.”

This	phrase	means	murder	of	a	peasant,	male	or	female,	supposed	to	bewitch	cattle.

We	had	in	our	jail	a	murderer	who	had	done	this	cattle-kill.—DOSTOÏEFFSKY’S	NOTE.





CHAPTER	10.

FREEDOM!

This	incident	occurred	during	my	last	year	of	imprisonment.	My	recollection

of	what	occurred	this	last	year	is	as	keen	as	of	the	events	of	the	first	years;

but	I	have	gone	into	detail	enough.	In	spite	of	my	impatience	to	be	out,	this

year	was	the	least	trying	of	all	the	years	I	spent	there.	I	had	now	many	friends	and

acquaintances	among	the	convicts,	who	had	by	this	time	made	up	their	minds	very

much	in	my	favour.	Many	of	them,	indeed,	had	come	to	feel	a	sincere	and	genuine

affection	 for	 me.	 The	 soldier	 who	 was	 assigned	 to	 accompany	 my	 friend	 and

myself—simultaneously	discharged—out	of	the	prison,	very	nearly	cried	when	the

time	 for	 leaving	 came.	 And	 when	 we	 were	 at	 last	 in	 full	 freedom,	 staying	 in	 the rooms	 of	 the	 Government	 building	 placed	 at	 our	 disposal	 for	 the	 month	 we	 still spent	in	the	town,	this	man	came	nearly	every	day	to	see	us.	But	there	were	some

men	 whom	 I	 could	 never	 soften	 or	 win	 any	 regard	 from—God	 knows	 why—and

who	 showed	 just	 the	 same	 hard	 aversion	 for	 me	 at	 the	 last	 as	 at	 the	 first; something	we	could	not	get	over	stood	between	us.

I	 had	 more	 indulgences	 during	 the	 last	 year.	 I	 found	 among	 the	 military

functionaries	of	our	town	old	acquaintances,	and	even	some	old	schoolfellows,	and

the	renewal	of	these	relations	helped	me.	Thanks	to	them	I	got	permission	to	have

some	money,	to	write	to	my	family,	and	even	to	have	some	books.	For	some	years

I	 had	 not	 had	 a	 single	 volume,	 and	 words	 would	 fail	 to	 tell	 the	 strange,	 deep emotion	and	excitement	which	the	first	book	I	read	at	the	jail	caused	me.	I	began

to	devour	it	at	night,	when	the	doors	were	closed,	and	read	it	till	the	break	of	day.

It	was	a	number	of	a	review,	and	it	seemed	to	me	like	a	messenger	from	the	other

world.	 As	 I	 read,	 my	 life	 before	 the	 prison	 days	 seemed	 to	 rise	 up	 before	 me	 in sharp	definition,	as	of	some	existence	independent	of	my	own,	which	another	soul

had	had.	Then	I	tried	to	get	some	clear	idea	of	my	relation	to	current	events	and

things;	whether	my	arrears	of	knowledge	and	experience	were	too	great	to	make

up;	whether	the	men	and	women	out	of	doors	had	lived	and	gone	through	many

things	and	great	during	the	time	I	was	away	from	them;	and	great	was	my	desire

to	 thoroughly	 understand	 what	 was	 now	 going	 on, now	 that	 I	 could	 know something	about	it	all	at	last.	All	the	words	I	read	were	as	palpable	things,	which	I

wanted	rather	to	feel	sensibly	than	get	mere	meaning	out	of;	I	tried	to	see	more	in

the	text	than	 could	be	there.	I	imagined	some	mysterious	meanings	that	 must	 be in	them,	and	tried	at	every	page	to	see	allusions	to	the	past,	with	which	my	mind

was	familiar,	whether	they	were	there	or	not;	at	every	turn	of	the	leaf	I	sought	for

traces	of	what	had	deeply	moved	people	before	the	days	of	my	bondage;	and	deep

was	 my	 dejection	 when	 it	 was	 forced	 on	 my	 mind	 that	 a	 new	 state	 of	 things	 had arisen;	 a	 new	 life,	 among	 my	 kind,	 which	 was	 alien	 to	 my	 knowledge	 and	 my

sentiments.	I	felt	as	if	I	was	a	straggler,	left	behind	and	lost	in	the	onward	march

of	mankind.

Yes,	there	were	indeed	arrears,	if	the	word	is	not	too	weak.

For	the	truth	is,	that	another	generation	had	come	up,	and	I	knew	it	not,	and

it	knew	not	me.	At	the	foot	of	one	article	I	saw	the	name	of	one	who	had	been	dear

to	me;	with	what	avidity	I	flung	myself	on	 that	paper!	But	the	other	names	were

nearly	all	new	to	me;	new	workers	had	come	upon	the	scene,	and	I	was	eager	to

know	their	doings	and	themselves.	It	made	me	feel	nearly	desperate	to	have	so	few

books,	and	to	know	how	hard	it	would	be	to	get	more.	At	an	earlier	date,	in	the	old

Major’s	time,	it	was	a	dangerous	thing	indeed	to	bring	books	into	the	jail.	If	one

was	 found	 when	 the	 whole	 place	 was	 searched,	 as	 was	 regularly	 done,	 great	 was the	disturbance,	and	no	efforts	were	spared	to	find	out	how	they	got	in,	and	who

had	helped	in	the	offence.	I	did	not	want	to	be	subjected	to	insulting	scrutiny,	and,

if	I	had,	it	would	have	been	useless.	I	 had	to	live	without	books,	and	did,	shut	up in	 myself,	 tormenting	 myself	 with	 many	 a	 question	 and	 problem	 on	 which	 I	 had no	means	of	throwing	any	light.	But	I	can	 never	tell	it	all.

It	was	in	winter	that	I	came	in,	so	in	winter	I	was	to	leave,	on	the	anniversary-

day.	 Oh,	 with	 what	 impatience	 did	 I	 look	 forward	 to	 the	 thrice-blessed	 winter!

How	gladly	did	I	see	the	summer	die	out,	the	leaves	turn	yellow	on	the	trees,	the

grass	turn	dry	over	the	wide	steppe!	Summer	is	gone	at	last!	the	winds	of	autumn

howl	and	groan,	the	first	snow	falls	in	whirling	flakes.	The	winter,	so	long,	long-

prayed	 for,	 is	 come,	 come	 at	 last.	 Oh,	 how	 the	 heart	 beats	 with	 the	 thought	 that freedom	was	really,	at	last,	at	last,	close	at	hand.	Yet	it	was	strange,	as	the	time	of

times,	the	day	of	days,	grew	nearer	and	nearer,	so	did	my	soul	grow	quieter	and

quieter.	 I	 was	 annoyed	 at	 myself,	 reproached	 myself	 even	 with	 being	 cold,

indifferent.	Many	of	the	convicts,	as	I	met	them	in	the	court-yard	when	the	day’s

work	was	done,	used	to	get	out,	and	talk	with	me	to	wish	me	joy.

“Ah,	 little	 Father	 Alexander	 Petrovitch,	 you’ll	 soon	 be	 out	 now!	 And	 here

you’ll	leave	us	poor	devils	behind!”

“Well,	Mertynof,	have	you	long	to	wait	still?”	I	asked	the	man	who	spoke.

“I!	Oh,	good	Lord,	I’ve	seven	years	of	it	yet	to	weary	through.”

Then	the	man	sighed	with	a	far-away,	wandering	look,	as	if	he	was	gazing	into

those	intolerable	days	to	come.	.	.	.	Yes,	many	of	my	companions	congratulated	me

in	 a	 way	 that	 showed	 they	 really	 felt	 what	 they	 said.	 I	 saw,	 too,	 that	 there	 was more	disposition	to	meet	me	as	man	to	man,	they	drew	nearer	to	me	as	I	was	to

leave	 them;	 the	 halo	 of	 freedom	 began	 to	 surround	 me,	 and	 caring	 for	 that	 they cared	more	for	me.	It	was	in	this	spirit	they	bade	me	farewell.

K—schniski,	a	young	Polish	noble,	a	sweet	and	amiable	person,	was	very	fond,

about	 this	 time,	 of	 walking	 in	 the	 court-yard	 with	 me.	 The	 stifling	 nights	 in	 the barracks	did	him	much	harm,	so	he	tried	his	best	to	keep	his	health	by	getting	all

the	exercise	and	fresh	air	he	could.

“I	 am	 looking	 forward	 impatiently	 to	 the	 day	 when	 you	 will	 be	 set	 free,”	 he said	with	a	smile	one	day,	“for	when	you	go	I	shall	 realise	that	I	have	just	one	year more	of	it	to	undergo.”

Need	I	say	what	I	can	yet	not	help	saying,	that	freedom	in	idea	always	seemed

to	us	who	were	there	something	 more	free	than	it	ever	can	be	in	reality?	That	was because	our	fancy	was	always	dwelling	upon	it.	Prisoners	always	exaggerate	when

they	 think	 of	 freedom	 and	 look	 on	 a	 free	 man;	 we	 did	 certainly;	 the	 poorest servant	of	one	of	the	officers	there	seemed	a	sort	of	king	to	us,	everything	we	could

imagine	 in	 a	 free	 man,	 compared	 with	 ourselves	 at	 least;	 he	 had	 no	 irons	 on	 his limbs,	 his	 head	 was	 not	 shaven,	 he	 could	 go	 where	 and	 when	 he	 liked,	 with	 no soldiers	to	watch	and	escort	him.

The	day	before	I	was	set	free,	as	night	fell	I	went	 for	the	last	time	all	through and	 all	 round	 the	 prison.	 How	 many	 a	 thousand	 times	 had	 I	 made	 the	 circuit	 of those	 palisades	 during	 those	 ten	 years!	 There,	 at	 the	 rear	 of	 the	 barracks,	 had	 I gone	 to	 and	 fro	 during	 the	 whole	 of	 that	 first	 year,	 a	 solitary,	 despairing	 man.	 I remember	how	I	used	to	reckon	up	the	days	I	had	still	to	pass	there—thousands,

thousands!	 God!	 how	 long	 ago	 it	 seemed.	 There’s	 the	 corner	 where	 the	 poor

prisoned	 eagle	 wasted	 away;	 Petroff	 used	 often	 to	 come	 to	 me	 at	 that	 place.	 It seemed	as	if	the	man	would	never	leave	my	side	now;	he	would	place	himself	by

my	 side	 and	 walk	 along	 without	 ever	 saying	 a	 word,	 as	 though	 he	 knew	 all	 my

thoughts	 as	 well	 as	 myself,	 and	 there	 was	 always	 a	 strange,	 inexplicable	 sort	 of wondering	look	on	the	man’s	face.

How	 many	 a	 mental	 farewell	 did	 I	 take	 of	 the	 black,	 squared	 beams	 in	 our

barracks!	 Ah,	 me!	 How	 much	 joyless	 youth,	 how	 much	 strength	 for	 which	 use

there	was	none,	was	buried,	lost	in	those	walls!—youth	and	strength	of	which	the

world	might	surely	have	made	 some	use.	For	I	must	speak	my	thoughts	as	to	this:

the	hapless	fellows	there	were	perhaps	the	strongest,	and,	in	one	way	or	another,

the	most	gifted	of	our	people.	There	was	all	that	strength	of	body	and	of	mind	lost,

hopelessly	lost.	Whose	fault	is	that?

Yes;	whose	fault	 is	that?

The	next	day,	at	an	early	hour,	before	the	men	were	mustered	for	work,	I	went

through	 all	 the	 barracks	 to	 bid	 the	 men	 a	 last	 farewell.	 Many	 a	 vigorous,	 horny hand	was	held	out	to	me	with	right	good-will.	Some	grasped	and	shook	my	hand

as	 though	 all	 their	 hearts	 went	 with	 the	 act;	 but	 these	 were	 the	 more	 generous souls.	 Most	 of	 the	 poor	 fellows	 seemed	 so	 much	 to	 feel	 that,	 for	 them,	 I	 was already	a	man	changed	by	what	was	coming,	that	they	could	feel	scarce	anything

else.	 They	 knew	 that	 I	 had	 friends	 in	 the	 town,	 that	 I	 was	 going	 away	 at	 once	 to gentlemen,	that	I	should	sit	at	their	table	as	their	equal.	This	the	poor	fellows	felt; and,	although	they	did	their	best	as	they	took	my	hand,	that	hand	could	not	be	the

hand	 of	 an	 equal.	 No;	 I,	 too,	 was	 a	 gentleman	 now.	 Some	 turned	 their	 backs	 on me,	 and	 made	 no	 reply	 to	 my	 parting	 words.	 I	 think,	 too,	 that	 I	 saw	 looks	 of aversion	on	some	faces.

The	drum	beat;	all	the	convicts	went	to	their	work;	and	I	was	left	to	myself.

Souchiloff	 had	 got	 up	 before	 everybody	 that	 morning,	 and	 now	 set	 himself

tremblingly	to	the	task	of	getting	ready	for	me	a	last	cup	of	tea.	Poor	Souchiloff!

How	he	cried	when	I	gave	him	my	clothes,	my	shirts,	my	trouser-straps,	and	some

money.

“‘Tain’t	that,	‘tain’t	that,”	he	said,	and	he	bit	his	trembling	lips,	“it’s	that	I	am

going	to	lose	you,	Alexander	Petrovitch!	What	 shall	I	do	without	you?”

There	was	Akim	Akimitch,	too;	him,	also,	I	bade	farewell.

“Your	turn	to	go	will	come	soon,	I	pray,”	said	I.

“Ah,	no!	I	shall	remain	here	long,	long,	very	long	yet,”	he	just	managed	to	say,

as	he	pressed	my	hand.	I	threw	myself	on	his	neck;	we	kissed.

Ten	 minutes	 after	 the	 convicts	 had	 gone	 out,	 my	 companion	 and	 myself	 left the	 jail	 for	 ever.	 We	 went	 to	 the	 blacksmith’s	 shop,	 where	 our	 irons	 were	 struck off.	We	had	no	armed	escort,	we	went	there	attended	by	a	single	sub-officer.	It	was

convicts	who	struck	off	our	irons	in	the	engineers’	workshop.	I	let	them	do	it	for

my	 friend	 first,	 then	 went	 to	 the	 anvil	 myself.	 The	 smiths	 made	 me	 turn	 round, seized	 my	 leg,	 and	 stretched	 it	 on	 the	 anvil.	 Then	 they	 went	 about	 the	 business methodically,	as	though	they	wanted	to	make	a	very	neat	job	of	it	indeed.

“The	rivet,	man,	turn	the	rivet	first,”	I	heard	the	master	smith	say;	“there,	so,

so.	Now,	a	stroke	of	the	hammer!”

The	irons	fell.	I	lifted	them	up.	Some	strange	impulse	made	me	long	to	have

them	in	my	hands	for	one	last	time.	I	couldn’t	realise	that,	only	a	moment	before,

they	had	been	on	my	limbs.

“Good-bye!	 Good-bye!	 Good-bye!”	 said	 the	 convicts	 in	 their	 broken	 voices;

but	they	seemed	pleased	as	they	said	it.

Yes,	farewell!

Liberty!	New	life!	Resurrection	from	the	dead!

Unspeakable	moment!





Document Outline


Top

Introduction

Part 1.

The Dead-house

First Impressions

First Impressions (continued

First Impressions (continued

The First Month

The First Month (continued

New Acquaintancesâ��Petroff

Men of Determinationâ��Luka

Isaiah Fomitchâ��The Bathâ��Baklouchin.

The Christmas Holidays

The Performance.

Part 2.

The Hospital (continued

The Hospital (continued

The Husband of Akoulka

The Summer Season

The Animals at the Convict Establishment

Grievances

My Companions

The Escape

Freedom!





