الفصل الفصل 19 · 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.