Chapter Chapter 12 · 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 to-morrow.”

“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 to-morrow the daily work, the

hard labour, will begin again.