Chapter Chapter 6 · 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”

re-appears 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 ex-soldier, 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.