Bab Bab 11 · ISAIAH FOMITCH--THE BATH--BAKLOUCHIN

But the Christmas holidays were approaching, and the convicts looked

forward to them with solemnity. From their mere appearance it was easy

to see that something extraordinary was about to arrive. Four days

before the holidays they were to be taken to the bath; every one was

pleased, and was making preparations. We were to go there after dinner.

On this occasion there was no work in the afternoon, and of all the

convicts the one who was most pleased, and showed the greatest activity,

was a certain Isaiah Fomitch Bumstein, a Jew, of whom I spoke in my

fifth chapter. He liked to remain stewing in the bath until he became

unconscious. Whenever I think of the prisoner’s bath, which is a thing

not to be forgotten, the first thought that presents itself to my memory

is of that very glorious and eternally to be remembered, Isaiah Fomitch

Bumstein, my prison companion. Good Lord! what a strange man he was! I

have already said a few words about his face. He was fifty years of age,

his face wrinkled, with frightful scars on his cheeks and on his

forehead, and the thin, weak body of a fowl. His face expressed

perpetual confidence in himself, and, I may almost say, perfect

happiness. I do not think he was at all sorry to be condemned to hard

labour. He was a jeweller by trade, and as there was no other in the

town, he had always plenty of work to do, and was more or less well

paid. He wanted nothing, and lived, so to say, sumptuously, without

spending all that he gained, for he saved money and lent it out to the

other convicts at interest. He possessed a tea-urn, a mattress, a

tea-cup, and a blanket. The Jews of the town did not refuse him their

patronage. Every Saturday he went under escort to the synagogue (which

was authorised by the law); and he lived like a fighting cock.

Nevertheless, he looked forward to the expiration of his term of

imprisonment in order to get married. He was the most comic mixture of

simplicity, stupidity, cunning, timidity, and bashfulness; but the

strangest thing was that the convicts never laughed, or seriously mocked

him--they only teased him for amusement. Isaiah Fomitch was a subject of

distraction and amusement for every one.

“We have only one Isaiah Fomitch, we will take care of him,” the

convicts seemed to say; and as if he understood this, he was proud of

his own importance. From the account given to me it appeared he had

entered the convict prison in the most laughable manner (it took place

before my arrival). Suddenly one evening a report was spread in the

convict prison that a Jew had been brought there, who at that moment was

being shaved in the guard-house, and that he was immediately afterwards

to be taken to the barracks. As there was not a single Jew in the

prison, the convicts looked forward to his entry with impatience, and

surrounded him as soon as he passed the great gates. The officer on

service took him to the civil prison, and pointed out the place where

his plank bedstead was to be.

Isaiah Fomitch held in his hand a bag containing the things given to

him, and some other things of his own. He put down his bag, took his

place at the plank bedstead, and sat down there with his legs crossed,

without daring to raise his eyes. People were laughing all round him.

The convicts ridiculed him by reason of his Jewish origin. Suddenly a

young convict left the others, and came up to him, carrying in his hand

an old pair of summer trousers, dirty, torn, and mended with old rags.

He sat down by the side of Isaiah Fomitch, and struck him on the

shoulder.

“Well, my dear fellow,” said he, “I have been waiting for the last six

years; look up and tell me how much you will give for this article,”

holding up his rags before him.

Isaiah Fomitch was so dumbfounded that he did not dare to look at the

mocking crowd, with mutilated and frightful countenances, now grouped

around him, and did not speak a single word, so frightened was he. When

he saw who was speaking to him he shuddered, and began to examine the

rags carefully. Every one waited to hear his first words.

“Well, cannot you give me a silver rouble for it? It is certainly worth

that,” said the would-be vendor smiling, and looking towards Isaiah

Fomitch with a wink.

“A silver rouble! no; but I will give you seven kopecks.”

These were the first words pronounced by Isaiah Fomitch in the convict

prison. A loud laugh was heard from all sides.

“Seven kopecks! Well, give them to me; you are lucky, you are indeed.

Look! Take care of the pledge, you answer for it with your head.”

“With three kopecks for interest; that will make ten kopecks you will

owe me,” said the Jew, at the same time slipping his hand into his

pocket to get out the sum agreed upon.

“Three kopecks interest--for a year?”

“No, not for a year, for a month.”

“You are a terrible screw, what is your name?”

“Isaiah Fomitch.”

“Well, Isaiah Fomitch, you ought to get on. Good-bye.”

The Jew examined once more the rags on which he had lent seven kopecks,

folded them up, and put them carefully away in his bag. The convicts

continued to laugh at him.

In reality every one laughed at him, but, although every prisoner owed

him money, no one insulted him; and when he saw that every one was well

disposed towards him, he gave himself haughty airs, but so comic that

they were at once forgiven.

Luka, who had known many Jews when he was at liberty, often teased him,

less from malice than for amusement, as one plays with a dog or a

parrot. Isaiah Fomitch knew this and did not take offence.

“You will see, Jew, how I will flog you.”

“If you give me one blow I will return you ten,” replied Isaiah Fomitch

valiantly.

“Scurvy Jew.”

“As scurvy as you like; I have in any case plenty of money.”

“Bravo! Isaiah Fomitch. We must take care of you. You are the only Jew

we have; but they will send you to Siberia all the same.”

“I am already in Siberia.”

“They will send you farther on.”

“Is not the Lord God there?”

“Of course, he is everywhere.”

“Well, then! With the Lord God, and money, one has all that is

necessary.”

“What a fellow he is!” cries every one around him.

The Jew sees that he is being laughed at, but does not lose courage. He

gives himself airs. The flattery addressed to him causes him much

pleasure, and with a high, squealing falsetto, which is heard throughout

the barracks, he begins to sing, “la, la, la, la,” to an idiotic and

ridiculous tune; the only song he was heard to sing during his stay at

the convict prison. When he made my acquaintance, he assured me solemnly

that it was the song, and the very air, that was sung by 600,000 Jews,

small and great, when they crossed the Red Sea, and that every Israelite

was ordered to sing it after a victory gained over an enemy.

The eve of each Saturday the convicts came from the other barracks to

ours, expressly to see Isaiah Fomitch celebrating his Sabbath. He was so

vain, so innocently conceited, that this general curiosity flattered him

immensely. He covered the table in his little corner with a pedantic

air of importance, opened a book, lighted two candles, muttered some

mysterious words, and clothed himself in a kind of chasuble, striped,

and with sleeves, which he preserved carefully at the bottom of his

trunk. He fastened to his hands leather bracelets, and finally attached

to his forehead, by means of a ribbon, a little box, which made it seem

as if a horn were starting from his head. He then began to pray. He read

in a drawling voice, cried out, spat, and threw himself about with wild

and comic gestures. All this was prescribed by the ceremonies of his

religion. There was nothing laughable or strange in it, except the airs

which Isaiah Fomitch gave himself before us in performing his

ceremonies. Then he suddenly covered his head with both hands, and began

to read with many sobs. His tears increased, and in his grief he almost

lay down upon the book his head with the ark upon it, howling as he did

so; but suddenly in the midst of his despondent sobs he burst into a

laugh, and recited with a nasal twang a hymn of triumph, as if he were

overcome by an excess of happiness.

“Impossible to understand it,” the convicts would sometimes say to one

another. One day I asked Isaiah Fomitch what these sobs signified, and

why he passed so suddenly from despair to triumphant happiness. Isaiah

Fomitch was very pleased when I asked him these questions. He explained

to me directly that the sobs and tears were provoked by the loss of

Jerusalem, and that the law ordered the pious Jew to groan and strike

his breast; but at the moment of his most acute grief he was suddenly to

remember that a prophecy had foretold the return of the Jews to

Jerusalem, and he was then to manifest overflowing joy, to sing, to

laugh, and to recite his prayers with an expression of happiness in his

voice and on his countenance. This sudden passage from one phase of

feeling to another delighted Isaiah Fomitch, and he explained to me this

ingenious prescription of his faith with the greatest satisfaction.

One evening, in the midst of his prayers, the Major entered, followed by

the officer of the guard and an escort of soldiers. All the prisoners

got immediately into line before their camp-bedsteads. Isaiah Fomitch

alone continued to shriek and gesticulate. He knew that his worship was

authorised, and that no one could interrupt him, so that in howling in

the presence of the Major he ran no risk. It pleased him to throw

himself about beneath the eyes of the chief.

The Major approached within a few steps. Isaiah Fomitch turned his back

to the table, and just in front of the officer began to sing his hymn of

triumph, gesticulating and drawling out certain syllables. When he came

to the part where he had to assume an expression of extreme happiness,

he did so by blinking with his eyes, at the same time laughing and

nodding his head in the direction of the Major. The latter was at first

much astonished; then he burst into a laugh, called out, “Idiot!” and

went away, while the Jew still continued to shriek. An hour later, when

he had finished, I asked him what he would have done if the Major had

been wicked enough and foolish enough to lose his temper.

“What Major?”

“What Major! Did you not see him? He was only two steps from you, and

was looking at you all the time.” But Isaiah Fomitch assured me as

seriously as possible that he had not seen the Major, for while he was

saying his prayers he was in such a state of ecstasy that he neither saw

nor heard anything that was taking place around him.

I can see Isaiah Fomitch wandering about on Saturday throughout the

prison, endeavouring to do nothing, as the law prescribes to every Jew.

What improbable anecdotes he told me! Every time he returned from the

synagogue he always brought me some news of St. Petersburg, and the most

absurd rumours imaginable from his fellow Jews of the town, who

themselves had received them at first hand. But I have already spoken

too much of Isaiah Fomitch.

In the whole town there were only two public baths. The first, kept by a

Jew, was divided into compartments, for which one paid fifty kopecks. It

was frequented by the aristocracy of the town.

The other bath, old, dirty, and close, was destined for the people. It

was there that the convicts were taken. The air was cold and clear. The

prisoners were delighted to get out of the fortress and have a walk

through the town. During the walk their laughter and jokes never ceased.

A platoon of soldiers, with muskets loaded, accompanied us. It was quite

a sight for the town’s-people. When we had reached our destination, the

bath was so small that it did not permit us all to enter at once. We

were divided into two bands, one of which waited in the cold room while

the other one bathed in the hot one. Even then, so narrow was the room

that it was difficult for us to understand how half of the convicts

could stand together in it.

Petroff kept close to me. He remained by my side without my having

begged him to do so, and offered to rub me down. Baklouchin, a convict

of the special section, offered me at the same time his services. I

recollect this prisoner, who was called the “Sapper,” as the gayest and

most agreeable of all my companions. We had become intimate friends.

Petroff helped me to undress, because I was generally a long time

getting my things off, not being yet accustomed to the operation; and it

was almost as cold in the dressing-room as outside the doors.

It is very difficult for a convict who is still a novice to get his

things off, for he must know how to undo the leather straps which fasten

on the chains. These leather straps are buckled over the shirt, just

beneath the ring which encloses the leg. One pair of straps costs sixty

kopecks, and each convict is obliged to get himself a pair, for it would

be impossible to walk without their assistance. The ring does not

enclose the leg too tightly. One can pass the finger between the iron

and the flesh; but the ring rubs against the calf, so that in a single

day the convict who walks without leather straps, gets his skin broken.

To take off the straps presents no difficulty. It is not the same with

the clothes. To get the trousers off is in itself a prodigious

operation, and the same may be said of the shirt whenever it has to be

changed. The first who gave us lessons in this art was Koreneff, a

former chief of brigands, condemned to be chained up for five years. The

convicts are very skilful at the work, and do it readily.

I gave a few kopecks to Petroff to buy soap and a bunch of the twigs

with which one rubs oneself in the bath. Bits of soap were given to the

convicts, but they were not larger than pieces of two kopecks. The soap

was sold in the dressing-room, as well as mead, cakes of white flour,

and boiling water; for each convict received but one pailful, according

to the agreement made between the proprietor of the bath and the

administration of the prison. The convicts who wished to make themselves

thoroughly clean, could for two kopecks buy another pailful, which the

proprietor handed to them through a window pierced in the wall for that

purpose. As soon as I was undressed, Petroff took me by the arm and

observed to me that I should find it difficult to walk with my chains.

“Drag them up on to your calves,” he said to me, holding me by the arms

at the same time, as if I were an old man. I was ashamed at his care,

and assured him that I could walk well enough by myself, but he did not

believe me. He paid me the same attention that one gives to an awkward

child. Petroff was not a servant in any sense of the word. If I had

offended him, he would have known how to deal with me. I had promised

him nothing for his assistance, nor had he asked me for anything. What

inspired him with so much solicitude for me?

Represent to yourself a room of twelve feet long by as many broad, in

which a hundred men are all crowded together, or at least eighty, for we

were in all two hundred divided into two sections. The steam blinded us;

the sweat, the dirt, the want of space, were such that we did not know

where to put a foot down. I was frightened and wished to go out. Petroff

hastened to reassure me. With great trouble we succeeded in raising

ourselves on to the benches, by passing over the heads of the convicts,

whom we begged to bend down, in order to let us pass; but all the

benches were already occupied. Petroff informed me that I must buy a

place, and at once entered into negotiations with the convict who was

near the window. For a kopeck this man consented to cede me his place.

After receiving the money, which Petroff held tight in his hand, and

which he had prudently provided himself with beforehand, the man crept

just beneath me into a dark and dirty corner. There was there, at least,

half an inch of filth; even the places above the benches were occupied,

the convicts swarmed everywhere. As for the floor there was not a place

as big as the palm of the hand which was not occupied by the convicts.

They sent the water in spouts out of their pails. Those who were

standing up washed themselves pail in hand, and the dirty water ran all

down their body to fall on the shaved heads of those who were sitting

down. On the upper bench, and the steps which led to it, were heaped

together other convicts who washed themselves more thoroughly, but these

were in small number. The populace does not care to wash with soap and

water, it prefers stewing in a horrible manner, and then inundating

itself with cold water. That is how the common people take their bath.

On the floor could be seen fifty bundles of rods rising and falling at

the same time, the holders were whipping themselves into a state of

intoxication. The steam became thicker and thicker every minute, so that

what one now felt was not a warm but a burning sensation, as from

boiling pitch. The convicts shouted and howled to the accompaniment of

the hundred chains shaking on the floor. Those who wished to pass from

one place to another got their chains mixed up with those of their

neighbours, and knocked against the heads of the men who were lower down

than they. Then there were volleys of oaths as those who fell dragged

down the ones whose chains had become entangled in theirs. They were all

in a state of intoxication of wild exultation. Cries and shrieks were

heard on all sides. There was much crowding and crushing at the window

of the dressing-room through which the hot water was delivered, and

much of it got spilt over the heads of those who were seated on the

floor before it arrived at its destination. We seemed to be fully at

liberty; and yet from time to time, behind the window of the

dressing-room, or through the open door, could be seen the moustached

face of a soldier, with his musket at his feet, watching that no serious

disorder took place.

The shaved heads of the convicts, and their red bodies, which the steam

made the colour of blood, seemed more monstrous than ever. On their

backs, made scarlet by the steam, stood out in striking relief the scars

left by the whips and the rods, made long before, but so thoroughly that

the flesh seemed to have been quite recently torn. Strange scars. A

shudder passed through me at the mere sight of them. Again the volume of

steam increased, and the bath-room was now covered with a thick, burning

cloud, covering agitation and cries. From this cloud stood out torn

backs, shaved heads; and, to complete the picture, Isaiah Fomitch

howling with joy on the highest of the benches. He was saturating

himself with steam. Any other man would have fainted away, but no

temperature is too high for him; he engages the services of a rubber for

a kopeck, but after a few moments the latter is unable to continue,

throws away his bunch of twigs, and runs to inundate himself with cold

water. Isaiah Fomitch does not lose courage, he runs to hire a second

rubber, then a third; on these occasions he thinks nothing of expense,

and changes his rubber four or five times. “He stews well, the gallant

Isaiah Fomitch,” cry the convicts from below. The Jew feels that he goes

beyond all the others, he has beaten them; he triumphs with his hoarse

falsetto voice, and sings out his favourite air which rises above the

general hubbub. It seemed to me that if ever we met in hell we should be

reminded of the place where we then were. I could not resist a wish to

communicate this idea to Petroff. He looked all round him, but made no

answer.

I wished to buy a place for him on the bench by my side; but he sat

down at my feet and declared that he felt quite at his ease. Baklouchin

meanwhile bought us some hot water which he would bring to us as soon as

we wanted it. Petroff offered to clean me from head to foot, and he

begged me to go through the preliminary stewing process. I could not

make up my mind to it. At last he rubbed me all over with soap. I wished

to make him understand that I could wash myself, but it was no use

contradicting him and I gave myself up to him.

When he had done with me he took me back to the dressing-room, holding

me up, and telling me at each step to take care, as if I had been made

of porcelain. He helped me to put on my clothes, and when he had

finished his kindly work he rushed back to the bath to have a thorough

stewing.

When we got back to the barracks I offered him a glass of tea, which he

did not refuse. He drank it and thanked me. I wished to go to the

expense of a glass of vodka in his honour, and I succeeded in getting it

on the spot. Petroff was exceedingly pleased. He swallowed his vodka

with a murmur of satisfaction, declared that I had restored him to life,

and then suddenly rushed to the kitchen, as if the people who were

talking there could not decide anything important without him.

Now another man came up for a talk. This was Baklouchin, of whom I have

already spoken, and whom I had also invited to take tea.

I never knew a man of a more agreeable disposition than Baklouchin. It

must be admitted that he never forgave a wrong, and that he often got

into quarrels. He could not, above all, endure people interfering with

his affairs. He knew, in a word, how to take care of himself; but his

quarrels never lasted long, and I believe that all the convicts liked

him. Wherever he went he was well received. Even in the town he was

looked upon as the most amusing man in the world. He was a man of lofty

stature, thirty years old, with a frank, determined countenance, and

rather good-looking, with his tuft of hair on his chin. He possessed the

art of changing his face in such a comic manner by imitating the first

person he happened to see, that the people around him were constantly in

a roar. He was a professed joker, but he never allowed himself to be

slighted by those who did not enjoy his fun. Accordingly, no one spoke

disparagingly of him. He was full of life and fire. He made my

acquaintance at the very beginning of my imprisonment, and related to me

his military career, when he was a sapper in the Engineers, where he had

been placed as a favour by people of influence. He put a number of

questions to me about St. Petersburg; he even read books when he came to

take tea with me. He amused the whole company by relating how roughly

Lieutenant K---- had that morning handled the Major. He told me,

moreover, with a satisfied air, as he took his seat by my side, that we

should probably have a theatrical representation in the prison. The

convicts proposed to get up a play during the Christmas holidays. The

necessary actors were found, and, little by little, the scenery was

prepared. Some persons in the town had promised to lend women’s clothes

for the performance. Some hopes were even entertained of obtaining,

through the medium of an officer’s servant, a uniform with epaulettes,

provided only the Major did not take it into his head to forbid the

performance, as he had done the previous year. He was at that time in

ill-humour through having lost at cards, and he had been annoyed at

something that had taken place in the prison. Accordingly, in a fit of

ill-humour, he had forbidden the performance. It was possible, however,

that this year he would not prevent it. Baklouchin was in a state of

exultation. It could be seen that he would be one of the principal

supporters of the meditated theatre. I made up my mind to be present at

the performance. The ingenuous joy which Baklouchin manifested in

speaking of the undertaking was quite touching. From whispering, we

gradually got to talk of the matter quite openly. He told me, among

other things, that he had not served at St. Petersburg alone. He had

been sent to R---- with the rank of non-commissioned officer in a

garrison battalion.

“From there they sent me on here,” added Baklouchin.

“And why?” I asked him.

“Why? You would never guess, Alexander Petrovitch. Because I was in

love.”

“Come now. A man is not exiled for that,” I said, with a laugh.

“I should have added,” continued Baklouchin, “that it made me kill a

German with a pistol-shot. Was it worth while to send me to hard labour

for killing a German? Only think.”

“How did it happen? Tell me the story. It must be a strange one.”

“An amusing story indeed, Alexander Petrovitch.”

“So much the better. Tell me.”

“You wish me to do so? Well, then, listen.”

And he told me the story of his murder. It was not “amusing,” but it was

indeed strange.

“This is how it happened,” began Baklouchin; “I had been sent to Riga, a

fine, handsome city, which has only one fault, there are too many

Germans there. I was still a young man, and I had a good character with

my officers. I wore my cap cocked on the side of my head, and passed my

time in the most agreeable manner. I made love to the German girls. One

of them, named Luisa, pleased me very much. She and her aunt were

getters-up of fine linen. The old woman was a true caricature; but she

had money. First of all I merely passed under the young girl’s windows;

but I soon made her acquaintance. Luisa spoke Russian well enough,

though with a slight accent. She was charming. I never saw any one like

her. I was most pressing in my advances; but she only replied that she

would preserve her innocence, that as a wife she might prove worthy of

me. She was an affectionate, smiling girl, and wonderfully neat. In

fact, I assure you, I never saw any one like her. She herself had

suggested that I should marry her, and how was I not to marry her?

Suddenly Luisa did not come to her appointment. This happened once, then

twice, then a third time. I sent her a letter, but she did not reply.

‘What is to be done?’ I said to myself. If she had been deceiving me she

could easily have taken me in. She could have answered my letter and

come all the same to the appointment; but she was incapable of

falsehood. She had simply broken off with me. ‘This is a trick of the

aunt,’ I said to myself. I was afraid to go to her house.

“Even though she was aware of our engagement, we acted as if she were

ignorant of it. I wrote a fine letter in which I said to Luisa, ‘If you

don’t come, I will come to your aunt’s for you.’ She was afraid and

came. Then she began to weep, and told me that a German named Schultz, a

distant relation of theirs, a clockmaker by trade, and of a certain age,

but rich, had shown a wish to marry her--in order to make her happy, as

he said, and that he himself might not remain without a wife in his old

age. He had loved her a long time, so she told me, and had been

nourishing this idea for years, but he had kept it a secret, and had

never ventured to speak out. ‘You see, Sasha,’ she said to me, ‘that it

is a question of my happiness; for he is rich, and would you prevent my

happiness?’ I looked her in the face, she wept, embraced me, clasped me

in her arms.

“‘Well, she is quite right,’ I said to myself, ‘what good is there in

marrying a soldier--even a non-commissioned officer? Come, farewell,

Luisa. God protect you. I have no right to prevent your happiness.’

“‘And what sort of a man is he? Is he good-looking?’

“‘No, he is old, and he has such a long nose.’

“She here burst into a fit of laughter. I left her. ‘It was my destiny,’

I said to myself. The next day I passed by Schultz’ shop (she had told

me where he lived). I looked through the window and saw a German, who

was arranging a watch, forty-five years of age, an aquiline nose,

swollen eyes, a dress-coat with a very high collar. I spat with contempt

as I looked at him. At that moment I was ready to break the shop

windows, but ‘What is the use of it?’ I said to myself; ‘there is

nothing more to be done: it is over, all over.’ I got back to the

barracks as the night was falling, and stretched myself out on my bed,

and--will you believe it, Alexander Petrovitch?--began to sob--yes, to

sob. One day passed, then a second, then a third. I saw Luisa no more. I

had learned, however, from an old woman (she was also a washerwoman, and

the girl I loved used sometimes to visit her), that this German knew of

our relations, and that for that reason he had made up his mind to marry

her as soon as possible, otherwise he would have waited two years

longer. He had made Luisa swear that she would see me no more. It

appeared that on account of me he had refused to loosen his

purse-strings, and kept Luisa and her aunt very close. Perhaps he would

yet change his idea, for he was not very resolute. The old woman told me

that he had invited them to take coffee with him the next day, a Sunday,

and that another relation, a former shopkeeper, now very poor, and an

assistant in some liquor store, would also come. When I found that the

business was to be settled on Sunday, I was so furious that I could not

recover my cold blood, and the following day I did nothing but reflect.

I believe I could have devoured that German. On Sunday morning I had not

come to any decision. As soon as the service was over I ran out, got

into my great-coat, and went to the house of this German. I thought I

should find them all there. Why I went to the German, and what I meant

to say to him, I did not know myself.

“I slipped a pistol into my pocket to be ready for everything; a little

pistol which was not worth a curse, with an old-fashioned lock--a thing

I had used when I was a boy, and which was really fit for nothing. I

loaded it, however, because I thought they would try to kick me out, and

that the German would insult me, in which case I would pull out my

pistol to frighten them all. I arrived. There was no one on the

staircase; they were all in the work-room. No servant. The one girl who

waited upon them was absent. I crossed the shop and saw that the door

was closed--an old door fastened from the inside. My heart beat; I

stopped and listened. They were speaking German. I broke open the door

with a kick. I looked round. The table was laid; there was a large

coffee-pot on it, with a spirit lamp underneath, and a plate of

biscuits. On a tray there was a small decanter of brandy, herrings,

sausages, and a bottle of some wine. Luisa and her aunt, both in their

Sunday best, were seated on a sofa. Opposite them, the German was

exhibiting himself on a chair, got up like a bridegroom, and in his coat

with the high collar, and with his hair carefully combed. On the other

side, there was another German, old, fat, and gray. He was taking no

part in the conversation. When I entered, Luisa turned very pale. The

aunt sprang up with a bound and sat down again. The German became angry.

What a rage he was in! He got up, and walking towards me, said:

“‘What do you want?’

“I should have lost my self-possession if anger had not supported me.

“‘What do I want? Is this the way to receive a guest? Why do you not

offer him something to drink? I have come to pay you a visit.’

“The German reflected a moment, and then said, ‘Sit down.’

“I sat down.

“‘Here is some vodka. Help yourself, I beg.’

“‘And let it be good,’ I cried, getting more and more into a rage.

“‘It is good.’

“I was enraged to see him looking at me from top to toe. The most

frightful part of it was, that Luisa was looking on. I took a drink and

said to him:

“‘Look here, German, what business have you to speak rudely to me? Let

us be better acquainted. I have come to see you as friends.’

“‘I cannot be your friend,’ he replied. ‘You are a private soldier.’

“Then I lost all self-command.

“‘Oh, you German! You sausage-seller! You know how much you are in my

power. Look here; do you wish me to break your head with this pistol?’

“I drew out my pistol, got up, and struck him on the forehead. The

women were more dead than alive; they were afraid to breathe. The eldest

of the two men, quite white, was trembling like a leaf.

“The German seemed much astonished. But he soon recovered himself.

“‘I am not afraid of you,’ he said, ‘and I beg of you, as a well-bred

man, to put an end to this pleasantry. I am not afraid of you!’

“‘You are afraid! You dare not move while this pistol is presented at

you.’

“‘You dare not do such a thing!’ he cried.

“‘And why should I not dare?’

“‘Because you would be severely punished.’

“May the devil take that idiot of a German! If he had not urged me on,

he would have been alive now.

“‘So you think I dare not?’

“‘No.’

“‘I dare not, you think?’

“‘You would not dare!’

“‘Wouldn’t I, sausage-maker?’ I fired the pistol, and down he sank on

his chair. The others uttered shrieks. I put back my pistol in my

pocket, and when I returned to the fortress, threw it among some weeds

near the principal entrance.

“Inside the barracks I laid on my bed, and said to myself, ‘I shall be

taken away soon.’ One hour passed, then another, but I was not arrested.

“Towards evening I felt so sad, I went out at all hazards to see Luisa;

I passed before the house of the clockmaker’s. There were a number of

people there, including the police. I ran on to the old woman’s and

said:

“‘Call Luisa!’

“I had only a moment to wait. She came immediately, and threw herself on

my neck in tears.

“‘It is my fault,’ she said. ‘I should not have listened to my aunt.’

“She then told me that her aunt, immediately after the scene, had gone

back home. She was in such a fright that she fell and did not speak a

word; she had uttered nothing. On the contrary, she ordered her niece

to be as silent as herself.

“‘No one has seen her since,’ said Luisa.

“The clockmaker had previously sent his servant away, for he was afraid

of her. She was jealous, and would have scratched his eyes out had she

known that he wished to get married.

“There were no workmen in the house, he had sent them all away; he had

himself prepared the coffee and collation. As for the relation, who had

scarcely spoken a word all his life, he took his hat, and, without

opening his mouth, went away.

“‘He is quite sure to be silent,’ added Luisa.

“So, indeed, he was. For two weeks no one arrested me nor suspected me

the least in the world.

“You need not believe me unless you choose, Alexander Petrovitch.

“These two weeks were the happiest in my life. I saw Luisa every day.

And how much she had become attached to me!

“She said to me through her tears: ‘If you are exiled, I will go with

you. I will leave everything to follow you.’

“I thought of making away with myself, so much had she moved me; but

after two weeks I was arrested. The old man and the aunt had agreed to

denounce me.”

“But,” I interrupted, “Baklouchin, for that they would only have given

you from ten to twelve years’ hard labour, and in the civil section; yet

you are in the special section. How does that happen?”

“That is another affair,” said Baklouchin. “When I was taken before the

Council of War, the captain appointed to conduct the case began by

insulting me, and calling me names before the Tribunal. I could not

stand it, and shouted out to him: ‘Why do you insult me? Don’t you see,

you scoundrel! that you are only looking at yourself in the glass?’

“This brought a new charge against me. I was tried a second time, and

for the two things was condemned to four thousand strokes, and to the

special section. When I was taken out to receive my punishment in the

_Green Street_, the captain was at the same time sent away. He had been

degraded from his rank, and was despatched to the Caucasus as a private

soldier. Good-bye, Alexander Petrovitch. Don’t fail to come to our

performance.”