Chương Chương 10 · MEN OF DETERMINATION--LUKA

It is difficult to speak of these men of determination. In the convict

prison, as elsewhere, they are rare. They can be known by the fear they

inspire; people beware of them. An irresistible feeling urged me first

of all to turn away from them, but I afterwards changed my point of

view, even in regard to the most frightful murderers. There are men who

have never killed any one, and who, nevertheless, are more atrocious

than those who have assassinated six persons. It is impossible to form

an idea of certain crimes, of so strange a nature are they.

A type of murderers that one often meets with is the following: A man

lives calmly and peacefully. His fate is a hard one, but he puts up with

it. He is a peasant attached to the soil, a domestic serf, a shopkeeper,

or a soldier. Suddenly he finds something give way within him; what he

has hitherto suffered he can bear no longer, and he plunges his knife

into the breast of his oppressor or his enemy. He then goes beyond all

measure. He has killed his oppressor, his enemy. That can be

understood--there was cause for that crime; but afterwards he does not

assassinate his enemies alone, but the first person he happens to meet

he kills for the pleasure of killing--for an abusive word, for a look,

to make an equal number, or only because some one is standing in his

way. He behaves like a drunken man--a man in a delirium. When once he

has passed the fatal line, he is himself astonished to find that nothing

sacred exists for him. He breaks through all laws, defies all powers,

and gives himself boundless license. He enjoys the agitation of his own

heart and the terror that he inspires. He knows all the same that a

frightful punishment awaits him. His sensations are probably like those

of a man who, looking down from a high tower on to the abyss yawning at

his feet, would be happy to throw himself head first into it in order to

bring everything to an end. That is what happens with even the most

quiet, the most commonplace individuals. There are some even who give

themselves airs in this extremity. The more they were quiet,

self-effacing before, the more they now swagger and seek to inspire

fear. The desperate men enjoy the horror they cause; they take pleasure

in the disgust they excite; they perform acts of madness from despair,

and care nothing how it must all end, or seem impatient that it should

end as soon as possible. The most curious thing is that their

excitement, their exaltation, will last until the pillory. After that

the thread is cut, the moment is fatal, and the man becomes suddenly

calm, or, rather, he becomes extinct, a thing without feeling. In the

pillory all his strength fails him, and he begs pardon of the people.

Once at the convict prison, he is quite different. No one would ever

imagine that this white-livered chicken had killed five or six men.

There are some men whom the convict prison does not easily subdue. They

preserve a certain swagger, a spirit of bravado.

“I say, I am not what you take me for; I have sent six fellows out of

the world,” you will hear them boast; but sooner or later they have all

to submit. From time to time, the murderer will amuse himself by

recalling his audacity, his lawlessness when he was in a state of

despair. He likes at these moments to have some silly fellow before whom

he can brag, and to whom he will relate his heroic deeds, by pretending

not to have the least wish to astonish him. “That is the sort of man I

am,” he says.

And with what a refinement of prudent conceit he watches him while he is

delivering his narrative! In his accent, in every word, this can be

perceived. Where did he acquire this particular kind of artfulness?

During the long evening of one of the first days of my confinement, I

was listening to one of these conversations. Thanks to my inexperience I

took the narrator for the malefactor, a man with an iron character, a

man to whom Petroff was nothing. The narrator, Luka Kouzmitch, had

“knocked over” a Major, for no other reason but that it pleased him to

do so. This Luka Kouzmitch was the smallest and thinnest man in all the

barracks. He was from the South. He had been a serf, one of those not

attached to the soil, but who serve their masters as domestics. There

was something cutting and haughty in his demeanour. He was a little

bird, but had a beak and nails. The convicts sum up a man instinctively.

They thought nothing of this one, he was too susceptible and too full of

conceit.

That evening he was stitching a shirt, seated on his camp-bedstead.

Close to him was a narrow-minded, stupid, but good-natured and obliging

fellow, a sort of Colossus, Kobylin by name. Luka often quarrelled with

him in a neighbourly way, and treated him with a haughtiness which,

thanks to his good-nature, Kobylin did not notice in the least. He was

knitting a stocking, and listening to Luka with an indifferent air. Luka

spoke in a loud voice and very distinctly. He wished every one to hear

him, though he was apparently speaking only to Kobylin.

“I was sent away,” said Luka, sticking his needle in the shirt, “as a

brigand.”

“How long ago?” asked Kobylin.

“When the peas are ripe it will be just a year. Well, we got to K----v,

and I was put into the convict prison. Around me there were a dozen men

from Little Russia, well-built, solid, robust fellows, like oxen, and

how quiet! The food was bad, the Major of the prison did what he liked.

One day passed, then another, and I soon saw that all these fellows were

cowards.

“‘You are afraid of such an idiot?’ I said to them.

“‘Go and talk to him yourself,’ and they burst out laughing like brutes

that they were. I held my tongue.

“There was one fellow so droll, so droll,” added the narrator, now

leaving Kobylin to address all who chose to listen.

“This droll fellow was telling them how he had been tried, what he had

said, and how he had wept with hot tears.

“‘There was a dog of a clerk there,’ he said, ‘who did nothing but write

and take down every word I said. I told him I wished him at the devil,

and he actually wrote that down. He troubled me so, that I quite lost my

head.’”

“Give me some thread, Vasili; the house thread is bad, rotten.”

“There is some from the tailor’s shop,” replied Vasili, handing it over

to him.

“Well, but about this Major?” said Kobylin, who had been quite

forgotten.

Luka was only waiting for that. He did not go on at once with his story,

as though Kobylin were not worth such a mark of attention. He threaded

his needle quietly, bent his legs lazily beneath him, and at last

continued as follows:

“I excited the fellows to such an extent that they all called out

against the Major. That same morning I had borrowed the ‘rascal’ [prison

slang for knife] from my neighbour, and had hid it, so as to be ready

for anything. When the Major arrived, he was as furious as a madman.

‘Come now, you Little Russians,’ I whispered to them, ‘this is not the

time for fear.’ But, dear me, all their courage had slipped down to the

soles of their feet, they trembled! The Major came in, he was quite

drunk.

“‘What is this, how do you dare? I am your Tzar, your God,’ he cried.

“When he said that he was the Tzar and God, I went up to him with my

knife in my sleeve.

“‘No,’ I said to him, ‘your high nobility,’ and I got nearer and nearer

to him, ‘that cannot be. Your “high nobility” cannot be our Tzar and our

God.’

“‘Ah, you are the man, it is you,’ cried the Major; ‘you are the leader

of them.’

“‘No,’ I answered, and I got still nearer to him; ‘no, your “high

nobility,” as every one knows, and as you yourself know, the

all-powerful God present everywhere is alone in heaven. And we have only

one Tzar placed above every one else by God himself. He is our monarch,

your “high nobility.” And, your “high nobility,” you are as yet only

Major, and you are our chief only by the grace of the Tzar, and by your

merits.’

“‘How? how? how?’ stammered the Major. He could not speak, so astounded

was he.

“This is how I answered, and I threw myself upon him and thrust my knife

into his belly up to the hilt. It had been done very quickly; the Major

tottered, turned, and fell.

“I had thrown my life away.

“‘Now, you fellows,’ I cried, ‘it is for you to pick him up.’”

I will here make a digression from my narrative. The expression, “I am

the Tzar! I am God!” and other similar ones were once, unfortunately,

too often employed in the good old times by many commanders. I must

admit that their number has seriously diminished, and perhaps even the

last has already disappeared. Let me observe that those who spoke in

this way were, above all, men promoted from the ranks. The grade of

officer had turned their brain upside down. After having laboured long

years beneath the knapsack, they suddenly found themselves officers,

commanders, and nobles above all. Thanks to their not being accustomed

to it, and to the first excitement caused by their promotion, they

contracted an exaggerated idea of their power and importance relatively

to their subordinates. Before their superiors such men are revoltingly

servile. The most fawning of them will even say to their superiors that

they have been common soldiers, and that they do not forget their place.

But towards their inferiors they are despots without mercy. Nothing

irritates the convicts so much as such abuses. These overweening

opinions of their own greatness; this exaggerated idea of their

immunity, causes hatred in the hearts of the most submissive men, and

drives the most patient to excesses. Fortunately, all this dates from a

time that is almost forgotten, and even then the superior authorities

used to deal very severely with abuses of power. I know more than one

example of it. What exasperates the convicts above all is disdain or

repugnance manifested by any one in dealing with them. Those who think

that it is only necessary to feed and clothe the prisoner, and to act

towards him in all things according to the law, are much mistaken.

However much debased he may be, a man exacts instinctively respect for

his character as a man. Every prisoner knows perfectly that he is a

convict and a reprobate, and knows the distance which separates him from

his superiors; but neither the branding irons nor chains will make him

forget that he is a man. He must, therefore, be treated with humanity.

Humane treatment may raise up one in whom the divine image has long been

obscured. It is with the “unfortunate,” above all, that humane conduct

is necessary. It is their salvation, their only joy. I have met with

some chiefs of a kind and noble character, and I have seen what a

beneficent influence they exercised over the poor, humiliated men

entrusted to their care. A few affable words have a wonderful moral

effect upon the prisoners. They render them as happy as children, and

make them sincerely grateful towards their chiefs. One other

remark--they do not like their chiefs to be familiar and too much

hail-fellow-well-met with them. They wish to respect them, and

familiarity would prevent this. The prisoners will feel proud, for

instance, if their chief has a number of decorations; if he has good

manners; if he is well-considered by a powerful superior; if he is

severe, but at the same time just, and possesses a consciousness of

dignity. The convicts prefer such a man to all others. He knows what he

is worth, and does not insult others. Everything then is for the best.

“You got well skinned for that, I suppose,” asked Kobylin.

“As for being skinned, indeed, there is no denying it. Ali, give me the

scissors. But, what next; are we not going to play at cards to-night?”

“The cards we drank up long ago,” remarked Vassili. “If we had not sold

them to get drink they would be here now.”

“If!---- Ifs fetch a hundred roubles a piece on the Moscow market.”

“Well, Luka, what did you get for sticking him?” asked Kobylin.

“It brought me five hundred strokes, my friend. It did indeed. They did

all but kill me,” said Luka, once more addressing the assembly and

without heeding his neighbour Kobylin. “When they gave me those five

hundred strokes, I was treated with great ceremony. I had never before

been flogged. What a mass of people came to see me! The whole town had

assembled to see the brigand, the murderer, receive his punishment. How

stupid the populace is!--I cannot tell you to what extent. Timoshka the

executioner undressed me and laid me down and cried out, ‘Look out, I am

going to grill you!’ I waited for the first stroke. I wanted to cry out,

but could not. It was no use opening my mouth, my voice had gone. When

he gave me the second stroke--you need not believe me unless you

please--I did not hear when they counted two. I returned to myself and

heard them count seventeen. Four times they took me down from the board

to let me breathe for half-an-hour, and to souse me with cold water. I

stared at them with my eyes starting from my head, and said to myself,

‘I shall die here.’”

“But you did not die,” remarked Kobylin innocently.

Luka looked at him with disdain, and every one burst out laughing.

“What an idiot! Is he wrong in the upper storey?” said Luka, as if he

regretted that he had condescended to speak to such an idiot.

“He is a little mad,” said Vassili on his side.

Although Luka had killed six persons, no one was ever afraid of him in

the prison. He wished, however, to be looked upon as a terrible person.