Chương Chương 4 · FIRST IMPRESSIONS

During the first weeks, and naturally the early part of my imprisonment,

made a deep impression on my imagination. The following years on the

other hand are all mixed up together, and leave but a confused

recollection. Certain epochs of this life are even effaced from my

memory. I have kept one general impression of it, always the same;

painful, monotonous, stifling. What I saw in experience during the first

days of my imprisonment seems to me as if it had all taken place

yesterday. Such was sure to be the case. I remember perfectly that in

the first place this life astonished me by the very fact that it offered

nothing particular, nothing extraordinary, or to express myself better,

nothing unexpected. It was not until later on, when I had lived some

time in the convict prison, that I understood all that was exceptional

and unforeseen in such a life. I was astonished at the discovery. I will

avow that this astonishment remained with me throughout my term of

punishment. I could not decidedly reconcile myself to this existence.

First of all, I experienced an invincible repugnance on arriving; but

oddly enough the life seemed to me less painful than I had imagined on

the journey.

Indeed, prisoners, though embarrassed by their irons went to and fro in

the prison freely enough. They insulted one another, sang, worked,

smoked pipes, and drank spirits. There were not many drinkers all the

same. There were also regular card parties during the night. The labour

did not seem to me very trying; I fancied that it could not be the real

“hard labour.” I did not understand till long afterwards why this labour

was really hard and excessive. It was less by reason of its difficulty,

than because it was forced, imposed, obligatory; and it was only done

through fear of the stick. The peasant works certainly harder than the

convict, for, during the summer, he works night and day. But it is in

his own interest that he fatigues himself. His aim is reasonable, so

that he suffers less than the convict who performs hard labour from

which he derives no profit. It once came into my head that if it were

desired to reduce a man to nothing--to punish him atrociously, to crush

him in such a manner that the most hardened murderer would tremble

before such a punishment, and take fright beforehand--it would be

necessary to give to his work a character of complete uselessness, even

to absurdity.

Hard labour, as it is now carried on, presents no interest to the

convict; but it has its utility. The convict makes bricks, digs the

earth, builds; and all his occupations have a meaning and an end.

Sometimes, even the prisoner takes an interest in what he is doing. He

then wishes to work more skilfully, more advantageously. But let him be

constrained to pour water from one vessel into another, or to transport

a quantity of earth from one place to another, in order to perform the

contrary operation immediately afterwards, then I am persuaded that at

the end of a few days the prisoner would strangle himself or commit a

thousand crimes, punishable with death, rather than live in such an

abject condition and endure such torments. It is evident that such

punishment would be rather a torture, an atrocious vengeance, than a

correction. It would be absurd, for it would have no natural end.

I did not, however, arrive until the winter--in the month of

December--and the labour was then unimportant in our fortress. I had no

idea of the summer labour--five times as fatiguing. The prisoners,

during the winter season, broke up on the Irtitch some old boats

belonging to the Government, found occupation in the workshops, took

away the snow blown by hurricanes against the buildings, or burned and

pounded alabaster. As the day was very short, the work ceased at an

early hour, and every one returned to the convict prison, where there

was scarcely anything to do, except the supplementary work which the

convicts did for themselves.

Scarcely a third of the convicts worked seriously, the others idled

their time and wandered about without aim in the barracks, scheming and

insulting one another. Those who had a little money got drunk on

spirits, or lost what they had saved at gambling. And all this from

idleness, weariness, and want of something to do.

I learned, moreover, to know one suffering which is perhaps the

sharpest, the most painful that can be experienced in a house of

detention apart from laws and liberty. I mean, “forced cohabitation.”

Cohabitation is more or less forced everywhere and always; but nowhere

is it so horrible as in a prison. There are men there with whom no one

would consent to live. I am certain that every convict, unconsciously

perhaps, has suffered from this.

The food of the prisoners seemed to me passable; some declared even that

it was incomparably better than in any Russian prison. I cannot certify

to this, for I was never in prison anywhere else. Many of us, besides,

were allowed to procure whatever nourishment we wanted. As fresh meat

cost only three kopecks a pound, those who always had money allowed

themselves the luxury of eating it. The majority of the prisoners were

contented with the regular ration.

When they praised the diet of the convict prison, they were thinking

only of the bread, which was distributed at the rate of so much per

room, and not individually or by weight. This last condition would have

frightened the convicts, for a third of them at least would have

constantly suffered from hunger; while, with the system in vogue, every

one was satisfied. Our bread was particularly nice, and was even

renowned in the town. Its good quality was attributed to the excellent

construction of the prison ovens. As for our cabbage-soup, it was cooked

and thickened with flour. It had not an appetising appearance. On

working days it was clear and thin; but what particularly disgusted me

was the way it was served. The prisoners, however, paid no attention to

that.

During the three days that followed my arrival, I did not go to work.

Some respite was always given to prisoners just arrived, in order to

allow them to recover from their fatigue. The second day I had to go out

of the convict prison in order to be ironed. My chain was not of the

regulation pattern; it was composed of rings, which gave forth a clear

sound, so I heard other convicts say. I had to wear them externally over

my clothes, whereas my companions had chains formed, not of rings, but

of four links, as thick as the finger, and fastened together by three

links which were worn beneath the trousers. To the central ring was

fastened a strip of leather, tied in its turn to a girdle fastened over

the shirt.

I can see again the first morning that I passed in the convict prison.

The drum sounded in the orderly room, near the principal entrance. Ten

minutes afterwards the under officer opened the barracks. The convicts

woke up one after another and rose trembling with cold from their plank

bedsteads, by the dull light of a tallow candle. Nearly all of them were

morose; they yawned and stretched themselves. Their foreheads, marked by

the iron, were contracted. Some made the sign of the Cross; others began

to talk nonsense. The cold air from outside rushed in as soon as the

door was opened. Then the prisoners hurried round the pails full of

water, one after another, and took water in their mouths, and, letting

it out into their hands, washed their faces. Those pails had been

brought in the night before by a prisoner specially appointed, according

to the rules, to clean the barracks.

The convicts chose him themselves. He did not work with the others, for

it was his business to examine the camp bedsteads and the floors, to

fetch and carry water. This water served in the morning for the

prisoners’ ablutions, and the rest during the day for ordinary drinking.

That very morning there were disputes on the subject of one of the

pitchers.

“What are you doing there with your marked forehead?” grumbled one of

the prisoners, tall, dry, and sallow.

He attracted attention by the strange protuberances with which his skull

was covered. He pushed against another convict round and small, with a

lively rubicund countenance.

“Just wait.”

“What are you crying out about? You know that a fine must be paid when

the others are kept waiting. Off with you. What a monument, my

brethren!”

“A little calf,” he went on muttering. “See, the white bread of the

prison has fattened him.”

“For what do you take yourself? A fine bird, indeed.”

“You are about right.”

“What bird do you mean?”

“You don’t require to be told.”

“How so?”

“Find out.”

They devoured one another with their eyes. The little man, waiting for a

reply, with clenched fists, was apparently ready to fight. I thought

that an encounter would take place. It was all quite new to me;

accordingly I watched the scene with curiosity. Later on I learnt that

such quarrels were very innocent, that they served for entertainment.

Like an amusing comedy, it scarcely ever ended in blows. This

characteristic plainly informed me of the manners of the prisoners.

The tall prisoner remained calm and majestic. He felt that some answer

was expected from him, if he was not to be dishonoured, covered with

ridicule. It was necessary for him to show that he was a wonderful bird,

a personage. Accordingly, he cast a side look on his adversary,

endeavouring, with inexpressible contempt, to irritate him by looking at

him over his shoulders, up and down, as he would have done with an

insect. At last the little fat man was so irritated that he would have

thrown himself upon his adversary had not his companions surrounded the

combatants to prevent a serious quarrel from taking place.

“Fight with your fists, not with your tongues,” cried a spectator from a

corner of the room.

“No, hold them,” answered another, “they are going to fight. We are fine

fellows, one against seven is our style.”

Fine fighting men! One was here for having sneaked a pound of bread, the

other is a pot-stealer; he was whipped by the executioner for stealing a

pot of curdled milk from an old woman.

“Enough, keep quiet,” cried a retired soldier, whose business it was to

keep order in the barrack, and who slept in a corner of the room on a

bedstead of his own.

“Water, my children, water for Nevalid Petrovitch, water for our little

brother, who has just woke up.”

“Your brother! Am I your brother? Did we ever drink a roublesworth of

spirits together?” muttered the old soldier as he passed his arms

through the sleeves of his great-coat.

The roll was about to be called, for it was already late. The prisoners

were hurrying towards the kitchen. They had to put on their pelisses,

and were to receive in their bi-coloured caps the bread which one of the

cooks--one of the bakers, that is to say--was distributing among them.

These cooks, like those who did the household work, were chosen by the

prisoners themselves. There were two for the kitchen, making four in all

for the convict prison. They had at their disposal the only

kitchen-knife authorised in the prison, which was used for cutting up

the bread and meat. The prisoners arranged themselves in groups around

the tables as best they could in caps and pelisses, with leather girdles

round their waists, all ready to begin work. Some of the convicts had

kvas before them, in which they steeped pieces of bread. The noise was

insupportable. Many of the convicts, however, were talking together in

corners with a steady, tranquil air.

“Good-morning and good appetite, Father Antonitch,” said a young

prisoner, sitting down by the side of an old man, who had lost his

teeth.

“If you are not joking, well, good-morning,” said the latter, without

raising his eyes, and endeavouring to masticate a piece of bread with

his toothless gums.

“I declare I fancied you were dead, Antonitch.”

“Die first, I will follow you.”

I sat down beside them. On my right two convicts were conversing with an

attempt at dignity.

“I am not likely to be robbed,” said one of them. “I am more afraid of

stealing myself.”

“It would not be a good idea to rob me. The devil! I should pay the man

out.”

“But what would you do, you are only a convict? We have no other name.

You will see that she will rob you, the wretch, without even saying,

‘Thank you.’ The money I gave her was wasted. Just fancy, she was here a

few days ago! Where were we to go? Shall I ask permission to go into the

house of Theodore, the executioner? He has still his house in the

suburb, the one he bought from that Solomon, you know, that scurvy Jew

who hung himself not long since.”

“Yes, I know him, the one who sold liquor here three years ago, and who

was called Grichka--the secret-drinking shop.”

“I know.”

“_All_ brag. You don’t know. In the first place it is another drinking

shop.”

“What do you mean, another? You don’t know what you are talking about. I

will bring you as many witnesses as you like.”

“Oh, you will bring them, will you? Who are you? Do you know to whom you

are speaking?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“I have often thrashed you, though I don’t boast of it. Do not give

yourself airs then.”

“You have thrashed me? The man who will thrash me is not yet born; and

the man who did thrash me is six feet beneath the ground.”

“Plague-stricken rascal of Bender?”

“May the Siberian leprosy devour you with ulcers!”

“May a chopper cleave your dog of a head.”

Insults were falling about like rain.

“Come, now, they are going to fight. When men have not been able to

conduct themselves properly they should keep silent. They are too glad

to come and eat the Government bread, the rascals!”

They were soon separated. Let them fight with the tongue as much as they

wish. That is permitted. It is a diversion at the service of every one;

but no blows. It is, indeed, only in extraordinary cases that blows were

exchanged. If a fight took place, information was given to the Major,

who ordered an inquiry or directed one himself; and then woe to the

convicts. Accordingly they set their faces against anything like a

serious quarrel; besides, they insulted one another chiefly to pass the

time, as an oratorical exercise. They get excited; the quarrel takes a

furious, ferocious character; they seem about to slaughter one another.

Nothing of the kind takes place. As soon as their anger has reached a

certain pitch they separate.

That astonished me much, and if I relate some of the conversations

between the convicts, I do so with a purpose. Could I have imagined that

people could have insulted one another for pleasure, that they could

find enjoyment in it?

We must not forget the gratification of vanity. A dialectician, who

knows how to insult artistically, is respected. A little more, and he

would be applauded like an actor.

Already, the night before, I noticed some glances in my direction. On

the other hand, several convicts hung around me as if they had suspected

that I had brought money with me. They endeavoured to get into my good

graces by teaching me how to carry my irons without being incommoded.

They also gave me--of course in return for money--a box with a lock, in

order to keep safe the things which had been entrusted to me by the

administration, and the few shirts that I had been allowed to bring with

me to the convict prison. Not later than next morning these same

prisoners stole my box, and drank the money which they had taken out of

it.

One of them became afterwards a great friend of mine, though he robbed

me whenever an opportunity offered itself. He was, all the same, vexed

at what he had done. He committed these thefts almost unconsciously, as

if in the way of a duty. Consequently I bore him no grudge.

These convicts let me know that one could have tea, and that I should do

well to get myself a teapot. They found me one, which I hired for a

certain time. They also recommended me a cook, who, for thirty kopecks a

month, would arrange the dishes I might desire, if it was my intention

to buy provisions and take my meals apart. Of course they borrowed money

from me. The day of my arrival they asked me for some at three different

times.

The noblemen degraded from their position, here incarcerated in the

convict prison, were badly looked upon by their fellow prisoners;

although they had lost all their rights like the other convicts, they

were not looked upon as comrades.

In this instinctive repugnance there was a sort of reason. To them we

were always gentlemen, although they often laughed at our fall.

“Ah! it’s all over now. Mossieu’s carriage formerly crushed the

passers-by at Moscow. Now Mossieu picks hemp!”

They knew our sufferings, though we hid them as much as possible. It

was, above all, when we were all working together that we had most to

endure, for our strength was not so great as theirs, and we were really

not of much assistance to them. Nothing is more difficult than to gain

the confidence of the common people; above all, such people as these!

There were only a few of us who were of noble birth in the whole prison.

First, there were five Poles--of whom further on I shall speak in

detail--they were detested by the convicts more, perhaps, than the

Russian nobles. The Poles--I speak only of the political

convicts--always behaved to them with a constrained and offensive

politeness, scarcely ever speaking to them, and making no endeavour to

conceal the disgust which they experienced in such company. The convicts

understood all this, and paid them back in their own coin.

Two years passed before I could gain the good-will of my companions; but

the greater part of them were attached to me, and declared that I was a

good fellow.

There were altogether--counting myself--five Russian nobles in the

convict prison. I had heard of one of them even before my arrival as a

vile and base creature, horribly corrupt, doing the work of spy and

informer. Accordingly, from the very first day I refused to enter into

relations with this man. The second was the parricide of whom I have

spoken in these memoirs. The third was Akimitch. I have scarcely ever

seen such an original; and I have still a lively recollection of him.

Tall, thin, weak-minded, and terribly ignorant, he was as argumentative

and as particular about details as a German. The convicts laughed at

him; but they feared him, on account of his susceptible, excitable, and

quarrelsome disposition. As soon as he arrived, he was on a footing of

perfect equality with them. He insulted them and beat them. Phenomenally

just, it was sufficient for him that there was injustice, to interfere

in an affair which did not concern him. He was, moreover, exceedingly

simple. When he quarrelled with the convicts, he reproached them with

being thieves, and exhorted them in all sincerity to steal no more. He

had served as a sub-lieutenant in the Caucasus. I made friends with him

the first day, and he related to me his “affair.” He had begun as a

cadet in a Line regiment. After waiting some time to be appointed to his

commission as sub-lieutenant, he at last received it, and was sent into

the mountains to command a small fort. A small tributary prince in the

neighbourhood set fire to the fort, and made a night attack, which had

no success.

Akimitch was very cunning, and pretended not to know that he was the

author of the attack, which he attributed to some insurgents wandering

about the mountains. After a month he invited the prince, in a friendly

way, to come and see him. The prince arrived on horseback, without

suspecting anything. Akimitch drew up his garrison in line of battle,

and exposed to the soldiers the treason and villainy of his visitor. He

reproached him with his conduct; proved to him that to set fire to the

fort was a shameful crime; explained to him minutely the duties of a

tributary prince; and then, by way of peroration to his harangue, had

him shot. He at once informed his superior officers of this execution,

with all the details necessary. Thereupon Akimitch was brought to trial.

He appeared before a court-martial, and was condemned to death; but his

sentence was commuted, and he was sent to Siberia as a convict of the

second class--condemned, that is to say, to twelve years’ hard labour

and imprisonment in a fortress. He admitted willingly that he had acted

illegally, and that the prince ought to have been tried in a civil

court, and not by a court-martial. Nevertheless, he could not understand

that his action was a crime.

“He had burned my fort; what was I to do? Was I to thank him for it?” he

answered to my objections.

Although the convicts laughed at Akimitch, and pretended that he was a

little mad, they esteemed him all the same by reason of his cleverness

and his precision.

He knew all possible trades, and could do whatever you wished. He was

cobbler, bootmaker, painter, carver, gilder, and locksmith. He had

acquired these talents at the convict prison, for it was sufficient for

him to see an object, in order to imitate it. He sold in the town, or

caused to be sold, baskets, lanterns, and toys. Thanks to his work, he

had always some money, which he employed in buying shirts, pillows, and

so on. He had himself made a mattress, and as he slept in the same room

as myself he was very useful to me at the beginning of my imprisonment.

Before leaving prison to go to work, the convicts were drawn up in two

ranks before the orderly-room, surrounded by an escort of soldiers with

loaded muskets. An officer of Engineers then arrived, with the

superintendent of the works and a few soldiers, who watched the

operations. The superintendent counted the convicts, and sent them in

bands to the places where they were to be occupied.

I went with some other prisoners to the workshop of the Engineers--a low

brick house built in the midst of a large court-yard full of materials.

There was a forge there, and carpenters’, locksmiths’, and painters’

workshops. Akimitch was assigned to the last. He boiled the oil for the

varnish, mixed the colours, and painted tables and other pieces of

furniture in imitation walnut.

While I was waiting to have additional irons put on, I communicated to

him my first impressions.

“Yes,” he said, “they do not like nobles, above all those who have been

condemned for political offences, and they take a pleasure in wounding

their feelings. Is it not intelligible? We do not belong to them, we do

not suit them. They have all been serfs or soldiers. Tell me what

sympathy can they have for us. The life here is hard, but it is nothing

in comparison with that of the disciplinary companies in Russia. There

it is hell. The men who have been in them praise our convict prison. It

is paradise compared to their purgatory. Not that the work is harder. It

is said that with the convicts of the first class the administration--it

is not exclusively military as it is here--acts quite differently from

what it does towards us. They have their little houses there I have been

told, for I have not seen for myself. They wear no uniform, their heads

are not shaved, though, in my opinion, uniforms and shaved heads are not

bad things; it is neater, and also it is more agreeable to the eye, only

these men do not like it. Oh, what a Babel this place is! Soldiers,

Circassians, old believers, peasants who have left their wives and

families, Jews, Gypsies, people come from Heaven knows where, and all

this variety of men are to live quietly together side by side, eat from

the same dish, and sleep on the same planks. Not a moment’s liberty, no

enjoyment except in secret; they must hide their money in their boots;

and then always the convict prison at every moment--perpetually convict

prison! Involuntarily wild ideas come to one.”

As I already knew all this, I was above all anxious to question Akimitch

in regard to our Major. He concealed nothing, and the impression which

his story left upon me was far from being an agreeable one.

I had to live for two years under the authority of this officer. All

that Akimitch had told me about him was strictly true. He was a

spiteful, ill-regulated man, terrible above all things, because he

possessed almost absolute power over two hundred human beings. He looked

upon the prisoners as his personal enemies--first, and very serious

fault. His rare capacities, and, perhaps, even his good qualities, were

perverted by his intemperance and his spitefulness. He sometimes fell

like a bombshell into the barracks in the middle of the night. If he

noticed a prisoner asleep on his back or his left side, he awoke him and

said to him: “You must sleep as I ordered!” The convicts detested him

and feared him like the plague. His repulsive, crimson countenance made

every one tremble. We all knew that the Major was entirely in the hands

of his servant Fedka, and that he had nearly gone mad when his dog

“Treasure” fell ill. He preferred this dog to every other living

creature.

When Fedka told him that a convict, who had picked up some veterinary

knowledge, made wonderful cures, he sent for him directly and said to

him, “I entrust my dog to your care. If you cure ‘Treasure’ I will

reward you royally.” The man, a very intelligent Siberian peasant, was

indeed a good veterinary surgeon, but he was above all a cunning

peasant. He used to tell his comrades long after the affair had taken

place the story of his visit to the Major.

“I looked at ‘Treasure,’ he was lying down on a sofa with his head on a

white cushion. I saw at once that he had inflammation, and that he

wanted bleeding. I think I could have cured him, but I said to myself,

‘What will happen if the dog dies? It will be my fault.’ ‘No, your

noble highness,’ I said to him, ‘you have called me too late. If I had

seen your dog yesterday or the day before, he would now be restored to

health; but at the present moment I can do nothing. He will die.’ And

‘Treasure’ died.”

I was told one day that a convict had tried to kill the Major. This

prisoner had for several years been noticed for his submissive attitude

and also his silence. He was regarded even as a madman. As he possessed

some instruction he passed his nights reading the Bible. When everybody

was asleep he rose, climbed up on to the stove, lit a church taper,

opened his Gospel and began to read. He did this for an entire year.

One fine day he left the ranks and declared that he would not go to

work. He was reported to the Major, who flew into a rage, and hurried to

the barracks. The convict rushed forward and hurled at him a brick,

which he had procured beforehand; but it missed him. The prisoner was

seized, tried, and whipped--it was a matter of a few moments--carried to

the hospital, and died there three days afterwards. He declared during

his last moments that he hated no one; but that he had wished to suffer.

He belonged to no sect of fanatics. Afterwards, when people spoke of him

in the barracks, it was always with respect.

At last they put new irons on me. While they were being soldered a

number of young women, selling little white loaves, came into the forge

one after another. They were, for the most part, quite little girls who

came to sell the loaves that their mothers had baked. As they got older

they still continued to hang about us, but they no longer brought bread.

There were always some of them about. There were also married women.

Each roll cost two kopecks. Nearly all the prisoners used to have them.

I noticed a prisoner who worked as a carpenter. He was already getting

gray, but he had a ruddy, smiling complexion. He was joking with the

vendors of rolls. Before they arrived he had tied a red handkerchief

round his neck. A fat woman, much marked with the small-pox, put down

her basket on the carpenter’s table. They began to talk.

“Why did you not come yesterday?” said the convict, with a

self-satisfied smile.

“I did come; but you had gone,” replied the woman boldly.

“Yes; they made us go away, otherwise we should have met. The day before

yesterday they all came to see me.”

“Who came?”

“Why, Mariashka, Khavroshka, Tchekunda, Dougrochva” (the woman of four

kopecks).

“What,” I said to Akimitch, “is it possible that----?”

“Yes; it happens sometimes,” he replied, lowering his eyes, for he was a

very proper man.

Yes; it happened sometimes, but rarely, and with unheard of

difficulties. The convicts preferred to spend their money in drink. It

was very difficult to meet these women. It was necessary to come to an

agreement about the place, and the time; to arrange a meeting, to find

solitude, and, what was most difficult of all, to avoid the

escorts--almost an impossibility--and to spend relatively prodigious

sums. I have sometimes, however, witnessed love scenes. One day three of

us were heating a brick-kiln on the banks of the Irtitch. The soldiers

of the escort were good-natured fellows. Two “blowers” (they were

so-called) soon appeared.

“Where were you staying so long?” said a prisoner to them, who had

evidently been expecting them. “Was it at the Zvierkoffs that you were

detained?”

“At the Zvierkoffs? It will be fine weather, and the fowls will have

teeth, when I go to see them,” replied one of the women.

She was the dirtiest woman imaginable. She was called Tchekunda, and had

arrived in company with her friend, the “four kopecks,” who was beneath

all description.

“It’s a long time since we have seen anything of you,” says the gallant

to her of the four kopecks; “you seem to have grown thinner.”

“Perhaps; formerly I was good-looking and plump, whereas now one might

fancy I had swallowed eels.”

“And you still run after the soldiers, is that so?”

“All calumny on the part of wicked people; and after all, if I was to be

flogged to death for it, I like soldiers.”

“Never mind your soldiers, we’re the people to love; we have money.”

Imagine this gallant with his shaved crown, with fetters on his ankles,

dressed in a coat of two colours, and watched by an escort.

As I was now returning to the prison, my irons had been put on. I wished

Akimitch good-bye and went away, escorted by a soldier. Those who do

task work return first, and, when I got back to the barracks, a good

number of convicts were already there.

As the kitchen could not have held the whole barrack-full at once, we

did not all dine together. Those who came in first were first served. I

tasted the cabbage soup, but, not being used to it, could not eat it,

and I prepared myself some tea. I sat down at one end of the table, with

a convict of noble birth like myself. The prisoners were going in and

out. There was no want of room, for there were not many of them. Five of

them sat down apart from the large table. The cook gave them each two

ladles full of soup, and brought them a plate of fried fish. These men

were having a holiday. They looked at us in a friendly manner. One of

the Poles came in and took his seat by our side.

“I was not with you, but I know that you are having a feast,” exclaimed

a tall convict who now came in.

He was a man of about fifty years, thin and muscular. His face indicated

cunning, and, at the same time, liveliness. His lower lip, fleshy and

pendant, gave him a soft expression.

“Well, have you slept well? Why don’t you say how do you do? Well, now

my friends of Kursk,” he said, sitting down by the side of the feasters,

“good appetite? Here’s a new guest for you.”

“We are not from the province of Kursk.”

“Then my friends from Tambof, let me say?”

“We are not from Tambof either. You have nothing to claim from us; if

you want to enjoy yourself go to some rich peasant.”

“I have Maria Ikotishna [from “ikot,” hiccough] in my belly, otherwise I

should die of hunger. But where is your peasant to be found?”

“Good heavens! we mean Gazin; go to him.”

“Gazin is on the drink to-day, he’s devouring his capital.”

“He has at least twenty roubles,” says another convict. “It is

profitable to keep a drinking shop.”

“You won’t have me? Then I must eat the Government food.”

“Will you have some tea? If so, ask these noblemen for some.”

“Where do you see any noblemen? They’re noblemen no longer. They’re not

a bit better than us,” said in a sombre voice a convict who was seated

in the corner, who hitherto had not risked a word.

“I should like a cup of tea, but I am ashamed to ask for it. I have

self-respect,” said the convict with the heavy lip, looking at me with a

good-humoured air.

“I will give you some if you like,” I said. “Will you have some?”

“What do you mean--will I have some? Who would not have some?” he said,

coming towards the table.

“Only think! When he was free he ate nothing but cabbage soup and black

bread, but now he is in prison he must have tea like a perfect

gentleman,” continued the convict with the sombre air.

“Does no one here drink tea?” I asked him; but he did not think me

worthy of a reply.

“White rolls, white rolls; who’ll buy?”

A young prisoner was carrying in a net a load of calachi (scones), which

he proposed to sell in the prison. For every ten that he sold, the baker

gave him one for his trouble. It was precisely on this tenth scone that

he counted for his dinner.

“White rolls, white rolls,” he cried, as he entered the kitchen, “white

Moscow rolls, all hot. I would eat the whole of them, but I want money,

lots of money. Come, lads, there is only one left for any of you who has

had a mother.”

This appeal to filial love made every one laugh, and several of his

white rolls were purchased.

“Well,” he said, “Gazin has drunk in such a style, it is quite a sin. He

has chosen a nice moment too. If the man with the eight eyes should

arrive--we shall hide him.”

“Is he very drunk?”

“Yes, and ill-tempered too--unmanageable.”

“There will be some fighting, then?”

“Whom are they speaking of?” I said to the Pole, my neighbour.

“Of Gazin. He is a prisoner who sells spirits. When he has gained a

little money by his trade, he drinks it to the last kopeck; a cruel,

malicious animal when he has been drinking. When sober, he is quiet

enough, but when he is in drink he shows himself in his true character.

He attacks people with the knife until it is taken from him.”

“How do they manage that?”

“Ten men throw themselves upon him and beat him like a sack without

mercy until he loses consciousness. When he is half dead with the

beating, they lay him down on his plank bedstead, and cover him over

with his pelisse.”

“But they might kill him.”

“Any one else would die of it, but not he. He is excessively robust; he

is the strongest of all the convicts. His constitution is so solid, that

the day after one of these punishments he gets up perfectly sound.”

“Tell me, please,” I continued, speaking to the Pole, “why these people

keep their food to themselves, and at the same time seem to envy me my

tea.”

“Your tea has nothing to do with it. They are envious of you. Are you

not a gentleman? You in no way resemble them. They would be glad to pick

a quarrel with you in order to humiliate you. You don’t know what

annoyances you will have to undergo. It is martyrdom for men like us to

be here. Our life is doubly painful, and great strength of character can

alone accustom one to it. You will be vexed and tormented in all sorts

of ways on account of your food and your tea. Although the number of men

who buy their own food and drink tea daily is large enough, they have a

right to do so, you have not.”

He got up and left the table a few minutes later. His predictions were

already being fulfilled.