Notes from a Dead House

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  The Lomovs were not liked among us, I don’t know why. One of them, the nephew, was a fine fellow, intelligent and easy to get along with; but his uncle, who stabbed Gavrilka with the awl, was a stupid and cantankerous muzhik. He had quarreled with many people before then, and had been properly beaten. Everybody liked Gavrilka for his merry and easy character. Though the Lomovs knew he was a criminal and they had come there by his doing, they didn’t quarrel with him; however, they also never kept company with him; nor did he pay any attention to them. And suddenly he had a quarrel with the uncle Lomov over a certain disgusting wench. Gavrilka started boasting of her favors; the muzhik got jealous and one fine noonday stabbed him with an awl.

  Though the Lomovs had been ruined by their trial, in prison they lived like rich men. They obviously had money. They owned a samovar, drank tea. Our major knew about that and hated both Lomovs to the utmost degree. He picked on them and tried to get at them, as was obvious to everyone. The Lomovs explained it by the major’s desire to extract a bribe from them. But they gave him no bribes.

  Of course, if Lomov had stuck the awl in a little deeper, he would certainly have killed Gavrilka. But the affair ended decidedly with nothing but a scratch. It was reported to the major. I remember how he came galloping, breathless and obviously pleased. He treated Gavrilka with astonishing tenderness, just like his own son.

  “Well, my friend, can you make it to the hospital or not? No, better hitch up a horse for him. Hitch up a horse at once!” he shouted breathlessly to the sergeant.

  “But, Your Honor, I don’t feel a thing. He just pricked me a little, Your Honor.”

  “You don’t know, you don’t know, my dear fellow; you’ll see … It’s a dangerous spot; everything depends on the spot; he hit you right by the heart, the villain! And you, you,” he roared at Lomov, “now I’m going to get you!… To the guardhouse!”

  And he really did get him. Lomov was put on trial, and though the wound turned out to be just a slight prick, the intention was obvious. The criminal’s term at hard labor was extended, and he got a thousand rods. The major was quite pleased …

  Finally, the inspector arrived.

  The day after his arrival in town he came to us in the prison. It was a Sunday. Several days earlier, we already had everything scrubbed, polished, licked clean. The prisoners were freshly shaved. Their clothes were clean and white. In the summer, according to regulations, everybody wore white linen jackets and trousers. On the back of each a black circle some four inches in diameter was sewn. The prisoners spent a whole hour being taught how to respond if the exalted person happened to greet them. Rehearsals were held. The major rushed about like a madman. An hour before the general’s appearance we were all standing in our places like statues, arms at our sides. Finally, at one o’clock in the afternoon, the general came. He was an important general, so important that it seemed all the official hearts must have been fluttering all over western Siberia on account of his arrival. He entered sternly and majestically; after him a large suite of attending local officials came pouring in; a few generals, colonels. There was one civilian, a tall and handsome gentleman in a tailcoat and low boots, who also came from Petersburg and bore himself with extreme ease and independence. The general often addressed him, and highly courteously. This aroused extraordinary interest among the prisoners: a civilian, but such esteem, and that from such a general! Afterwards we found out his name and who he was, but meanwhile there were a great many rumors. Our major, laced up tight, with an orange collar, bloodshot eyes, a purple face covered with blackheads, did not seem to make an especially favorable impression on the general. Out of special respect for the exalted visitor, he had removed his glasses. He stood at a distance, drawn up to attention, his whole being expressing a feverish anticipation of the moment when he would be needed for something, so as to fly and carry out his excellency’s wishes. But he was not needed for anything. The general silently went about the barracks, looked into the kitchen, apparently tried the shchi. They pointed me out to him: So-and-so, they said, a nobleman.

  “Ah!” replied the general. “And how is he behaving himself now?”

  “Satisfactorily so far, Your Excellency,” they replied to him.

  The general nodded and two minutes later left the prison. The prisoners, of course, were bedazzled and bemused, but all the same were left in some perplexity. Any grievance against the major was, naturally, out of the question. And the major had been quite certain of it beforehand.

  VI

  Prison Animals

  The buying of Gnedko,* which took place soon afterwards, occupied and entertained the prisoners far more pleasantly than the exalted visit. We were supposed to have a horse in the prison to deliver water, take away sewage, and so on. A prisoner was appointed to look after him. He also drove him, under convoy naturally. There was quite enough work for our horse, both morning and evening. Gnedko had already served us for a very long time. He was a good horse, but a bit worn out. One fine morning, just before St. Peter’s Day,1 having delivered the evening barrel, Gnedko collapsed and died a few minutes later. We were sorry for him, everybody gathered around, talked, argued. Those among us who were former cavalrymen, Gypsies, veterinarians, and so on, even displayed on the occasion a great deal of specific knowledge in the horse line, even quarreled among themselves, but failed to resurrect Gnedko. He lay dead, with a swollen belly which everybody considered it his duty to poke with his finger; they reported to the major about God’s will being done, and he decided that a new horse should be bought at once. On St. Peter’s Day, in the morning, after the liturgy, when we were all there in full house, the horses up for sale were brought. It went without saying that the buying would be entrusted to the prisoners themselves. There were real connoisseurs among us, and to dupe two hundred and fifty men, who had previously been occupied only with that, was difficult. Kirghiz, horse traders, Gypsies, townsfolk turned up. The prisoners waited impatiently for the appearance of each new horse. They were happy as children. Most of all they were flattered that here they were, just like free men, just like they really were buying a horse for themselves, out of their own pocket, and had every right to do so. Three horses were led in and led out again, before they settled on the fourth. The entering traders looked around with some amazement and as if timidly, and even glanced now and then at the convoy soldiers who brought them in. A crowd of two hundred such people, shaven, branded, in fetters, and at home in their convicts’ nest, the threshold of which nobody ever crosses, inspired its own sort of respect. Our men outdid each other in various stratagems for testing each horse. They examined them all over, felt them everywhere, and did it with such a businesslike, serious, and preoccupied air as if the very well-being of the prison depended on it. The Circassians even leaped onto the horses’ backs; their eyes glowed, and they chattered rapidly in their incomprehensible language, baring their white teeth and nodding their swarthy, hook-nosed faces. Some of the Russians simply riveted all their attention on their debate, as if they wanted to jump into their eyes. They didn’t understand the words, so they wanted to guess by the look in their eyes what had been decided: would the horse do, or not? To an outside observer such strained attention might even seem odd. Why, you wonder, should some prisoner, and a run-of-the-mill, humble, downtrodden prisoner at that, who doesn’t dare make a peep even before his own fellow prisoners, get so especially hot and bothered here? As if he were buying a horse for himself, as if it were not all the same to him which one they bought? Besides the Circassians, the former Gypsies and horse traders distinguished themselves most: they were granted the first place and the first word. Here a sort of noble duel even took place between two of them—the prisoner Kulikov, a former Gypsy, a horse thief and trader; and a self-taught veterinarian, a cunning Siberian muzhik recently arrived in prison, who had already managed to win away all of Kulikov’s town practice. The thing was that our self-taught prison veterinarians were highly valued by the whole town, and not only tradesmen and merchant
s, but even the highest ranks turned to the prison when their horses were sick, though the town had several real veterinarians. Before the arrival of Yelkin, the Siberian muzhik, Kulikov knew no rivals, had a large practice, and, naturally, received monetary rewards. He played the Gypsy and charlatan to the hilt, and knew much less than he pretended. In terms of income, he was an aristocrat among us. By his experience, his intelligence, his courage and resolution, he had long since inspired an involuntary respect for himself in all the inmates of the prison. He was listened to and obeyed among us. But he spoke little: he spoke as if he was giving a rouble, and that only in the most important cases. He was decidedly a showoff, but there was much real, unfeigned energy in him. He was already on in years, but very handsome, very intelligent. He treated us noblemen with a sort of refined courtesy, and at the same time with extraordinary dignity. I think if he were dressed up and brought in the guise of a count to some club in the capital, he would find his bearings, play whist, speak excellently well, not much, but with great weight, and the whole evening might go by without anyone figuring out that he was not a count, but a tramp. I’m speaking seriously: so intelligent he was, sharp, and quick on the uptake. Then, too, he had the fine manners of a dandy. He must have seen all sorts of sights in his life. However, his past was shrouded in the darkness of the unknown. He lived in our special section. But with the arrival of Yelkin, who, though a muzhik, was a very cunning muzhik, some fifty years old, a schismatic, Kulikov’s veterinary fame was eclipsed. In some two months Yelkin won away almost all of his town practice. He cured, and very easily, horses that Kulikov had given up on long ago. He even cured the ones that the town veterinarians had given up on. This little muzhik came to us along with some others for false coinage. He just had to get involved, in his old age, as a partner in such doings! He told us, laughing at himself, that from three real gold pieces they only managed to produce one false one. Kulikov was somewhat offended by his veterinary successes, and his own fame among the prisoners even began to fade. He kept a mistress on the outskirts, wore a velveteen waistcoat, had a silver ring, an earring, and his own boots with trimming, and suddenly, for lack of income, he was forced to become a taverner, and therefore everybody expected that now, at the buying of the new horse, the enemies might, for all they knew, get into a fight. They all waited with curiosity. Each had his own party. The leaders of both parties were beginning to get worked up and exchanged some curses. Yelkin himself had already twisted his cunning face into a most sarcastic smile. But it turned out otherwise: Kulikov never thought of cursing, but acted masterfully without that. He began by yielding, he even listened respectfully to his rival’s critical opinions, but, catching him on one word, modestly and insistently pointed out to him that he was mistaken, and before Yelkin had time to gather his wits and defend himself, proved that he was mistaken precisely on this point and on that. In short, Yelkin was quite unexpectedly and artfully thrown off, and though he still had the upper hand, Kulikov’s party also remained pleased.

  “No, boys, you know, you won’t throw him off so quickly, he can stand up for himself!” they said.

  “Yelkin knows more!” observed the others, but somehow yieldingly. Both parties suddenly began to speak in an extremely yielding tone.

  “It’s not that he knows more, he just has a lighter hand. But Kulikov won’t be fazed when it comes to livestock.”

  “The fellow won’t be fazed!”

  “That he won’t …”

  The new Gnedko was finally chosen and bought. He was a nice little horse, young, handsome, strong, and with an extremely kind, cheerful look. Naturally, in all other respects he turned out to be irreproachable. There was some bargaining: the asking price was thirty roubles, our men offered twenty-five. They bargained hot and long, offering less, then giving way. In the end they found it funny themselves.

  “Are you taking the money from your own purse, or what?” said some. “Why this bargaining?”

  “Sparing the treasury, are you?” cried others.

  “All the same, brothers, all the same it’s the collective’s money …”

  “The collective’s! No, obviously, fools like us aren’t planted, we spring up by ourselves …”

  In the end a bargain was struck for twenty-eight roubles. It was reported to the major, and the purchase was concluded. Naturally, bread and salt were brought out at once, and the new Gnedko was led into the prison with honor. It seemed there was not a prisoner who on that occasion did not pat him on the neck or stroke his muzzle. On that same day Gnedko was harnessed to bring in water, and everybody watched with curiosity as the new Gnedko hauled his barrel. Our water carrier, Roman, kept glancing at the new horse with extraordinary self-satisfaction. He was a muzhik of about fifty, of staid and taciturn character. But then, all Russian coachmen tend to be of extremely staid and even taciturn character, as if it were indeed true that the constant handling of horses endows a man with a special staidness and even importance. Roman was quiet, gentle with everybody, unloquacious, took snuff from a pouch, and from time immemorial had always looked after the prison Gnedkos. The newly purchased one was the third. We were all convinced that a bay coat suited the prison, that it was the right color for our house. Roman maintained the same thing. Never, for instance, would we have bought a piebald. The post of water carrier was, by some right, permanently reserved for Roman, and none of us would ever have thought of disputing that right with him. When the previous Gnedko fell dead, it never entered anyone’s head, not even the major’s, to accuse Roman of anything: it was the will of God, that was all, and Roman was a good coachman. Gnedko soon became the prison favorite. The prisoners, though they were stern folk, often came to pet him. Coming back from the river, Roman used to lock the gate that the sergeant had opened for him, and Gnedko, going into the prison yard, would stand with the barrel and wait for him, looking at him sidelong. “Go by yourself!” Roman would shout to him, and Gnedko would at once go on alone, get as far as the kitchen, and stop, waiting for the cooks and the slop men with their pails to come and fetch water. “Smart boy, Gnedko!” the men would shout to him. “Brought it by himself!… Does what he’s told.”

  “It’s really so: a brute, but he understands!”

  “Good boy, Gnedko!”

  Gnedko shakes his head and snorts, as if he really does understand and is pleased to be praised. And somebody inevitably brings out bread and salt for him. Gnedko eats and again nods his head, as if to say: “I know you, I do! I’m a nice horse, and you’re a good man!”

  I also liked to give Gnedko bread. It was somehow pleasant to look at his pretty muzzle and feel his soft, warm lips on my palm as they promptly picked up the offering.

  Generally, our prisoners were capable of loving animals, and if they had been allowed to, they would eagerly have raised lots of domestic livestock and birds in prison. And what, it seems, could have softened and ennobled the stern, brutal character of the prisoners more, for instance, than such an occupation? But it was not allowed. Neither our regulations nor the place permitted it.

  During my time, however, chance brought several animals to our prison. Besides Gnedko, we had dogs, geese, the billy goat Vaska, and for a while an eagle also lived with us.

  In the quality of permanent prison dog, as I have already said before, we had Sharik, an intelligent and kind dog, with whom I was permanent friends. But since among simple folk dogs are generally considered unclean animals to whom no attention should be paid, almost nobody among us paid any attention to Sharik. The dog just lived there, slept in the yard, ate kitchen scraps, and aroused no special interest in anybody, though he knew everybody and considered everybody in the prison his master. When the prisoners returned from work and he heard the shout “Corporal!” by the guardhouse, he ran to the gate, affectionately greeted each party, wagging his tail and affably trying to catch the eye of each man who came through the gate, waiting for at least some affection. But in the course of many years, he got no affection from anyone except me.
Because of that, he loved me most of all. I don’t remember how it was that another dog, Belka, later turned up in the prison. A third, Kultyapka, I myself brought back from work one day, still a puppy. Belka was a strange creature. She had been run over by a cart, and her back was curved inwards, so that when she ran, it looked from a distance as if two white animals grown together were running. Besides, she was all mangy, with festering eyes; her tail was bare, almost without fur, and permanently tucked between her legs. Insulted by fate, she had obviously decided to submit. She never barked or growled at anybody, as if she didn’t dare. She lived mostly behind the barracks, in hopes of food; if she happened to see one of us, she would immediately roll over on her back, while still some steps away, in a sign of submission, as if to say: “Do what you like with me, you can see I have no thought of resisting.” And each prisoner she rolled over in front of would kick her with his boot, as if he considered it his unfailing duty: “Take that, you creep!” he would say. But Belka didn’t even dare to yelp, and if the pain really got to her, she would produce a muted, plaintive yowl. She rolled over in the same way in front of Sharik and in front of any other dog, when she went outside the prison on business of her own. She would roll over and lie there submissively when some big, lop-eared dog came rushing at her roaring and barking. But dogs like submissiveness and obedience in their own kind. The fierce dog would immediately calm down, pause somewhat pensively over the obedient dog lying legs up in front of him, and slowly, with great curiosity, begin to sniff all parts of her body. What could the trembling Belka have been thinking at that moment? “Is the robber going to tear me apart?” probably went through her head. But, having sniffed her over attentively, the dog would finally abandon her, finding nothing of particular interest in her. Belka would jump up at once and again go hobbling behind the long line of dogs accompanying some Zhuchka or other. And though she knew for certain that she would never become closely acquainted with Zhuchka, this hobbling along at a distance was still a comfort to her in her misfortunes. She had obviously stopped thinking about honor. Having lost any future career, she lived only for the sake of food and was fully aware of it. I once tried to pet her; this was so new and unexpected for her that she suddenly sank to the ground on all four paws, trembled all over, and began to squeal loudly from tender feeling. I patted her often out of pity. She couldn’t see me without squealing. She would catch sight of me and squeal, squeal painfully and tearfully. It ended with her being torn to pieces by other dogs on the rampart behind the prison.