“What are you doing here?” Vassily Antonov asked loudly and rudely. He was standing further away from me than the others and until then had always addressed me formally and politely.
I looked at him in perplexity, still trying to understand what it all meant, and already guessing that something unusual was going on.
“Really, what are you doing standing here? Go back to the barrack,” said one young fellow from the military, with whom until then I had not been acquainted at all, a kind and quiet lad. “This is none of your business.”
“But they’re lining up,” I answered him. “I thought it was a roll call.”
“So he dragged himself out, too,” one man shouted.
“Iron beak!” said another.
“Fly squashers!” said a third with inexpressible contempt. This new nickname set off a general guffawing.
“They keep him in the kitchen as a favor,” yet another added.
“It’s all paradise for them. We’re at hard labor, and they eat kalachi and buy pork. Go eat your own food; don’t butt in here.”
“This is not the place for you,” said Kulikov, coming up to me casually. He took me by the arm and led me out of the ranks.
He was pale himself, his dark eyes flashed, and he was biting his lower lip. He was not waiting cool-headedly for the major. Incidentally, I was terribly fond of looking at Kulikov on occasions like this, that is, on all those occasions when he had to make a show of himself. He was a terrible poseur, but he also did his job. I think he would have gone to execution with a certain chic and jauntiness. Now, when everybody spoke rudely to me and swore at me, he redoubled his politeness to me, obviously on purpose, and at the same time his words were somehow especially, even haughtily, insistent, suffering no objection.
“We’re here on our own business, Alexander Petrovich, and you have nothing to do with it. Go away somewhere, wait it out … All your kind are in the kitchen, go there.”
“To the back of beyond, and good riddance!” somebody joined in.
Through the open kitchen window I did, in fact, make out our Poles; however, it seemed to me that there were many people there besides them. Puzzled, I went to the kitchen. Laughter, cursing, and hooting (which replaced whistling among the convicts) followed after me.
“He didn’t like it!… Hoo-hoo-hoo! Sic him!…”
Never before had I been so insulted in the prison, and at the time it was very painful for me. But I had happened upon such a moment. In the entry to the kitchen I ran into T—ski,1 a nobleman, a firm and magnanimous young man, without much education, and terribly fond of B. The convicts set him apart from all the others and even liked him somewhat. He was brave, manly, and strong, and it somehow showed in his every gesture.
“What is it, Goryanchikov?” he shouted to me. “Come here!”
“But what’s going on there?”
“They’re presenting a grievance, didn’t you know? Naturally, they won’t succeed: who’s going to believe convicts? They’ll look for the instigators, and if we’re there, naturally, they’ll heap the blame for the mutiny on us first of all. Remember what we came here for. They’ll simply get beaten, but we’ll go on trial. The major hates us all and would gladly do us in. He’ll use us to vindicate himself.”
“And the convicts will put all the blame on us,” added M—cki, as we entered the kitchen.
“There’s no fear they’ll feel sorry!” T—ski added.
Besides the noblemen, there were many other people in the kitchen, some thirty in all. They had all stayed behind, not wishing to present the grievance—some out of cowardice, others being absolutely convinced of the total uselessness of any grievance. There was also Akim Akimych, the inveterate and natural enemy of all such grievances, as interfering with the regular flow of work and good conduct. He waited silently and quite calmly for the end of the affair, not troubled in the least about the outcome, but, on the contrary, perfectly convinced of the inevitable triumph of order and the will of the authorities. There was also Isai Fomich, standing in extreme perplexity, head bent, listening greedily and fearfully to our talk. He was in great anxiety. There were all the prison’s simple Poles, who also sided with the noblemen. There were a few timid Russians, ever silent and downtrodden folk. They didn’t dare to come out with the rest, and waited sadly for how the affair would end. There were, finally, a few gloomy and perpetually stern prisoners, not timid folk. They stayed behind from the stubborn and disdainful conviction that it was all nonsense and nothing but harm would come of the affair. But it seemed to me that all the same they now felt somehow awkward, that they did not look entirely self-assured. Though they understood that they were perfectly right about the grievance, as was confirmed afterwards, all the same they were conscious of being outcasts of a sort, who had abandoned their group, as if betraying their comrades to the major. Yelkin also turned up here, that same clever little Siberian muzhik, who was sent up for false coinage and took away Kulikov’s veterinary practice. The old man from the Starodubsky settlements was also there. Decidedly all of the cooks to a man stayed in the kitchen, probably from the conviction that they also constituted part of the administration, and consequently it was improper for them to come out against it.
“However,” I began, addressing M—cki uncertainly, “except for these, almost everybody’s come out.”
“What’s that to us?” muttered B.
“We’d risk a hundred times more if we came out; and for what? Je haïs ces brigands.*2 And can you possibly think even for a moment that their grievance will get anywhere? Why poke your nose into such an absurdity?”
“Nothing will come of it,” one of the convicts, a stubborn and embittered old man, put in. Almazov, who happened to be right there, hastened to yes him in reply.
“Nothing will come of it—except they’ll give some fifty men a whipping.”
“Here comes the major!” somebody shouted, and they all eagerly rushed to the windows.
The major came flying in, angry, infuriated, red-faced, in spectacles. Silently but resolutely he approached the front line. In these cases he was indeed brave and did not lose his presence of mind. However, he was almost always half-drunk. Even his greasy visored cap with its orange band and his dirty silver epaulettes had something sinister about them. He was followed by the scribe Dyatlov, an extremely important person, essentially in charge of everything in our prison, and even having influence over the major, a clever fellow, who knew very well what he was about, but not a bad man. The prisoners were pleased with him. Following him came our sergeant, who had obviously already had time to receive a frightful roasting and was expecting ten times worse; after him came the convoy, three or four men, not more. The prisoners, who seemed to have been standing with their caps off ever since they sent for the major, now all straightened up and put themselves in order; each of them shifted from one foot to the other, after which they all froze in place, awaiting the first word, or, better, the first shout from the high authority.
It followed immediately; by the second word our major was roaring at the top of his lungs, this time even with a sort of shriek: he was already quite enraged. Through the windows we could see him running up and down the line of men, dashing about, asking questions. However, we were too far away to hear his questions or the prisoners’ replies. All we could catch were his shrieking shouts:
“Mutineers!… run the gauntlet … Instigators! You’re an instigator! You’re an instigator!” He fell upon someone.
The reply could not be heard. But after a minute we saw a prisoner separate himself and head for the guardhouse. After another minute, a second headed off behind him, then a third.
“All of you on trial! I’ll show you! Who’s there in the kitchen,” he shrieked, seeing us in the open windows. “Get them all out here! Drive them out here now!”
The scribe Dyatlov came to us in the kitchen. In the kitchen he was told that we had no grievances. He went back immediately and reported to the major.
&nb
sp; “Ah, so they haven’t!” he said two tones lower, obviously glad. “Never mind, bring them out here!”
We came out. I felt it was somehow shameful for us to come out. And indeed we all walked hanging our heads.
“Ah, Prokofiev! Yelkin, too, and that’s you, Almazov … Stand here, stand here in a group,” the major said to us in a sort of hurried but soft voice, glancing at us benignly. “M—cki, you’re here as well … Make a list, Dyatlov! Make a list right now of all the contented and discontented, all to a man, and bring me the paper. I’ll put you all … on trial! I’ll show you rogues!”
The list had its effect.
“We’re content!” one voice from the crowd of discontents called out sullenly, but somehow not very resolutely.
“Ah, you’re content! Who’s content? Whoever’s content, step forward!”
“We’re content, we’re content!” several voices joined in.
“You’re content! So you’ve been stirred up? So there were instigators, mutineers? All the worse for them!…”
“Lord, what is this?!” someone’s voice came from the crowd.
“Who’s that, who’s that who shouted, who was it?” the major bellowed, rushing to where the voice came from. “It was you who shouted, Rastorguev? To the guardhouse!”
Rastorguev, a tall, puffy-faced young fellow, stepped out and slowly headed for the guardhouse. He was not the one who had shouted, but since he had been pointed out, he did not protest.
“You’ve got too fat a life!” the major yelled after him. “Look at his bloated mug!… I’ll search you all out! Those who are content, step forward!”
“We’re content, Your Honor!” several dozen voices said gloomily; the rest remained stubbornly silent. But that was all the major needed. It was obviously most advantageous for him to finish the affair quickly and in some sort of reconciliation.
“Ah, so now you’re all content!” he said hastily. “I saw that … I knew it. It’s instigators! Obviously, there are instigators among them!” he went on, turning to Dyatlov. “This must be looked into in more detail. But now … now it’s time for work. Beat the drum!”
He was present himself for the assigning. The prisoners silently and sadly went off to work, content at least to quickly get out of his sight. But after the assigning, the major immediately visited the guardhouse and dealt with the “instigators,” though not very severely. Even hastily. One of them, it was said later, begged forgiveness, and he forgave him at once. It was clear that the major was not quite himself and maybe had even turned coward. A grievance is a ticklish thing in any case, and though the prisoners’ complaint essentially could not be called a grievance, because it had been presented not to the higher authorities, but to the major himself, all the same it was somehow not right, not good. It was especially embarrassing that they had all risen up at once. The affair had to be quashed at all costs. The “instigators” were soon released. The food improved the very next day, though not for long. For the first few days, the major started visiting the prison more often and found disorders more often. Our sergeant went around preoccupied and confused, as if he still could not get over his astonishment. As for the prisoners, they could not calm down for a long time after that, though they were not as agitated as before, but were silently anxious and somehow puzzled. Some were even downcast. Others spoke gruffly, though not loquaciously, about the whole affair. Many jeered at themselves somehow bitterly and aloud, as if punishing themselves for the grievance.
“So, brother, take that and eat it!” one would say.
“If you laugh it off, you’ll work it off!” another adds.
“Where’s the mouse that ever belled the cat?” a third remarks.
“It takes a big stick to convince our kind, that’s a known thing. Just as well he didn’t beat us all.”
“Next time know more and blab less, you’ll be better off for it!” somebody observed angrily.
“So you’re teaching us, teacher?”
“Sure I’m teaching you.”
“Who are you to pop up like this?”
“So far I’m still human, what about you?”
“A dog’s bone, that’s what you are.”
“That’s what you are.”
“All right, all right, enough of that! Stop the racket!” others shouted at the arguers from all sides …
That same evening, that is, on the same day as the grievance, on coming back from work, I met Petrov behind the barracks. He was looking for me. Coming up to me, he muttered something, some two or three vague exclamations, but soon fell absentmindedly silent and walked along mechanically beside me. This whole affair still weighed painfully on my heart, and it seemed to me that Petrov might clarify it somewhat for me.
“Tell me, Petrov,” I asked him, “aren’t your people angry with us?”
“Who’s angry?” he asked, as if coming to his senses.
“The prisoners, with us … with the noblemen?”
“Why should they be?”
“Well, because we didn’t come out for the grievance.”
“And why should you present a grievance?” he asked, as if trying to understand me. “You eat your own food.”
“Ah, my God! But some of yours eat their own food, and they still came out. We should have, too … out of comradeship.”
“But … but what kind of comrade are you for us?” he asked in perplexity.
I glanced at him quickly: he decidedly did not understand me, did not understand what I was getting at. But I understood him perfectly at that moment. For the first time now, a certain thought that had long been vaguely stirring in me and pursuing me finally became clear, and I suddenly understood something that I had realized only poorly till now. I understood that I would never be accepted as a comrade, even if I was a prisoner a thousand times over, even unto ages of ages, even in the special section. It was Petrov’s look at that moment that especially remained in my memory. In his question, “What kind of comrade are you for us?” such unfeigned naïveté, such simple-hearted perplexity, could be heard. I thought: isn’t there some sort of irony, malice, mockery in these words? Nothing of the sort: you’re simply not a comrade, that’s all. You go your way, and we go ours; you have your business, and we have ours.
And indeed I was thinking that after the grievance they would simply chew us up and make life impossible for us. Not at all: we did not hear the slightest reproach, not the slightest hint of reproach, no particular increase of malice. They simply nagged at us a little on occasion, as they had nagged at us before, and nothing more. However, they were also not angry in the least with all those who did not wish to present a grievance and remained in the kitchen, nor with those who were the first to shout that they were content with everything. Nobody even mentioned it. This last especially I could not understand.
* * *
*1 That is, offal. The prisoners mockingly call it “awful.” Author.
*2 “I hate these brigands” in French. Translator.
VIII
Comrades
I was, of course, more drawn to my own kind, that is, to the “noblemen,” especially at first. But of the three former Russian noblemen who were in our prison (Akim Akimych, the spy A—v, and the one who was considered a parricide), I only kept company and talked with Akim Akimych. I confess, I approached Akim Akimych, so to speak, out of despair, in moments of the most intense boredom, and when there was no prospect of approaching anyone else but him. In the previous chapter I was trying to sort all our people into categories, but now, as I recall Akim Akimych, I think one more category can be added. True, it was made up of him alone. It is the category of the totally indifferent convicts. The totally indifferent, that is, those to whom it was all the same whether they lived in freedom or in prison, naturally did not and could not exist among us, but Akim Akimych seems to have made the exception. He even set himself up in prison as if he intended to live there all his life: everything around him, starting with his mattress, pillows, utensils, was ar
ranged so solidly, so firmly, so durably. Of the camp-like, the temporary, no trace could be noticed in him. He still had many years of prison ahead of him, but I doubt that he ever thought of getting out. But if he was reconciled with reality, then, of course, it came not from the heart, but rather from subordination, which for him, however, were one and the same. He was a kind man and even helped me in the beginning with advice and some services; but sometimes, I regret to say, he involuntarily drove me, especially at first, into unparalleled anguish, intensifying still more my state of mind, which was already anguished without that. Yet it was out of anguish that I got to talking with him. I would be thirsting for some living word, even if bitter, even if impatient, even if angry: we could at least be angry together at our fate; but he would keep silent, glue up his little lanterns, or tell me about some review they had held in such-and-such year, and who had been the division commander, and what his first name and patronymic were, and whether he had been pleased with the review or not, and how the riflemen’s signals had been changed, and so on. And all with such a level, sedate voice, like drops of water dripping. He even showed almost no animation when he told me that, for taking part in some action in the Caucasus, he had been awarded a Saint Anne on the sword.1 Only his voice became somehow unusually imposing and solemn at that moment; he lowered it slightly, even to a sort of mysteriousness, when he uttered “Saint Anne,” and for some three minutes after he remained somehow especially silent and solemn … In that first year I had my stupid moments when (and always somehow suddenly) I would begin almost to hate Akim Akimych, without knowing why, and to silently curse my fate for having placed me head to head with him on the bunks. Usually an hour later I was already reproaching myself for it. But that was only during the first year; later on I became completely reconciled with Akim Akimych in my soul and was ashamed of my former stupidity. Outwardly, as I recall, we never quarreled.
Besides these three Russians, there were eight other noblemen in our prison during my time. With certain of them I became quite close and even took pleasure in it, but not with all. The best of them were somehow sickly, exclusive, and intolerant in the highest degree. With two of them I simply stopped speaking later on. Only three of them were educated: B—ski,2 M—cki, and old Zh—ski,3 who had formerly been a mathematics professor somewhere—a kind and good old man, a great eccentric, and it seems, despite his education, extremely narrow-minded. M—cki and B—ski were quite different. With M—cki I got on well from the first; I never quarreled with him, respected him, but could never love him or become attached to him. He was a deeply mistrustful and embittered man, but was able to control himself astonishingly well. It was this all too great ability that I disliked in him: you somehow felt that he would never open his whole soul to anyone. However, I may be mistaken. His was a strong nature and noble in the highest degree. His extreme, even somewhat Jesuitic adroitness and prudence in dealing with people betrayed his deep, hidden skepticism. And yet his was a soul suffering precisely from this duality: skepticism and a deep, unwavering belief in certain of his personal convictions and hopes. However, despite all his worldly adroitness, he was in implacable enmity with B—ski and his friend T—ski. B—ski was a sickly man, somewhat inclined to consumption, irritable and nervous, but essentially very kind and even magnanimous. His irritability sometimes reached the point of extreme intolerance and capriciousness. I could not bear his character and later on broke with B—ski, though I never ceased to love him; while with M—cki I didn’t quarrel, and yet I never loved him. Having broken with B—ski, it so happened that I had at once to break with T—ski as well, that same young man I mentioned in the previous chapter, telling about our grievance. That was a great pity for me. T—ski, though uneducated, was kind, manly—in short, a nice young man. The thing was that he loved and respected B—ski so much, revered him so much, that he considered those who fell out ever so slightly with B—ski to be almost his own enemies. Later on, it seems, he broke with M—cki, too, over B—ski, though he refrained for a long time. However, they were all morally sick, bilious, irritable, mistrustful. That was understandable: it was very hard for them, much harder than for us. They were far from their native land. Some of them were sentenced to long terms, ten or twelve years, but the main thing was that they had a deeply prejudiced view of everyone around them, saw only brutality in the convicts, and could not, even would not, see a single good feature in them, anything human, which was also quite understandable: this unfortunate point of view had been imposed on them by force of circumstances, by fate. It was clear that they were choking with anguish in prison. With the Circassians, with the Tatars, with Isai Fomich, they were gentle and affable, but they turned away from all the other convicts with loathing. Only the Starodubsky Old Believer earned their full respect. It is remarkable, however, that during all the time I spent in prison, not one of the convicts reproached them either with their origin, or with their faith, or with their way of thinking, something that can be met with in our simple folk with regard to foreigners, primarily Germans, though very rarely. However, at Germans they may only laugh; the German embodies in himself something deeply comical for the Russian people. The convicts treated our foreigners respectfully, much more so than they did us Russians, and never touched them. But it seems they never wished to notice it and take it into consideration. I began talking about T—ski. It was he who, when they were being transferred from their first place of exile to our fortress, carried B—ski in his arms almost all the rest of the way, when the man, who was of weak health and constitution, got worn out after barely half a day’s march. They had been sent first to U—gorsk.4 There, they told us, they had had it good, that is, much better than in our fortress. But they had started some sort of correspondence—completely innocent, by the way—with other exiles in another town, and for that it was found necessary to transfer the three of them to our fortress, under the closer scrutiny of our high authorities. Their third comrade was Zh—ski. Before their arrival, M—cki had been alone in the prison. How he must have pined away during his first year in exile!
Notes from a Dead House Page 33
