This Zh—ski was that same eternally prayerful old man I have already mentioned. Our political prisoners were all young men, some even very young; only Zh—ski was already fifty and then some. He was, of course, an honest man, but somewhat strange. His comrades B—ski and T—ski disliked him very much, even did not speak to him, saying that he was stubborn and quarrelsome. I don’t know how right they were in this case. In prison, as in any place where people bunch together not of their own free will but by force, they are more likely to quarrel and even to hate each other than in freedom. Many circumstances contribute to that. However, Zh—ski was indeed a rather obtuse and perhaps even unpleasant man. None of his other comrades got along with him either. Though I never quarreled with him, I was not particularly close to him. His subject, mathematics, he did seem to know. I remember he kept trying to explain to me in his half-Russian tongue some special astronomical system he had invented. I was told that he had published it at one time, but the whole learned world had only laughed at him. It seems to me that he was somewhat deranged. He spent whole days on his knees praying to God, which earned him the general respect of the whole prison, and which he enjoyed until the day of his death. He died in our hospital after a serious illness, before my eyes. However, the convicts respected him from his first steps in the prison, after his episode with our major. On the road from U—gorsk to our fortress they hadn’t shaved, and their beards had grown, so that when they were brought straight to the major, he became furiously indignant at this breach of subordination, for which, however, they were not to blame.
“Just look at them!” he bellowed. “Like tramps, robbers!”
Zh—ski, who had a poor understanding of Russian then and thought they were being asked whether they were tramps or robbers, replied:
“We are not tramps, we are political criminals.”
“Wha-a-at?! Insolence? That’s insolence!” the major bellowed. “To the guardhouse! A hundred lashes, right now, this minute!”
The old man was punished. He lay down unprotestingly under the lashes, bit his hand, and endured the punishment without the slightest cry or moan, not stirring. Meanwhile B—ski and T—ski had gone into the prison, where M—cki was already waiting for them by the gate and threw himself on their necks, though he had never seen them before. Shaken by the major’s reception, they told him all about Zh—ski. I remember M—cki telling me about it: “I was beside myself,” he said. “I didn’t know what was happening to me, and was trembling as if in a fever. I waited for Zh—ski by the gate.” He was supposed to come straight from the guardhouse, where they punished him. Suddenly the door opened: Zh—ski, not looking at anybody, with a pale face and pale, trembling lips, passed through the convicts gathered in the yard, who had already learned that a nobleman was being punished,5 went into the barrack, straight to his place, and, not saying a word, knelt down and began praying to God. The convicts were struck and even moved. “When I saw that gray-haired old man,” said M—cki, “who had left his wife and children behind in his native land, when I saw him on his knees praying, after being shamefully punished—I rushed behind the barracks and for a whole two hours was as if oblivious; I was beside myself …” The convicts began to respect Zh—ski greatly after that and always treated him deferentially. They especially liked it that he had not cried out under the lashes.
But the whole truth needs to be told: it is by no means possible to judge by this example the way the authorities in Siberia treated exiles from the nobility, whoever those exiles might be, Russians or Poles … This example only shows that you could run into a bad man, and, of course, if that bad man was an independent and senior commander somewhere, then the exile’s lot, if by chance this bad commander took a particular dislike to him, would be very uncertain. But it is impossible not to admit that the highest authorities in Siberia, upon whom the tone and disposition of all the other commanders depend, are very scrupulous with regard to exiled noblemen, and in some cases even try to grant them indulgence, in comparison with the rest of the prisoners, those from the people. The reasons for that are clear: these highest authorities, first of all, are noblemen themselves; second, it has happened before that certain noblemen have refused to lie down under the lashes and have attacked the executioners, which has led to horrors; and third, and, it seems to me, most important, a long time back, some thirty-five years ago, a large group of exiled noblemen appeared in Siberia suddenly, all at once, and those exiles, in the course of thirty years, had managed to establish and prove themselves so well all over Siberia, that in my time the authorities, by long-standing, inherited habit, willy-nilly looked upon noble criminals of a certain category with different eyes than upon all other exiles.6 Following the highest authorities, the lower commanders also habitually looked with the same eyes, taking this view and tone from above, obeying it, submitting to it. However, many of these lower commanders viewed things stupidly, privately criticized the orders from above, and would have been only too glad if they could have ordered things their own way without interference. But that was not entirely allowed them. I have firm grounds for thinking so, and here is why. The second category of penal servitude, to which I belonged and which consisted of prisoners held under military authority, was incomparably harder than the other two categories, that is, the third (in the mills), and the first (in the mines). It was harder not only for the noblemen, but for all the prisoners, precisely because both the authorities and the structure of this category were military, very much like the penal companies in Russia. Military authorities are more strict, the rules are tighter, you’re always in chains, always under convoy, always under lock and key: and that does not hold so much for the other two categories. So at least said all our prisoners, and there were some connoisseurs among them. They would all gladly have gone to the first category, considered the hardest by the law, and they even dreamed of it many times. Of the penal companies in Russia, all of our people who had been there spoke with horror and insisted that there was no place harder than the penal companies in Russian fortresses, and that Siberia was paradise compared with life there. Consequently, if in such strict detention as in our prison, in the presence of military authorities, before the eyes of the governor-general himself, and, finally, in view of those occasions (which sometimes occurred) when certain semi-official outsiders, from malice or zeal for service, secretly informed the proper quarters that such-and-such disloyal commanders were showing leniency towards such-and-such category of criminals—if in those quarters, I say, noble criminals were viewed with somewhat different eyes than other convicts, how much more leniently must they have been viewed in the first and third categories. Consequently, from the prison I was in, it seems to me that I can judge in this respect about the whole of Siberia. All the rumors and stories that reached me on this score from exiles of the first and third categories confirmed my conclusion. Indeed, the authorities in our prison kept an attentive and wary eye on all of us noblemen. There was decidedly no indulgence towards us with regard to work and keeping: the same work, the same fetters, the same locks, in short, everything the same as for all the prisoners. And there was no way to lighten it. I know that in that town, in that recent long-past time,7 there were so many informers, so many intrigues, so much undermining of each other, that the authorities were naturally afraid of denunciations. And at that time what more terrible denunciation could there be than that the authorities were granting indulgence to a certain category of criminals! Thus, they were all afraid, and we lived in the same way as all the convicts, but with respect to bodily punishment there were certain exceptions. True, we would be flogged quite handily if we deserved it, that is, if we trespassed in some way. That was demanded by the duty of service and equality in the face of corporal punishment. But all the same they would not flog us just like that, for nothing, casually, while with simple prisoners that sort of casual treatment, naturally, did take place, especially under certain subaltern commanders and enthusiasts for giving orders and reprimands on any convenien
t occasion. It was known to us that the commandant, on learning about the incident with old Zh—ski, was very indignant and told the major to keep himself on a shorter tether in the future. So everyone told me. It was also known among us that the governor-general himself, who trusted our major and rather liked him as an efficient and more or less capable man, on learning of this incident, also reprimanded him. And our major took that into consideration. How he would have liked, for instance, to get at M—cki, whom he hated owing to A—v’s slander, but he never could flog him, though he sought pretexts, persecuted him, and lay in wait for him. Soon the whole town knew about the incident with Zh—ski, and public opinion was against the major; many reprimanded him, some even with unpleasantness. I remember now my first encounter with the major. We, that is, myself and another exile from the nobility who had entered prison with me, had already been frightened in Tobolsk by stories of the man’s unpleasant character. At that time there were old-timers there, noblemen who had spent twenty-five years in exile, who met us with deep sympathy and stayed in touch with us all the while we were in the transit prison, warned us against our future commander, and promised to do all they could, through people they knew, to protect us from his persecution. In fact, the governor-general’s three daughters, who had come from Russia and were visiting their father at that time, received letters from them and, it seems, spoke in our favor to him. But what could he do? He merely told the major to be a bit more discriminating. It was past two in the afternoon when we, that is, my comrade and I, arrived in this town, and the convoy led us straight to our lord and master. We stood in the anteroom waiting for him. Meanwhile the prison sergeant had already been sent for. As soon as he appeared, the major also came out. His purple, malicious, and blackhead-covered face had an extremely depressing effect on us: like a malicious spider pouncing on a poor fly caught in its web.
“What’s your name?” he asked my comrade. He spoke quickly, sharply, abruptly, and obviously wanted to make an impression on us.
“So-and-so.”
“Yours?” he went on, turning to me and fixing me with his spectacles.
“So-and-so.”
“Sergeant! To prison with them at once; give them a civilian shave in the guardhouse, immediately, half the head; fetters to be redone tomorrow. What are these overcoats? Where did you get them?” he asked suddenly, turning his attention to the gray coats with yellow circles on the back issued to us in Tobolsk, in which we had appeared before his serene countenance. “It’s a new uniform! It must be some sort of new uniform … Still in the planning stage … from Petersburg …,” he said, turning us around, first one, then the other. “Nothing with them?” he suddenly asked our convoy gendarme.
“Their own clothes, sir,” the gendarme replied, somehow instantly snapping to attention, even with a slight start. Everybody knew him, had heard about him, was afraid of him.
“Take it all away. Leave them only the underwear, if it’s white, but if it’s colored, take it away. The rest will all be sold at auction. The money set down as general income. A prisoner has no private property,” he went on, looking at us sternly. “See that you behave yourselves! That I hear nothing! Or else.… cor-por-al pun-ish-ment! For the slightest misstep—the bir-r-rches!…”
Being unused to such a reception, I was almost ill all that evening. However, the impression was intensified by what I saw in the prison; but of my entry into the prison I have told already.
I mentioned just now that no one granted us or dared to grant us any indulgence, any lightening of the workload compared with other prisoners. Once, though, an attempt was made: for a whole three months, B—ski and I went to work as clerks in the engineering office. But that was done hush-hush, and done by the engineering officers. That is, all the others who needed to know, most likely did know, but made it look as if they didn’t. This took place under the commander G—kov. Lieutenant Colonel G—kov fell on us as if from heaven, spent a very short time with us—no more than six months, if I’m not mistaken, or even less than that—and went back to Russia, having made an extraordinary impression on all the prisoners. He was not so much loved by the prisoners as adored by them, if it is possible to use that word here. How he did it I don’t know, but he won them over from the first. “A father! A father! Better than a real one!” the prisoners kept saying all the while he managed the engineering section. It seems he was a terrible carouser. Small of stature, with a bold, self-assured gaze. But along with that, he was affectionate with the prisoners, all but tender, and indeed literally loved them like a father. Why he loved the prisoners so much I cannot say, but he could not see a prisoner without saying some affectionate, cheerful word to him, without laughing with him, joking with him, and, above all—there was not a drop of anything official in it, nothing to suggest any inequality or purely official benevolence. He was our comrade, our own man in the highest degree. But, despite all his instinctive democratism, the prisoners never once made the misstep of being disrespectful or familiar with him. On the contrary. A prisoner would simply beam all over when he met the commander and, taking off his hat, would watch smiling as the man approached him. And if he began to speak, it was like being given a rouble. There really are such popular people. He was a fine fellow to look at, with a straight, dashing stride. “An eagle!” the prisoners used to say of him. He could not, of course, make things easier for them; he was only in charge of the engineering works, which, as under all the other commanders, followed their own habitual, pre-established, lawful course. Except that, chancing upon a party at the works, and seeing that the job was done, he would not hold them for the extra time and would let them go before the drum. But what was likeable in him was his trust in the prisoners, the absence of petty touchiness and irritability, the complete absence of other insulting forms in official relations. If he had lost a thousand roubles and the foremost of our thieves had found them, I think he would have returned them to him. Yes, I’m sure of it. With what deep sympathy the prisoners learned that their eagle-commander had quarreled mortally with our hated major. This happened in the first month after his arrival. Our major had once served with him. They met as friends after many years and began carousing together. But something suddenly snapped between them. They quarreled, and G—kov became his mortal enemy. There was even a rumor that they fought on this occasion, which could happen with our major: he often fought. When the prisoners heard that, their joy was boundless. “Eight-eyes can’t get along with such a man! He’s an eagle, and our major’s a …” and here they usually put in an unprintable word. We were all terribly interested in who had beaten whom. If the rumor of their fight had turned out to be false (which it might have been), I believe our prisoners would have been very upset. “No, the commander must have won,” they said. “He’s small but spunky, and they say the other one hid from him under the bed.” But G—kov soon left, and the prisoners fell into dejection again. True, our engineer commanders were all good to us: in my time there were three or four, “but they don’t make them all like that one,” the prisoners said. “He was an eagle, an eagle and a defender.” So this G—kov loved us noblemen very much, and towards the end he told B—ski and me to come to the office sometimes. After his departure, that was established in a more regular fashion. Among the engineers there were people (one especially) who sympathized very much with us. We went, copied papers, our handwriting even began to improve, when an order suddenly came from the higher authorities that we were to return immediately to our former work: someone had managed to denounce us! However, it was a good thing: we were both getting quite sick of the office. After that, for some two years B—ski and I went almost inseparably to the same jobs, most often to the workshops. We chattered away, talked of our hopes, our convictions. He was a nice man; but his convictions were sometimes very strange, exceptional. Often in a certain category of very intelligent people, completely paradoxical notions sometimes establish themselves. But they have suffered so much for them, have paid so dear a price for them, that to
tear themselves away from them is too painful, almost impossible. B—ski took every objection with pain and responded to me caustically. However, in many things maybe he was more right than I was, I don’t know; but we finally parted ways, and that was very painful for me: we had shared much together.
Notes from a Dead House Page 34
