Sometimes I would fix my sight for a long while upon the poor smoky cabin of some baigouch,; I would study the bluish smoke as it curled in the air, the Kirghiz woman busy with her two sheep. . . . The things I saw were wild, savage, poverty-stricken; but they were free. I would follow the flight of a bird threading its way in the pure transparent air; now it skims the water, now disappears in the azure sky, now suddenly comes to view again, a mere point in space. Even the poor wee floweret fading in a cleft of the bank, which would show itself when spring began, fixed my attention and would draw my tears. . . . The melancholy of this first year of convict life and hard labour was unendurable, too much for my strength. The anguish of it was so great, I could not notice my immediate surroundings at all; I merely shut my eyes and would not see. Among the creatures with spoiled lives with whom I had to live, I did not yet note those who were capable of thinking and feeling, in spite of their external repulsiveness. There came not to my ears (or if there did I knew it not) one word of kindliness in the midst of the rain of poisonous talk that came, down all the time. Still one such utterance there was, simple, straightforward, of pure motive, and it came from the heart of a man who had suffered and endured more than myself. But it is useless to enlarge on this.
The great fatigue I underwent was a source of satisfaction, it gave me hope of sound sleep. During the summer sleep was torment, more intolerable than the closeness and infection winter brought with it. Some of the nights were certainly very beautiful. The sun, which had not ceased to inundate the courtyard all the day, hid itself at last. The air freshened, and the night, the night of the steppe, became comparatively cold. The convicts, until shut up in their barracks, walked about in groups, especially on the kitchen side; for that was the place where questions of general interest were by preference discussed, and comments were made upon the rumours from without, often absurd indeed, but always keenly exciting to these men cut off from the world. For example, we suddenly learn that our Major had been roughly dismissed from his post. Convicts are as credulous as children; they know the news to be false, or most unlikely, and that the fellow who brings it is a past master in the art of lying, Kvassoff; for all that they clutch at the nonsensical story, go into high delight over it, are much consoled, and at last quite ashamed to have been duped by a Kvassoff.
"I should like to know who'll show him the door?" cries one convict; "don't you fear, he's a fellow who knows how to stick on."
"But," says another, "he has his superiors over him." This one is a warm controversialist, and has seen the world.
"Wolves don't feed on one another," says a third gloomily, half to himself. This one is an old fellow, growing gray, and he always takes his sour cabbage soup into a corner, and eats it there.
"Do you think his superiors will take your advice whether they shall show him the door or not?" adds a fourth, who doesn't seem to care about it at all, giving a stroke to his balalaika.
"Well, why not?" replies the second angrily; "if you are asked, answer what's in your mind. But no, with us fellows it's all mere cry, and when you ought to go at things with a will, everybody sneaks out."
"That's so!" says the one playing with the balalaika. "Hard labour and prison are just the things to cause that."
"It was like that the other day," says the second one, without hearing the remark made to him. "There was a little wheat left, sweepings, a mere nothing; there was some idea of turning the refuse into money; well, look here, they took it to him, and he confiscated it. All economy, you see. Was that so, and was it right--yes or no?"
"But whom can you complain to?"
"To whom? Why, the 'spector (Inspector) who's coming."
"What 'spector?"
"It's true, pals, a 'spector is coming soon," said a youthful convict, who had got some sort of knowledge, had read the "Duchesse de la Valliere," or some book of that sort, and who had been Quartermaster in a regiment; a bit of a wag, whom, as a man of information, the convicts held in a sort of respect. Without paying the least attention to the exciting debate, he goes straight to the cook, and asks him for some liver. Our cooks often deal in victuals of that kind; they used to buy a whole liver, cut it in pieces, and sell it to the other convicts.
"Two kopecks' worth, or four?" asks cook.
"A four-kopeck cut; I'll eat, the others shall look on and long," says this convict. "Yes, pals, a general, a real general, is coming from Petersburg to 'spect all Siberia; it's so, heard it at the Governor's place."
This news produces an extraordinary effect. For a quarter of an hour they ask each other who this General can be? what's his title? whether his grade is higher than that of the Generals of our town? The convicts delight in discussing ranks and degrees, in finding out who's at the head of things, who can make the other officials crook their backs, and to whom he crooks his own; so they get up an argument and quarrel about their Generals, and rude words fly about, all in honour of these high officers--fights, too, sometimes. What interest can they possibly have in it? When one hears convicts speaking of Generals and high officials one gets a measure of their intelligence as they were while still in the world before the prison days. It cannot be concealed that among our people, even in much higher circles, talk about generals and high officials is looked upon as the most serious and refined conversation.
"Well, you see, they have sent our Major to the right about, don't ye?" observes Kvassoff, a little, rubicund, choleric, small-brained fellow, the same who had announced the supersession of the Major.
"We'll just grease their palm for them," this, in staccato tones from the morose old fellow in the corner who had finished his sour cabbage soup.
"I should think he would grease their palms, by Jove," says another; "he has stolen money enough, the brigand. And, only think, he was only a regimental Major before he came here. He's feathered his nest. Why, a little while ago he was engaged to the head priest's daughter."
"But he didn't get married; they turned him off, and that shows he's poor. A pretty sort of fellow to get engaged! He's got nothing but the coat on his back; last year, Easter time, he lost all he had at cards. Fedka told me so."
"Well, well, pals, I've been married myself, but it's a bad thing for a poor devil; taking a wife is soon done, but the fun of it is more like an inch than a mile," observes Skouratoff, who had just joined in the general talk.
"Do you fancy we're going to amuse ourselves by discussing you?" says the ex-quartermaster in a superior manner. "Kvassoff, I tell you you're a big idiot If you fancy that the Major can grease the palm of an Inspector-General you've got things finely muddled; d'ye fancy they send a man from Petersburg just to inspect your Major? You're a precious dolt, my lad; take it from me that it is so."
"And you fancy because he's a General he doesn't take what's offered?" said some one in the crowd in a sceptical tone.
"I should think he did indeed, and plenty of it whenever he can."
"A dead sure thing that; gets bigger, and more, and worse, the higher the rank."
"A General always has his palm greased," says Kvassoff, sententiously.
"Did you ever give them money, as you're so sure of it?" asks Baklouchin, suddenly striking in, in a tone of contempt; "come, now, did you ever see a General in all your life?"
"Yes."
"Liar!"
"Liar, yourself!"
"Well, boys, as he has seen a General, let him say which. Come, quick about it; I know 'em all, every man jack."
"I've seen General Zibert," says Kvassoff in tones far from sure.
"Zibert! There's no General of that name. That's the General, perhaps, who was looking at your back when they gave you the cat. This Zibert was, perhaps, a Lieutenant-Colonel; but you were in such a fright just then, you took him for a General."
"No! Just hear me," cries Skouratoff, "for I've got a wife. There was really a General of that name, a German, but a Russian subject. He confessed to the Pope, every year, all about his peccadilloes with gay women, and drank water like
a duck, at least forty glasses of Moskva water one after the other; that was the way he got cured of some disease. I had it from his valet."
"I say! And the carp didn't swim in his belly?" this from the convict with the balalaika.
"Be quiet, fellows, can't you--one's talking seriously, and there they are beginning their nonsense again. Who's the 'spector that's coming?" This was put by a convict who always seemed full of business, Martinof, an old man who had been in the Hussars.
"Set of lying fellows!" said one of the doubters. "Lord knows where they get it all from; it's all empty talk."
"It's nothing of the sort," observes Koulikoff, majestically silent hitherto, in dogmatic tones. "The man coming is big and fat, about fifty years, with regular features, and proud, contemptuous manners, on which he prides himself."
Koulikoff is a Tsigan, a sort of veterinary surgeon, makes money by treating horses in town, and sells wine in our prison. He's no fool, plenty of brain, memory well stocked, lets his words fall as carefully as if every one of 'em was worth a rouble.
"It's true," he went on very calmly, "I heard of it only last week; it's a General with bigger epaulettes than most, and he's going to inspect all Siberia. They grease his palm well for him, that's sure enough; but not our Major with his eight eyes in his head. He won't dare to creep in about him, for you see, pals, there are Generals and Generals, as there are fagots and fagots. It's just this, and you may take it from me, our Major will remain where he is. We're fellows with no tongue, we've no right to speak; and as to our chiefs here, they're not going to say a word against him. The 'Spector will come into our jail, give a look round, and go of at once; he'll say it was all right."
"Yes, but the Major's in a fright; he's been drunk since morning."
"And this evening he had two van-loads of things taken away; Fedka says so."
"You may scrub a nigger, he'll never be white. Is it the first time you've seen him drunk, hey? "
"No! It will be a devil of a shame if the General does nothing to him," said the convicts, who began to get highly excited.
The news of the arrival of the Inspector went through the prison. The prisoners went everywhere about the courtyard retailing the important fact. Some held their tongues and kept cool, trying to look important; some were really indifferent to it. Some of the convicts sat down on the steps of the doors to play the balalaika, while some went on with their gossip. Some groups were singing in a drawling voice, but the whole courtyard was upset and excited generally.
About nine o'clock they counted us, and quartered us in our barracks, which were closed for the night. A short summer night it was, so we were roused up at five o'clock in the morning, yet nobody had managed to sleep before eleven, for up to that hour there was conversation and all sort of movement was going on; sometimes, too, games of cards were made up, as in winter. The heat was intolerable, stifling. True, the open window let in some of the cool night air, but the convicts kept tossing themselves on their wooden beds as if delirious.
Fleas countless. There were enough of them in winter; but when spring came they multiplied in proportions so formidable that I couldn't believe it before I had to endure them. And as the summer went on the worse it was with them. I found out that one could get used to fleas; but for all that, the torment of them is so great that it throws you into a fever; even when you get slumber you quite feel it is not sleep, you are half delirious, and know it.
At last, towards morning, when the enemy is tired and you are deliciously asleep in the freshness of the early hours, suddenly sounds the pitiless morning drum-call. How you curse as you hear them, those sharp, quick strokes; you cower in your semi-pelisse, and then--you can't help it--comes the thought that it will be so tomorrow, the day after, for many, many years, till you are set at liberty. When will it come, this freedom, freedom? Where is it in this world? Where is it hiding? You have to get up, they are walking about you in all directions. The usual noisy row begins. The convicts dress, and hurry to their work. It's true you have an hour you can spend in sleep at noon.
What we had been told about the Inspector was really true. The reports were more confirmed every day; and at last it became certain that a General, high in office, was coming from Petersburg to inspect all Siberia, that he was already at Tobolsk. Every day we learned something fresh about it. These rumours came from the town. They told us that there was alarm in all quarters, and that everybody was making preparations to show himself in as favourable a light as might be. The authorities were organising receptions, balls, fetes of every kind. Gangs of convicts were sent to level the ways in the fortress, smooth away hummocks in the ground, paint the palings and other wood-work, to plaster, do up, and generally repair everything that was conspicuous.
Our prisoners perfectly well understood the object of this labour, and their discussions became all the more animated and excited. Their imaginations passed all bounds. They even set about formulating some demands to be set before the General on his arrival, but that did not prevent their going on with their quarrels and violent speeches. Our Major was on hot coals. He came continually to visit the jail, shouted, and threw himself angrily on the fellows more than usual, sent them to the guard-room and punishment for a mere nothing, and watched very severely over the cleanliness and good order of the barracks. Just then, there occurred a little event which did not at all painfully affect this officer as one might have expected, but, on the contrary, caused him a lively satisfaction. One of the convicts struck another with an awl right in the chest, in a place quite near the heart.
The delinquent's name was Lomof; the name the victim was known by in the jail was Gavrilka. He was one of those seasoned tramps I've spoken about earlier. Whether he had any other name, I don't know; I never heard any attributed to him, except that one, Gavrilka.
Lomof had been a peasant comfortably off in the Government of T--, and district of K--. There were five of them living together, two brothers Lomof, and three sons. They were quite rich peasants; the talk throughout the district was that they had more than 300,000 roubles in paper money. They worked at currying and tanning; but their chief business was usury, harbouring tramps, and receiving stolen goods; all sorts of petty irregular doings. Half the peasants of their district owed them money, and so were in their clutches. They passed for being intelligent and full of cunning, and gave themselves very great airs. A great personage of their province had stopped on his way once at the father Lomof's house, and this official had taken a, fancy to him, because of his hardy and unscrupulous talk. Then they took it in their heads they might do exactly as they pleased, and mixed themselves up more and more with illegal doings. Everybody had a grievance against them, and would like to have seen them a hundred feet under the ground; but they got bolder and bolder every day. They were not afraid of the local police or the district tribunals.
At last fortune betrayed them; their ruin came, not out of their secret crimes, but from an accusation which was all calumny and falsehood. Ten versts from their hamlet they had a farm where six Kirghiz labourers, long since brought down by them to be no better than slaves, used to pass the autumn. One fine day these Kirghiz were found murdered. An inquiry was set on foot that lasted long, thanks to which no end of atrocious things were brought to light. The Lomofs were accused of having assassinated their workmen. They had themselves told their story to the convicts, all the jail knew it perfectly; they were suspected of owing a great deal of money to the Kirghiz, and, as they were full of greed and avarice in spite of their large fortunes, it was believed they had paid the debt by taking the lives of the poor fellows. While the inquiry and trial went on, their property melted away utterly. The father died, the sons were transported; one of these, with the uncle, was condemned to fifteen years of hard labour.
Now, they were perfectly innocent of the crime imputed to them. One fine day Gavrilka, a thoroughpaced rascal, known as a tramp, but of very gay and lively turn, avowed himself the author of the crime. As a matter of fact I don't kn
ow whether he actually made this avowal himself, but what is sure is that the convicts held him to be the murderer of the Kirghiz.
This Gavrilka, while still tramping about, had been mixed up in some way with the Lomofs (his confinement in one jail was for quite a short sentence, for desertion from the army and tramping). He had cut the throats of the Kirghiz--three other marauding fellows had been in it with him--in the hope of setting themselves up a bit with the plunder of the farm.
The Lomofs were no favourites with us, I really don't know why. One of them, the nephew, was a sturdy fellow, intelligent and sociable; but his uncle, the one that struck Gavrilka with the awl, was a choleric, stupid rustic, always quarrelling with the convicts, who knocked him about like plaster. All the jail liked Gavrilka for his gaiety and good-humour. The Lomofs got to know, like the rest, that he was the man who committed the crime they were condemned for; but they never got into any quarrel with him. Gavrilka paid no attention whatever to them.
The row with Uncle Lomof began about some disgusting girl they had quarrelled over. Gavrilka had boasted of the favour she had shown him. The peasant, mad with jealousy, ended by driving an awl into his chest.
Although the Lomofs had been ruined by their trial and sentence, they passed in the jail for being very rich. They had money, a samovar, and drank tea. Our Major knew all about it, and hated the two Lomofs, sparing them no vexation. The victims of his hate explained it by a desire to have them grease his palm well, but they could not, or would not, bring themselves to do it.
If Uncle Lomof had struck his awl one hair's breadth further in Gavrilka's breast he would certainly have killed him; as it was, the wound did not much signify. The affair was reported to the Major. I think I see him now as he came up out of breath, but with visible satisfaction. He addressed Gavrilka in an affable, fatherly way:
The House of the Dead (Dover Thrift Editions) Page 27
