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Title: The house of the dead
or, Prison life in Siberia

Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Author of introduction, etc.: Julius Bramont

Release date: September 25, 2011 [eBook #37536]
Most recently updated: June 19, 2023

Language: English

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THE DEAD ***

EVERYMAN’S LIBRARY
EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS

FICTION

THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD
BY
FEDOR DOSTOÏEFFSKY
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY JULIUS BRAMONT

First Issue of this Edition 1911
Reprinted 1914

INTRODUCTION
“The Russian nation is a new and wonderful phenomenon in the history of
mankind. The character of the people differs to such a degree from that of
the other Europeans that their neighbours find it impossible to diagnose
them.” This affirmation by Dostoïeffsky, the prophetic journalist, offers a
key to the treatment in his novels of the troubles and aspirations of his race.
He wrote with a sacramental fervour whether he was writing as a personal
agent or an impersonal, novelist or journalist. Hence his rage with the
calmer men, more gracious interpreters of the modern Sclav, who like Ivan
Tourguenieff were able to see Russia on a line with the western nations, or
to consider her maternal throes from the disengaged, safe retreat of an arm-
chair exile in Paris. Not so was l’âme Russe to be given her new literature
in the eyes of M. Dostoïeffsky, strained with watching, often red with tears
and anger.
Those other nations, he said—proudly looking for the symptoms of the
world-intelligence in his own—those other nations of Europe may maintain
that they have at heart a common aim and a common ideal. In fact they are
divided among themselves by a thousand interests, territorial or other. Each
pulls his own way with ever-growing determination. It would seem that
every individual nation aspires to the discovery of the universal ideal for
humanity, and is bent on attaining that ideal by force of its own unaided
strength. Hence, he argued, each European nation is an enemy to its own
welfare and that of the world in general.
To this very disassociation he attributed, without quite understanding the
rest of us, our not understanding the Russian people, and our taxing them
with “a lack of personality.” We failed to perceive their rare synthetic power
—that faculty of the Russian mind to read the aspirations of the whole of
human kind. Among his own folk, he avowed, we would find none of the
imperviousness, the intolerance, of the average European. The Russian
adapts himself with ease to the play of contemporary thought and has no
difficulty in assimilating any new idea. He sees where it will help his
fellow-creatures and where it fails to be of value. He divines the process by

which ideas, even the most divergent, the most hostile to one another, may
meet and blend.
Possibly, recognising this, M. Dostoïeffsky was the more concerned not to
be too far depolarised, or say de-Russified, in his own works of fiction. But
in truth he had no need to fear any weakening of his natural fibre and racial
proclivities, or of the authentic utterance wrung out of him by the hard and
cruel thongs of experience. We see the rigorous sincerity of his record again
in the sheer autobiography contained in the present work, The House of the
Dead. It was in the fatal winter of 1849 when he was with many others,
mostly very young men like himself, sentenced to death for his liberal
political propaganda; a sentence which was at the last moment commuted to
imprisonment in the Siberian prisons. Out of that terror, which turned youth
grey, was distilled the terrible reality of The House of the Dead. If one
would truly fathom how deep that reality is, and what its phenomenon in
literature amounts to, one should turn again to that favourite idyllic book of
youth, by my countrywoman Mme. Cottin, Elizabeth, or the Exiles of
Siberia, and compare, for example, the typical scene of Elizabeth’s sleep in
the wooden chapel in the snow, where she ought to have been frozen to
death but fared very comfortably, with the Siberian actuality of
Dostoïeffsky.
But he was no idyllist, though he could be tender as Mme. Cottin herself.
What he felt about these things you can tell from his stories. If a more
explicit statement in the theoretic side be asked of him, take this plain
avowal from his confession books of 1870-77:—
“There is no denying that the people are morally ill, with a grave, although
not a mortal, malady, one to which it is difficult to assign a name. May we
call it ‘An unsatisfied thirst for truth’? The people are seeking eagerly and
untiringly for truth and for the ways that lead to it, but hitherto they have
failed in their search. After the liberation of the serfs, this great longing for
truth appeared among the people—for truth perfect and entire, and with it
the resurrection of civic life. There was a clamouring for a ‘new Gospel’;
new ideas and feelings became manifest; and a great hope rose up among
the people believing that these great changes were precursors of a state of
things which never came to pass.”

There is the accent of his hope and his despair. Let it prove to you the
conviction with which he wrote these tragic pages, one that is affecting at
this moment the destiny of Russia and the spirit of us who watch her as
profoundly moved spectators.
JULIUS BRAMONT.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
(Dostoïeffsky’s works, so far as they have appeared in English.)

Translations of Dostoïeffsky’s novels have appeared as follows:—
Buried Alive; or, Ten Years of Penal Servitude in Siberia, translated by
Marie v. Thilo, 1881. In Vizetelly’s One Volume Novels: Crime and
Punishment, vol. 13; Injury and Insult, translated by F. Whishaw, vol.
17; The Friend of the Family and the Gambler, etc., vol. 22. In
Vizetelly’s Russian Novels: The Idiot, by F. Whishaw, 1887; Uncle’s
Dream; and, The Permanent Husband, etc., 1888. Prison Life in
Siberia, translated by H. S. Edwards, 1888; Poor Folk, translated by L.
Milman, 1894.
See D. S. Merezhkovsky, Tolstoi as Man and Artist, with Essay on
Dostoïeffsky, translated from the Russian, 1902; M. Baring,
Landmarks in Russian Literature (chapter on Dostoïeffsky), 1910.

CONTENTS
PART I

CHAP. PAGE
I. Ten Years a Convict 1
II. The Dead-House 7
III. First Impressions 24
IV. First Impressions (continued) 43
V. First Impressions (continued) 61
VI. The First Month 80
VII. The First Month (continued) 95
VIII. New Acquaintances—Petroff 110
IX. Men of Determination—Luka 125
X. Isaiah Fomitch—The Bath—Baklouchin 133
XI. The Christmas Holidays 152
XII. The Performance 171

PART II

I. The Hospital 194
II. The Hospital (continued) 209
III. The Hospital (continued) 225
IV. The Husband of Akoulka 248
V. The Summer Season 264
VI. The Animals at the Convict Establishment 286
VII. Grievances 302
VIII. My Companions 325
IX. The Escape 344
X. Freedom! 363

PRISON LIFE IN SIBERIA.

PART I.

CHAPTER I. TEN YEARS A CONVICT

In the midst of the steppes, of the mountains, of the impenetrable forests of
the desert regions of Siberia, one meets from time to time with little towns
of a thousand or two inhabitants, built entirely of wood, very ugly, with two
churches—one in the centre of the town, the other in the cemetery—in a
word, towns which bear much more resemblance to a good-sized village in
the suburbs of Moscow than to a town properly so called. In most cases
they are abundantly provided with police-master, assessors, and other
inferior officials. If it is cold in Siberia, the great advantages of the
Government service compensate for it. The inhabitants are simple people,
without liberal ideas. Their manners are antique, solid, and unchanged by
time. The officials who form, and with reason, the nobility in Siberia, either
belong to the country, deeply-rooted Siberians, or they have arrived there
from Russia. The latter come straight from the capitals, tempted by the high
pay, the extra allowance for travelling expenses, and by hopes not less
seductive for the future. Those who know how to resolve the problem of life
remain almost always in Siberia; the abundant and richly-flavoured fruit
which they gather there recompenses them amply for what they lose.
As for the others, light-minded persons who are unable to deal with the
problem, they are soon bored in Siberia, and ask themselves with regret
why they committed the folly of coming. They impatiently kill the three
years which they are obliged by rule to remain, and as soon as their time is
up, they beg to be sent back, and return to their original quarters, running
down Siberia, and ridiculing it. They are wrong, for it is a happy country,
not only as regards the Government service, but also from many other
points of view.

The climate is excellent, the merchants are rich and hospitable, the
Europeans in easy circumstances are numerous; as for the young girls, they
are like roses and their morality is irreproachable. Game is to be found in
the streets, and throws itself upon the sportsman’s gun. People drink
champagne in prodigious quantities. The caviare is astonishingly good and
most abundant. In a word, it is a blessed land, out of which it is only
necessary to be able to make profit; and much profit is really made.
It is in one of these little towns—gay and perfectly satisfied with
themselves, the population of which has left upon me the most agreeable
impression—that I met an exile, Alexander Petrovitch Goriantchikoff,
formerly a landed proprietor in Russia. He had been condemned to hard
labour of the second class for assassinating his wife. After undergoing his
punishment—ten years of hard labour—he lived quietly and unnoticed as a
colonist in the little town of K——. To tell the truth, he was inscribed in
one of the surrounding districts; but he resided at K——, where he
managed to get a living by giving lessons to children. In the towns of
Siberia one often meets with exiles who are occupied with instruction. They
are not looked down upon, for they teach the French language, so necessary
in life, and of which without them one would not, in the distant parts of
Siberia, have the least idea.
I saw Alexander Petrovitch the first time at the house of an official, Ivan
Ivanitch Gvosdikof, a venerable old man, very hospitable, and the father of
five daughters, of whom the greatest hopes were entertained. Four times a
week Alexander Petrovitch gave them lessons, at the rate of thirty kopecks
silver a lesson. His external appearance interested me. He was excessively
pale and thin, still young—about thirty-five years of age—short and weak,
always very neatly dressed in the European style. When you spoke to him
he looked at you in a very attentive manner, listening to your words with
strict politeness, and with a reflective air, as though you had placed before
him a problem or wished to extract from him a secret. He replied clearly
and shortly; but in doing so, weighed each word, so that one felt ill at ease
without knowing why, and was glad when the conversation came to an end.
I put some questions to Ivan Gvosdikof in regard to him. He told me that
Goriantchikoff was of irreproachable morals, otherwise Gvosdikof would
not have entrusted him with the education of his children; but that he was a
terrible misanthrope, who kept apart from all society; that he was very

learned, a great reader, and that he spoke but little, and never entered freely
into a conversation. Certain persons told him that he was mad; but that was
not looked upon as a very serious defect. Accordingly, the most important
persons in the town were ready to treat Alexander Petrovitch with respect,
for he could be useful to them in writing petitions. It was believed that he
was well connected in Russia. Perhaps, among his relations, there were
some who were highly placed; but it was known that since his exile he had
broken off all relations with them. In a word—he injured himself. Every
one knew his story, and was aware that he had killed his wife, through
jealousy, less than a year after his marriage; and that he had given himself
up to justice; which had made his punishment much less severe. Such
crimes are always looked upon as misfortunes, which must be treated with
pity. Nevertheless, this original kept himself obstinately apart, and never
showed himself except to give lessons. In the first instance I paid no
attention to him; then, without knowing why, I found myself interested by
him. He was rather enigmatic; to talk with him was quite impossible.
Certainly he replied to all my questions; he seemed to make it a duty to do
so; but when once he had answered, I was afraid to interrogate him any
longer.
After such conversations one could observe on his countenance signs of
suffering and exhaustion. I remember that, one fine summer evening, I went
out with him from the house of Ivan Gvosdikof. It suddenly occurred to me
to invite him to come in with me and smoke a cigarette. I can scarcely
describe the fright which showed itself in his countenance. He became
confused, muttered incoherent words, and suddenly, after looking at me
with an angry air, took to flight in an opposite direction. I was very much
astonished afterwards, when he met me. He seemed to experience, on
seeing me, a sort of terror; but I did not lose courage. There was something
in him which attracted me.
A month afterwards I went to see Petrovitch without any pretext. It is
evident that, in doing so, I behaved foolishly, and without the least delicacy.
He lived at one of the extreme points of the town with an old woman whose
daughter was in a consumption. The latter had a little child about ten years
old, very pretty and very lively.

When I went in Alexander Petrovitch was seated by her side, and was
teaching her to read. When he saw me he became confused, as if I had
detected him in a crime. Losing all self-command, he suddenly stood up
and looked at me with awe and astonishment. Then we both of us sat down.
He followed attentively all my looks, as if I had suspected him of some
mysterious intention. I understood he was horribly mistrustful. He looked at
me as a sort of spy, and he seemed to be on the point of saying, “Are you
not soon going away?”
I spoke to him of our little town, of the news of the day, but he was silent,
or smiled with an air of displeasure. I could see that he was absolutely
ignorant of all that was taking place in the town, and that he was in no way
curious to know. I spoke to him afterwards of the country generally, and of
its men. He listened to me still in silence, fixing his eyes upon me in such a
strange way that I became ashamed of what I was doing. I was very nearly
offending him by offering him some books and newspapers which I had just
received by post. He cast a greedy look upon them; he then seemed to alter
his mind, and declined my offer, giving his want of leisure as a pretext.
At last I wished him good-bye, and I felt a weight fall from my shoulders as
I left the house. I regretted to have harassed a man whose tastes kept him
apart from the rest of the world. But the fault had been committed. I had
remarked that he possessed very few books. It was not true, then, that he
read so much. Nevertheless, on two occasions when I drove past, I saw a
light in his lodging. What could make him sit up so late? Was he writing,
and if that were so, what was he writing?
I was absent from our town for about three months. When I returned home
in the winter, I learned that Petrovitch was dead, and that he had not even
sent for a doctor. He was even now already forgotten, and his lodging was
unoccupied. I at once made the acquaintance of his landlady, in the hope of
learning from her what her lodger had been writing. For twenty kopecks she
brought me a basket full of papers left by the defunct, and confessed to me
that she had already employed four sheets in lighting her fire. She was a
morose and taciturn old woman. I could not get from her anything that was
interesting. She could tell me nothing about her lodger. She gave me to
understand all the same that he scarcely ever worked, and that he remained
for months together without opening a book or touching a pen. On the other

hand, he walked all night up and down his room, given up to his reflections.
Sometimes, indeed, he spoke aloud. He was very fond of her little
grandchild, Katia, above all when he knew her name; on her name’s-day—
the day of St. Catherine—he always had a requiem said in the church for
some one’s soul. He detested receiving visits, and never went out except to
give lessons. Even his landlady he looked upon with an unfriendly eye
when, once a week, she came into his room to put it in order.
During the three years he had passed with her, he had scarcely ever spoken
to her. I asked Katia if she remembered him. She looked at me in silence,
and turned weeping to the wall. This man, then, was loved by some one! I
took away the papers, and passed the day in examining them. They were for
the most part of no importance, merely children’s exercises. At last I came
to a rather thick packet, the sheets of which were covered with delicate
handwriting, which abruptly ceased. It had perhaps been forgotten by the
writer. It was the narrative—incoherent and fragmentary—of the ten years
Alexander Petrovitch had passed in hard labour. This narrative was
interrupted, here and there, either by anecdotes, or by strange, terrible
recollections thrown in convulsively as if torn from the writer. I read some
of these fragments again and again, and I began to doubt whether they had
not been written in moments of madness; but these memories of the convict
prison—“Recollections of the Dead-House,” as he himself called them
somewhere in his manuscript—seemed to me not without interest. They
revealed quite a new world unknown till then; and in the strangeness of his
facts, together with his singular remarks on this fallen people, there was
enough to tempt me to go on. I may perhaps be wrong, but I will publish
some chapters from this narrative, and the public shall judge for itself.

CHAPTER II. THE DEAD-HOUSE

Our prison was at the end of the citadel behind the ramparts. Looking
through the crevices between the palisade in the hope of seeing something,
one sees nothing but a little corner of the sky, and a high earthwork,
covered with the long grass of the steppe. Night and day sentries walk to
and fro upon it. Then one perceives from the first, that whole years will pass

during which one will see by the same crevices between the palisades, upon
the same earthwork, always the same sentinels and the same little corner of
the sky, not just above the prison, but far and far away. Represent to
yourself a court-yard, two hundred feet long, and one hundred and fifty feet
broad, enclosed by an irregular hexagonal palisade, formed of stakes thrust
deep into the earth. So much for the external surroundings of the prison. On
one side of the palisade is a great gate, solid, and always shut; watched
perpetually by the sentinels, and never opened, except when the convicts go
out to work. Beyond this, there are light and liberty, the life of free people!
Beyond the palisade, one thought of the marvellous world, fantastic as a
fairy tale. It was not the same on our side. Here, there was no resemblance
to anything. Habits, customs, laws, were all precisely fixed. It was the
house of living death. It is this corner that I undertake to describe.
On penetrating into the enclosure one sees a few buildings. On each side of
a vast court are stretched forth two wooden constructions, made of trunks of
trees, and only one storey high. These are convicts’ barracks. Here the
prisoners are confined, divided into several classes. At the end of the
enclosure may be seen a house, which serves as a kitchen, divided into two
compartments. Behind it is another building, which serves at once as cellar,
loft, and barn. The centre of the enclosure, completely barren, is a large
open space. Here the prisoners are drawn up in ranks, three times a day.
They are identified, and must answer to their names, morning, noon, and
evening, besides several times in the course of the day if the soldiers on
guard are suspicious and clever at counting. All around, between the
palisades and the buildings there remains a sufficiently large space, where
some of the prisoners who are misanthropes, or of a sombre turn of mind,
like to walk about when they are not at work. There they go turning over
their favourite thoughts, shielded from all observation.
When I met them during those walks of theirs, I took pleasure in observing
their sad, deeply-marked countenances, and in guessing their thoughts. The
favourite occupation of one of the convicts, during the moments of liberty
left to him from his hard labour, was to count the palisades. There were
fifteen hundred of them. He had counted them all, and knew them nearly by
heart. Every one of them represented to him a day of confinement; but,
counting them daily in this manner, he knew exactly the number of days
that he had still to pass in the prison. He was sincerely happy when he had

finished one side of the hexagon; yet he had to wait for his liberation many
long years. But one learns patience in a prison.
One day I saw a prisoner, who had undergone his punishment, take leave of
his comrades. He had had twenty years’ hard labour. More than one convict
remembered seeing him arrive, quite young, careless, thinking neither of his
crime nor of his punishment. He was now an old man with gray hairs, with
a sad and morose countenance. He walked in silence through our six
barracks. When he entered each of them he prayed before the holy image,
made a deep bow to his former companions, and begged them not to keep a
bad recollection of him.
I also remember one evening, a prisoner, who had been formerly a well-to-
do Siberian peasant, so called. Six years before he had had news of his
wife’s remarrying, which had caused him great pain. That very evening she
had come to the prison, and had asked for him in order to make him a
present! They talked together for two minutes, wept together, and then
separated never to meet again. I saw the expression of this prisoner’s
countenance when he re-entered the barracks. There, indeed, one learns to
support everything.
When darkness set in we had to re-enter the barrack, where we were shut up
for all the night. It was always painful for me to leave the court-yard for the
barrack. Think of a long, low, stifling room, scarcely lighted by tallow
candles, and full of heavy and disgusting odours. I cannot now understand
how I lived there for ten entire years. My camp bedstead was made of three
boards. This was the only place in the room that belonged to me. In one
single room we herded together, more than thirty men. It was, above all, no
wonder that we were shut up early. Four hours at least passed before every
one was asleep, and, until then, there was a tumult and uproar of laughter,
oaths, rattling of chains, a poisonous vapour of thick smoke; a confusion of
shaved heads, stigmatised foreheads, and ragged clothes disgustingly filthy.
Yes, man is a pliable animal—he must be so defined—a being who gets
accustomed to everything! That would be, perhaps, the best definition that
could be given of him. There were altogether two hundred and fifty of us in
the same prison. This number was almost invariably the same. Whenever
some of them had undergone their punishment, other criminals arrived, and

a few of them died. Among them there were all sorts of people. I believe
that each region of Russia had furnished its representatives. There were
foreigners there, and even mountaineers from the Caucasus.
All these people were divided into different classes, according to the
importance of the crime; and consequently the duration of the punishment
for the crime, whatever it might be, was there represented. The population
of the prison was composed for the most part of men condemned to hard
labour of the civil class—“strongly condemned,” as the prisoners used to
say. They were criminals deprived of all civil rights, men rejected by
society, vomited forth by it, and whose faces were marked by the iron to
testify eternally to their disgrace. They were incarcerated for different
periods of time, varying from eight to ten years. At the expiration of their
punishment they were sent to the Siberian districts in the character of
colonists.
As to the criminals of the military section, they were not deprived of their
civil rights—as is generally the case in Russian disciplinary companies—
but were punished for a relatively short period. As soon as they had
undergone their punishment they had to return to the place whence they had
come, and became soldiers in the battalions of the Siberian Line.[1]
Many of them came back to us afterwards, for serious crimes, this time not
for a small number of years, but for twenty at least. They then formed part
of the section called “for perpetuity.” Nevertheless, the perpetuals were not
deprived of their right. There was another section sufficiently numerous,
composed of the worst malefactors, nearly all veterans in crime, and which
was called the special section. There were sent convicts from all the
Russias. They looked upon one another with reason as imprisoned for ever,
for the term of their confinement had not been indicated. The law required
them to receive double and treble tasks. They remained in prison until work
of the most painful character had to be undertaken in Siberia.
“You are only here for a fixed time,” they said to the other convicts; “we, on
the contrary, are here for all our life.”
I have heard that this section has since been abolished. At the same time,
civil convicts are kept apart, in order that the military convicts may be
organised by themselves into a homogeneous “disciplinary company.” The

administration, too, has naturally been changed; consequently what I
describe are the customs and practices of another time, and of things which
have since been abolished. Yes, it was a long time ago; it seems to me that it
is all a dream. I remember entering the convict prison one December
evening, as night was falling. The convicts were returning from work. The
roll-call was about to be made. An under officer with large moustaches
opened to me the gate of this strange house, where I was to remain so many
years, to endure so many emotions, and of which I could not form even an
approximate idea, if I had not gone through them. Thus, for example, could
I ever have imagined the poignant and terrible suffering of never being
alone even for one minute during ten years? Working under escort in the
barracks together with two hundred “companions;” never alone, never!
However, I was obliged to get accustomed to it. Among them there were
murderers by imprudence, and murderers by profession, simple thieves,
masters in the art of finding money in the pockets of the passers-by, or of
wiping off no matter what from the table. It would have been difficult,
however, to say why and how certain prisoners found themselves among the
convicts. Each of them had his history, confused and heavy, painful as the
morning after a debauch.
The convicts, as a rule, spoke very little of their past life, which they did not
like to think of. They endeavoured, even, to dismiss it from their memory.
Amongst my companions of the chain I have known murderers who were
so gay and so free from care, that one might have made a bet that their
conscience never made them the least reproach. But there were also men of
sombre countenance who remained almost always silent. It was very rarely
any one told his history. This sort of thing was not the fashion. Let us say at
once that it was not received. Sometimes, however, from time to time, for
the sake of change, a prisoner used to tell his life to another prisoner, who
would listen coldly to the narrative. No one, to tell the truth, could have said
anything to astonish his neighbour. “We are not ignoramuses,” they would
sometimes say with singular pride.
I remember one day a ruffian who had got drunk—it was sometimes
possible for the convicts to get drink—relating how he had killed and cut up
a child of five. He had first tempted the child with a plaything, and then

taking it to a loft, had cut it up to pieces. The entire barrack, which,
generally speaking, laughed at his jokes, uttered one unanimous cry. The
ruffian was obliged to be silent. But if the convicts had interrupted him, it
was not by any means because his recital had caused their indignation, but
because it was not allowed to speak of such things.
I must here observe that the convicts possessed a certain degree of
instruction. Half of them, if not more, knew how to read and write. Where
in Russia, in no matter what population, could two hundred and fifty men
be found able to read and write? Later on I have heard people say, and
conclude on the strength of these abuses, that education demoralises the
people. This is a mistake. Education has nothing whatever to do with moral
deterioration. It must be admitted, nevertheless, that it develops a resolute
spirit among the people. But this is far from being a defect.
Each section had a different costume. The uniform of one was a cloth vest,
half brown and half gray, and trousers with one leg brown, the other gray.
One day while we were at work, a little girl who sold scones of white bread
came towards the convicts. She looked at them for a time and then burst
into a laugh. “Oh, how ugly they are!” she cried; “they have not even
enough gray cloth or brown cloth to make their clothes.” Every convict
wore a vest made of gray cloth, except the sleeves, which were brown.
Their heads, too, were shaved in different styles. The crown was bared
sometimes longitudinally, sometimes latitudinally, from the nape of the
neck to the forehead, or from one ear to another.
This strange family had a general likeness so pronounced that it could be
recognised at a glance.
Even the most striking personalities, those who dominated involuntarily the
other convicts, could not help taking the general tone of the house.
Of the convicts—with the exception of a few who enjoyed childish gaiety,
and who by that alone drew upon themselves general contempt—all the
convicts were morose, envious, frightfully vain, presumptuous, susceptible,
and excessively ceremonious. To be astonished at nothing was in their eyes
the first and indispensable quality. Accordingly, their first aim was to bear
themselves with dignity. But often the most composed demeanour gave way
with the rapidity of lightning. With the basest humility some, however,

possessed genuine strength; these were naturally all sincere. But strangely
enough, they were for the most part excessively and morbidly vain. Vanity
was always their salient quality.
The majority of the prisoners were depraved and perverted, so that
calumnies and scandal rained amongst them like hail. Our life was a
constant hell, a perpetual damnation; but no one would have dared to raise a
voice against the internal regulations of the prison, or against established
usages. Accordingly, willingly or unwillingly, they had to be submitted to.
Certain indomitable characters yielded with difficulty, but they yielded all
the same. Prisoners who when at liberty had gone beyond all measure, who,
urged by their over-excited vanity, had committed frightful crimes
unconsciously, as if in a delirium, and had been the terror of entire towns,
were put down in a very short time by the system of our prison. The “new
man,” when he began to reconnoitre, soon found that he could astonish no
one, and insensibly he submitted, took the general tone, and assumed a sort
of personal dignity which almost every convict maintained, just as if the
denomination of convict had been a title of honour. Not the least sign of
shame or of repentance, but a kind of external submission which seemed to
have been reasoned out as the line of conduct to be pursued. “We are lost
men,” they said to themselves. “We were unable to live in liberty; we must
now go to Green Street.”[2]
“You would not obey your father and mother; you will now obey thongs of
leather.” “The man who would not sow must now break stones.”
These things were said, and repeated in the way of morality, as sentences
and proverbs, but without any one taking them seriously. They were but
words in the air. There was not one man among them who admitted his
iniquity. Let a stranger not a convict endeavour to reproach him with his
crime, and the insults directed against him would be endless. And how
refined are convicts in the matter of insults! They insult delicately, like
artists; insult with the most delicate science. They endeavour not so much to
offend by the expression as by the meaning, the spirit of an envenomed
phrase. Their incessant quarrels developed greatly this special art.
As they only worked under the threat of an immense stick, they were idle
and depraved. Those who were not already corrupt when they arrived at the

convict establishment, became perverted very soon. Brought together in
spite of themselves, they were perfect strangers to one another. “The devil
has worn out three pairs of sandals before he got us together,” they would
say. Intrigues, calumnies, scandal of all kinds, envy, and hatred reigned
above everything else. In this life of sloth, no ordinary spiteful tongue could
make head against these murderers, with insults constantly in their mouths.
As I said before, there were found among them men of open character,
resolute, intrepid, accustomed to self-command. These were held
involuntarily in esteem. Although they were very jealous of their reputation,
they endeavoured to annoy no one, and never insulted one another without a
motive. Their conduct was on all points full of dignity. They were rational,
and almost always obedient, not by principle, or from any respect for duty,
but as if in virtue of a mutual convention between themselves and the
administration—a convention of which the advantages were plain enough.
The officials, moreover, behaved prudently towards them. I remember that
one prisoner of the resolute and intrepid class, known to possess the
instincts of a wild beast, was summoned one day to be whipped. It was
during the summer, no work was being done. The Adjutant, the direct and
immediate chief of the convict prison, was in the orderly-room, by the side
of the principal entrance, ready to assist at the punishment. This Major was
a fatal being for the prisoners, whom he had brought to such a state that
they trembled before him. Severe to the point of insanity, “he threw himself
upon them,” to use their expression. But it was above all that his look, as
penetrating as that of a lynx, was feared. It was impossible to conceal
anything from him. He saw, so to say, without looking. On entering the
prison, he knew at once what was being done. Accordingly, the convicts,
one and all, called him the man with the eight eyes. His system was bad, for
it had the effect of irritating men who were already irascible. But for the
Commandant, a well-bred and reasonable man, who moderated the savage
onslaughts of the Major, the latter would have caused sad misfortunes by
his bad administration. I do not understand how he managed to retire from
the service safe and sound. It is true that he left after being called before a
court-martial.
The prisoner turned pale when he was called; generally speaking, he lay
down courageously, and without uttering a word, to receive the terrible

rods, after which he got up and shook himself. He bore the misfortune
calmly, philosophically, it is true, though he was never punished carelessly,
nor without all sorts of precautions. But this time he considered himself
innocent. He turned pale, and as he walked quietly towards the escort of
soldiers he managed to conceal in his sleeve a shoemaker’s awl. The
prisoners were severely forbidden to carry sharp instruments about them.
Examinations were frequently, minutely, and unexpectedly made, and all
infractions of the rule were severely punished. But as it is difficult to take
away from the criminal what he is determined to conceal, and as, moreover,
sharp instruments are necessarily used in the prison, they were never
destroyed. If the official succeeded in taking them away from the convicts,
the latter procured new ones very soon.
On the occasion in question, all the convicts had now thrown themselves
against the palisade, with palpitating hearts, to look through the crevices. It
was known that this time Petroff would not allow himself to be flogged, that
the end of the Major had come. But at the critical moment the latter got into
his carriage, and went away, leaving the direction of the punishment to a
subaltern. “God has saved him!” said the convicts. As for Petroff, he
underwent his punishment quietly. Once the Major had gone, his anger fell.
The prisoner is submissive and obedient to a certain point, but there is a
limit which must not be crossed. Nothing is more curious than these strange
outbursts of disobedience and rage. Often a man who has supported for
many years the most cruel punishment, will revolt for a trifle, for nothing at
all. He might pass for a madman; that, in fact, is what is said of him.
I have already said that during many years I never remarked the least sign
of repentance, not even the slightest uneasiness with regard to the crime
committed; and that most of the convicts considered neither honour nor
conscience, holding that they had a right to act as they thought fit. Certainly
vanity, evil examples, deceitfulness, and false shame were responsible for
much. On the other hand, who can claim to have sounded the depths of
these hearts, given over to perdition, and to have found them closed to all
light? It would seem all the same that during so many years I ought to have
been able to notice some indication, even the most fugitive, of some regret,
some moral suffering. I positively saw nothing of the kind. With ready-
made opinions one cannot judge of crime. Its philosophy is a little more
complicated than people think. It is acknowledged that neither convict

prisons, nor the hulks, nor any system of hard labour ever cured a criminal.
These forms of chastisement only punish him and reassure society against
the offences he might commit. Confinement, regulation, and excessive work
have no effect but to develop with these men profound hatred, a thirst for
forbidden enjoyment, and frightful recalcitrations. On the other hand I am
convinced that the celebrated cellular system gives results which are
specious and deceitful. It deprives a criminal of his force, of his energy,
enervates his soul by weakening and frightening it, and at last exhibits a
dried up mummy as a model of repentance and amendment.
The criminal who has revolted against society, hates it, and considers
himself in the right; society was wrong, not he. Has he not, moreover,
undergone his punishment? Accordingly he is absolved, acquitted in his
own eyes. In spite of different opinions, every one will acknowledge that
there are crimes which everywhere, always, under no matter what
legislation, are beyond discussion crimes, and should be regarded as such as
long as man is man. It is only at the convict prison that I have heard related,
with a childish, unrestrained laugh, the strangest, most atrocious offences. I
shall never forget a certain parricide, formerly a nobleman and a public
functionary. He had given great grief to his father—a true prodigal son. The
old man endeavoured in vain to restrain him by remonstrance on the fatal
slope down which he was sliding. As he was loaded with debts, and his
father was suspected of having, besides an estate, a sum of ready money, he
killed him in order to enter more quickly into his inheritance. This crime
was not discovered until a month afterwards. During all this time the
murderer, who meanwhile had informed the police of his father’s
disappearance, continued his debauches. At last, during his absence, the
police discovered the old man’s corpse in a drain. The gray head was
severed from the trunk, but replaced in its original position. The body was
entirely dressed. Beneath, as if by derision, the assassin had placed a
cushion.
The young man confessed nothing. He was degraded, deprived of his
nobiliary privileges, and condemned to twenty years’ hard labour. As long
as I knew him I always found him to be careless of his position. He was the
most light-minded, inconsiderate man that I ever met, although he was far
from being a fool. I never observed in him any great tendency to cruelty.
The other convicts despised him, not on account of his crime, of which

there was never any question, but because he was without dignity. He
sometimes spoke of his father. One day for instance, boasting of the
hereditary good health of his family, he said: “My father, for example, until
his death was never ill.”
Animal insensibility carried to such a point is most remarkable—it is,
indeed, phenomenal. There must have been in this case an organic defect in
the man, some physical and moral monstrosity unknown hitherto to science,
and not simply crime. I naturally did not believe in so atrocious a crime; but
people of the same town as himself, who knew all the details of his history,
related it to me. The facts were so clear that it would have been madness not
to accept them. The prisoners once heard him cry out during his sleep:
“Hold him! hold him! Cut his head off, his head, his head!”
Nearly all the convicts dreamed aloud, or were delirious in their sleep.
Insults, words of slang, knives, hatchets, seemed constantly present in their
dreams. “We are crushed!” they would say; “we are without entrails; that is
why we shriek in the night.”
Hard labour in our fortress was not an occupation, but an obligation. The
prisoners accomplished their task, they worked the number of hours fixed
by the law, and then returned to the prison. They hated their liberty. If the
convict did not do some work on his own account voluntarily, it would be
impossible for him to support his confinement. How could these persons, all
strongly constituted, who had lived sumptuously, and desired so to live
again, who had been brought together against their will, after society had
cast them up—how could they live in a normal and natural manner? Man
cannot exist without work, without legal, natural property. Depart from
these conditions, and he becomes perverted and changed into a wild beast.
Accordingly, every convict, through natural requirements and by the
instinct of self-preservation, had a trade—an occupation of some kind.
The long days of summer were taken up almost entirely by our hard labour.
The night was so short that we had only just time to sleep. It was not the
same in winter. According to the regulations, the prisoners had to be shut up
in the barracks at nightfall. What was to be done during these long, sad
evenings but work? Consequently each barrack, though locked and bolted,
assumed the appearance of a large workshop. The work was not, it is true,

strictly forbidden, but it was forbidden to have tools, without which work is
evidently impossible. But we laboured in secret, and the administration
seemed to shut its eyes. Many prisoners arrived without knowing how to
make use of their ten fingers; but they learnt a trade from some of their
companions, and became excellent workmen.
We had among us cobblers, bootmakers, tailors, masons, locksmiths, and
gilders. A Jew named Esau Boumstein was at the same time a jeweller and a
usurer. Every one worked, and thus gained a few pence—for many orders
came from the town. Money is a tangible resonant liberty, inestimable for a
man entirely deprived of true liberty. If he feels some money in his pocket,
he consoles himself a little, even though he cannot spend it—but one can
always and everywhere spend money, the more so as forbidden fruit is
doubly sweet. One can often buy spirits in the convict prison. Although
pipes are severely forbidden, every one smokes. Money and tobacco save
the convicts from the scurvy, as work saves them from crime—for without
work they would mutually have destroyed one another like spiders shut up
in a close bottle. Work and money were all the same forbidden. Often
during the night severe examinations were made, during which everything
that was not legally authorised was confiscated. However successfully the
little hoards had been concealed, they were sometimes discovered. That was
one of the reasons why they were not kept very long. They were exchanged
as soon as possible for drink, which explains how it happened that spirits
penetrated into the convict prison. The delinquent was not only deprived of
his hoard, but was also cruelly flogged.
A short time after each examination the convicts procured again the objects
which had been confiscated, and everything went on as before. The
administration knew it; and although the condition of the convicts was a
good deal like that of the inhabitants of Vesuvius, they never murmured at
the punishment inflicted for these peccadilloes. Those who had no manual
skill did business somehow or other. The modes of buying and selling were
original enough. Things changed hands which no one expected a convict
would ever have thought of selling or buying, or even of regarding as of any
value whatever. The least rag had its value, and might be turned to account.
In consequence, however, of the poverty of the convicts, money acquired in
their eyes a superior value to that really belonging to it.

Long and painful tasks, sometimes of a very complicated kind, brought
back a few kopecks. Several of the prisoners lent by the week, and did good
business that way. The prisoner who was ruined and insolvent carried to the
usurer the few things belonging to him and pledged them for some
halfpence, which were lent to him at a fabulous rate of interest. If he did not
redeem them at the fixed time the usurer sold them pitilessly by auction,
and without the least delay.
Usury flourished so well in our convict prison that money was lent even on
things belonging to the Government: linen, boots, etc.—things that were
wanted at every moment. When the lender accepted such pledges the affair
took an unexpected turn. The proprietor went, immediately after he had
received his money, and told the under officer—chief superintendent of the
convict prison—that objects belonging to the State were being concealed,
on which everything was taken away from the usurer without even the
formality of a report to the superior administration. But never was there any
quarrel—and that is very curious indeed—between the usurer and the
owner. The first gave up in silence, with a morose air, the things demanded
from him, as if he had been waiting for the request. Sometimes, perhaps, he
confessed to himself that, in the place of the borrower, he would not have
acted differently. Accordingly, if he was insulted after this restitution, it was
less from hatred than simply as a matter of conscience.
The convicts robbed one another without shame. Each prisoner had his little
box fitted with a padlock, in which he kept the things entrusted to him by
the administration. Although these boxes were authorised, that did not
prevent them from being broken into. The reader can easily imagine what
clever thieves were found among us. A prisoner who was sincerely devoted
to me—I say it without boasting—stole my Bible from me, the only book
allowed in the convict prison. He told me of it the same day, not from
repentance, but because he pitied me when he saw me looking for it
everywhere. We had among our companions of the chain several convicts
called “innkeepers,” who sold spirits, and became comparatively rich by
doing so. I shall speak of this further on, for the liquor traffic deserves
special study.
A great number of prisoners had been deported for smuggling, which
explains how it was that drink was brought secretly into the convict prison,

under so severe a surveillance as ours was. In passing it may be remarked
that smuggling is an offence apart. Would it be believed that money, the
solid profit from the affair, possesses often only secondary importance for
the smuggler? It is all the same an authentic fact. He works by vocation. In
his style he is a poet. He risks all he possesses, exposes himself to terrible
dangers, intrigues, invents, gets out of a scrape, and brings everything to a
happy end by a sort of inspiration. This passion is as violent as that of play.
I knew a prisoner of colossal stature who was the mildest, the most
peaceable, and most manageable man it was possible to see. We often asked
one another how he had been deported. He had such a calm, sociable
character, that during the whole time that he passed at the convict prison, he
never quarrelled with any one. Born in Western Russia, where he lived on
the frontier, he had been sent to hard labour for smuggling. Naturally, then,
he could not resist his desire to smuggle spirits into the prison. How many
times was he not punished for it, and heaven knows how much he feared the
rods. This dangerous trade brought him in but slender profits. It was the
speculator who got rich at his expense. Each time he was punished he wept
like an old woman, and swore by all that was holy that he would never be
caught at such things again. He kept his vow for an entire month, but he
ended by yielding once more to his passion. Thanks to these amateurs of
smuggling, spirits were always to be had in the convict prison.
Another source of income which, without enriching the prisoners, was
constantly and beneficently turned to account, was alms-giving. The upper
classes of our Russian society do not know to what an extent merchants,
shopkeepers, and our people generally, commiserate the “unfortunate!”[3]
Alms were always forthcoming, and consisted generally of little white
loaves, sometimes of money, but very rarely. Without alms, the existence of
the convicts, and above all that of the accused, who are badly fed, would be
too painful. These alms are shared equally between all the prisoners. If the
gifts are not sufficient, the little loaves are divided into halves, and
sometimes into six pieces, so that each convict may have his share. I
remember the first alms, a small piece of money, that I received. A short
time after my arrival, one morning, as I was coming back from work with a
soldier escort, I met a mother and her daughter, a child of ten, as beautiful
as an angel. I had already seen them once before.

The mother was the widow of a poor soldier, who, while still young, had
been sentenced by a court-martial, and had died in the infirmary of the
convict prison while I was there. They wept hot tears when they came to bid
him good-bye. On seeing me the little girl blushed, and murmured a few
words into her mother’s ear, who stopped, and took from a basket a kopeck
which she gave to the little girl. The little girl ran after me.
“Here, poor man,” she said, “take this in the name of Christ.” I took the
money which she slipped into my hand. The little girl returned joyfully to
her mother. I preserved that kopeck a considerable time.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Goriantchikoff became himself a soldier in Siberia, when he had finished his
term of imprisonment.
[2] An allusion to the two rows of soldiers, armed with green rods, between
which convicts condemned to corporal punishment had and still have to pass.
But this punishment now exists only for convicts deprived of all their civil
rights. This subject will be returned to further on.
[3] Men condemned to hard labour, and exiles generally, are so called by the
Russian peasantry.

CHAPTER III. 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.

CHAPTER IV. FIRST IMPRESSIONS (continued).

Hardly had M. —cki—the Pole to whom I had been speaking—gone out
when Gazin, completely drunk, threw himself all in a heap into the kitchen.
To see a convict drunk in the middle of the day, when every one was about
to be sent out to work—given the well-known severity of the Major, who at
any moment might come to the barracks, the watchfulness of the under
officer who never left the prison, the presence of the old soldiers and the
sentinels—all this quite upset the ideas I had formed of our prison; and a
long time passed before I was able to understand and explain to myself the
effects, which in the first instance were enigmatic indeed.
I have already said that all the convicts had a private occupation, and that
this occupation was for them a natural and imperious one. They are
passionately fond of money, and think more of it than of anything else—
almost as much as of liberty. The convict is half-consoled if he can ring a
few kopecks in his pocket. On the contrary, he is sad, restless, and
despondent if he has no money. He is ready then to commit no matter what
crime in order to get some. Nevertheless, in spite of the importance it
possesses for the convicts, money does not remain long in their pockets. It
is difficult to keep it. Sometimes it is confiscated, sometimes stolen. When
the Major, in a sudden perquisition, discovered a small sum amassed with
great trouble, he confiscated it. It may be that he laid it out in improving the
food of the prisoners, for all the money taken from them went into his
hands. But generally speaking it was stolen. A means of preserving it was,
however, discovered. An old man from Starodoub, one of the “old
believers,” took upon himself to conceal the convicts’ savings.
I cannot resist my desire to say some words about this man, although it
takes me away from my story. He was about sixty years old, thin, and
getting very gray. He excited my curiosity the first time I saw him, for he
was not like any of the others; his look was so tranquil and mild, and I
always saw with pleasure his clear and limpid eyes, surrounded by a
number of little wrinkles. I often talked with him, and rarely have I met
with so kind, so benevolent a being. He had been consigned to hard labour
for a serious crime. A certain number of the “old believers” at Starodoub
had been converted to the orthodox religion. The Government had done

everything to encourage them, and, at the same time, to convert the other
dissenters. The old man and some other fanatics had resolved to “defend the
faith.” When the orthodox church was being constructed in their town they
set fire to the building. This offence had brought upon its author the
sentence of deportation. This well-to-do shopkeeper—he was in trade—had
left a wife and family whom he loved, and had gone off courageously into
exile, believing in his blindness that he was “suffering for the faith.”
When one had lived some time by the side of this kind old man, one could
not help asking the question, how could he have rebelled? I spoke to him
several times about his faith. He gave up none of his convictions, but in his
answers I never noticed the slightest hatred; and yet he had destroyed a
church, and was far from denying it. In his view, the offence he had
committed and his martyrdom were things to be proud of.
There were other “old believers” among the convicts—Siberians for the
most part—men of well-developed intelligence, and as cunning as all
peasants. Dialecticians in their way, they followed blindly their law, and
delighted in discussing it. But they had great faults; they were haughty,
proud, and very intolerant. The old man in no way resembled them. With
full more belief in religious exposition than others of the same faith, he
avoided all controversy. As he was of a gay and expansive disposition he
often laughed—not with the coarse cynical laugh of the other convicts, but
with a laugh of clearness and simplicity, in which there was something of
the child, and which harmonised perfectly with his gray head. I may
perhaps be in error, but it seems to me that a man may be known by his
laugh alone. If the laugh of a man you are acquainted with inspires you with
sympathy, be assured that he is an honest man.
The old man had acquired the respect of all the prisoners without exception;
but he was not proud of it. The convicts called him grandfather, and he took
no offence. I then understood what an influence he must have exercised on
his co-religionists.
In spite of the firmness with which he supported his prison life, one felt that
he was tormented by a profound, incurable melancholy. I slept in the same
barrack with him. One night, towards three o’clock in the morning, I woke
up; I heard a slow, stifling sob. The old man was sitting upon the stove—the

same place where the convict who had wished to kill the Major was in the
habit of praying—and was reading from his manuscript prayer-book. As he
wept I heard him repeating: “Lord, do not forsake me. Master, strengthen
me. My poor little children, my dear little children, we shall never see one
another again.” I cannot say how much this moved me.
We used to give our money then to this old man. Heaven knows how the
idea got abroad in our barrack that he could not be robbed. It was well
known that he hid somewhere the savings deposited with him, but no one
had been able to discover his secret. He revealed it to us; to the Poles, and
myself. One of the stakes of the palisade bore a branch which apparently
belonged to it, but it could be taken away, and then replaced in the stake.
When the branch was removed a hole could be seen. This was the hiding-
place in question.
I now resume the thread of my narrative. Why does not the convict save up
his money? Not only is it difficult for him to keep it, but the prison life,
moreover, is so sad that the convict by his very nature thirsts for freedom of
action. By his position in society he is so irregular a being that the idea of
swallowing up his capital in orgies, of intoxicating himself with revelry,
seems to him quite natural if only he can procure himself one moment’s
forgetfulness. It was strange to see certain individuals bent over their labour
only with the object of spending in one day all their gains, even to the last
kopeck. Then they would go to work again until a new debauch, looked
forward to months beforehand. Certain convicts were fond of new clothes,
more or less singular in style, such as fancy trousers and waistcoats; but it
was above all for the coloured shirts that the convicts had a pronounced
taste; also for belts with metal clasps.
On holidays the dandies of the prison put on their Sunday best. They were
worth seeing as they strutted about their part of the barracks. The pleasure
of feeling themselves well dressed amounted with them to childishness;
indeed, in many things convicts are only children. Their fine clothes
disappeared very soon, often the evening of the very day on which they had
been bought. Their owners pledged them or sold them again for a trifle.
The feasts were generally held at fixed times. They coincided with religious
festivals, or with the name’s day of the drunken convict. On getting up in

the morning he would place a wax taper before the holy image, then he said
his prayer, dressed, and ordered his dinner. He had bought beforehand meat,
fish, and little patties; then he gorged like an ox, almost always alone. It
was very rare to see a convict invite another convict to share his repast. At
dinner the vodka was produced. The convict would suck it up like the sole
of a boot, and then walk through the barracks swaggering and tottering. It
was his desire to show all his companions that he was drunk, that he was
carrying on, and thus obtain their particular esteem.
The Russian people feel always a certain sympathy for a drunken man;
among us it amounted really to esteem. In the convict prison intoxication
was a sort of aristocratic distinction.
As soon as he felt himself in spirits the convict ordered a musician. We had
among us a little fellow—a deserter from the army—very ugly, but who
was the happy possessor of a violin on which he could play. As he had no
trade he was always ready to follow the festive convict from barrack to
barrack grinding him out dance tunes with all his strength. His countenance
often expressed the fatigue and disgust which his music—always the same
—caused him; but when the prisoner called out to him, “Go on playing, are
you not paid for it?” he attacked his violin more violently than ever. These
drunkards felt sure that they would be taken care of, and in case of the
Major arriving would be concealed from his watchful eyes. This service we
rendered in the most disinterested spirit. On their side the under officer, and
the old soldiers who remained in the prison to keep order, were perfectly
reassured. The drunkard would cause no disturbance. At the least scare of
revolt or riot he would have been quieted and then bound. Accordingly the
inferior officers closed their eyes; they knew that if vodka was forbidden all
would go wrong. How was this vodka procured?
It was bought in the convict prison itself from the drink-sellers, as they
were called, who followed this trade—a very lucrative one—although the
tipplers were not very numerous, for revelry was expensive, especially
when it is considered how hardly money was earned. The drink business
was begun, continued, and ended in rather an original manner. The prisoner
who knew no trade, would not work, and who, nevertheless, desired to get
speedily rich, made up his mind, when he possessed a little money, to buy
and sell vodka. The enterprise was risky, it required great daring, for the

speculator hazarded his skin as well as liquor. But the drink-seller hesitated
before no obstacles. At the outset he brought the vodka himself to the prison
and got rid of it on the most advantageous terms. He repeated this operation
a second and a third time. If he had not been discovered by the officials, he
now possessed a sum which enabled him to extend his business. He became
a capitalist with agents and assistants, he risked much less and gained much
more. Then his assistants incurred risk in place of him.
Prisons are always abundantly inhabited by ruined men without the habit of
work, but endowed with skill and daring; their only capital is their back.
They often decide to put it into circulation, and propose to the drink-seller
to introduce vodka into the barracks. There is always in the town a soldier, a
shopkeeper, or some loose woman who, for a stipulated sum—rather a
small one—buys vodka with the drink-seller’s money, hides it in a place
known to the convict-smuggler, near the workshop where he is employed.
The person who supplies the vodka, tastes the precious liquid almost always
as he is carrying it to the hiding-place, and replaces relentlessly what he has
drunk by pure water. The purchaser may take it or leave it, but he cannot
give himself airs. He thinks himself very lucky that his money has not been
stolen from him, and that he has received some kind of vodka in exchange.
The man who is to take it into the prison—to whom the drink-seller has
indicated the hiding-place—goes to the supplier with bullock’s intestines
which after being washed, have been filled with water, and which thus
preserves their softness and suppleness. When the intestines have been
filled with vodka, the smuggler rolls them round his body. Now, all the
cunning, the adroitness of this daring convict is shown. The man’s honour is
at stake. It is necessary for him to take in the escort and the man on guard;
and he will take them in. If the carrier is artful, the soldier of the escort—
sometimes a recruit—does not notice anything particular; for the prisoner
has studied him thoroughly, besides which he has artfully combined the
hour and the place of meeting. If the convict—a bricklayer for example—
climbs up on the wall that he is building, the escort will certainly not climb
up after him to watch his movements. Who then, will see what he is about?
On getting near the prison, he gets ready a piece of fifteen or twenty
kopecks, and waits at the gate for the corporal on guard.
The corporal examines, feels, and searches each convict on his return to the
barracks, and then opens the gate to him. The carrier of the vodka hopes

that he will be ashamed to examine him too much in detail; but if the
corporal is a cunning fellow, that is just what he will do; and in that case he
finds the contraband vodka. The convict has now only one chance of
salvation. He slips into the hand of the under officer the piece of money he
holds in readiness, and often, thanks to this manœuvre, the vodka arrives
safely in the hands of the drink-seller. But sometimes the trick does not
succeed, and it is then that the sole capital of the smuggler enters really into
circulation. A report is made to the Major, who sentences the unhappy
culprit to a thorough flogging. As for the vodka, it is confiscated. The
smuggler undergoes his punishment without betraying the speculator, not
because such a denunciation would disgrace him, but because it would
bring him nothing. He would be flogged all the same, the only consolation
he could have would be that the drink-seller would share his punishment;
but as he needs him, he does not denounce him, although having allowed
himself to be surprised, he will receive no payment from him.
Denunciation, however, flourishes in the convict prison. Far from hating
spies or keeping apart from them, the prisoners often make friends of them.
If any one had taken it into his head to prove to the convicts all the baseness
of mutual denunciation, no one in the prison would have understood. The
former nobleman of whom I have already spoken, that cowardly and violent
creature with whom I had already broken off all relations immediately after
my arrival in the fortress, was the friend of Fedka, the Major’s body-
servant. He used to tell him everything that took place in the convict prison,
and this was naturally carried back to the servant’s master. Every one knew
it, but no one had the idea of showing any ill-will against the man, or of
reproaching him with his conduct. When the vodka arrived without accident
at the prison, the speculator paid the smuggler and made up his accounts.
His merchandise had already cost him sufficiently dear; and that the profit
might be greater, he diluted it by adding fifty per cent. of pure water. He
was ready, and had only to wait for customers.
The first holiday, perhaps even on a week-day, a convict would turn up. He
had been working like a negro for many months in order to save up, kopeck
by kopeck, a small sum which he was resolved to spend all at once. These
days of rejoicing had been looked forward to long beforehand. He had
dreamt of them during the endless winter nights, during his hardest labour,
and the perspective had supported him under his severest trials. The dawn

of this day so impatiently awaited, has just appeared. He has some money in
his pocket. It has been neither stolen from him nor confiscated. He is free to
spend it. Accordingly he takes his savings to the drink-seller, who, to begin
with, gives vodka which is almost pure—it has been only twice baptized—
but gradually, as the bottle gets more and more empty, he fills it up with
water. Accordingly the convict pays for his vodka five or six times as much
as he would in a tavern.
It may be imagined how many glasses, and, above all, what sums of money
are required before the convict is drunk. However, as he has lost the habit of
drinking, the little alcohol which remains in the liquid intoxicates him
rapidly enough; he goes on drinking until there is nothing left; he pledges or
sells all his new clothes—for the drink-seller is at the same time a
pawnbroker. As his personal garments are not very numerous he next
pledges the clothes supplied to him by the Government. When the drink has
made away with his last shirt, his last rag, he lies down and wakes up the
next morning with a bad headache. In vain he begs the drink-seller to give
him credit for a drop of vodka in order to remove his depression; he
experiences a direct refusal. That very day he sets to work again. For
several months together, he will weary himself out while looking forward to
such a debauch as the one which has now disappeared in the past. Little by
little he regains courage while waiting for such another day, still far off, but
which ultimately will arrive. As for the drink-seller, if he has gained a large
sum—some dozen of roubles—he procures some more vodka, but this time
he does not baptize it, because he intends it for himself. Enough of trade! it
is time for him to amuse himself. Accordingly he eats, drinks, pays for a
little music—his means allow him to grease the palm of the inferior officers
in the convict prison. This festival lasts sometimes for several days. When
his stock of vodka is exhausted, he goes and drinks with the other drink-
sellers who are waiting for him; he then drinks up his last kopeck.
However careful the convicts may be in watching over their companions in
debauchery, it sometimes happens that the Major or the officer on guard
notices what is going on. The drunkard is then dragged to the orderly-room,
his money is confiscated if he has any left, and he is flogged. The convict
shakes himself like a beaten dog, returns to barracks, and, after a few days,
resumes his trade as drink-seller.

It sometimes happens that among the convicts there are admirers of the fair
sex. For a sufficiently large sum of money they succeed, accompanied by a
soldier whom they have corrupted, in getting secretly out of the fortress into
a suburb instead of going to work. There in an apparently quiet house a
banquet is held at which large sums of money are spent. The convicts’
money is not to be despised, accordingly the soldiers will sometimes
arrange these temporary escapes beforehand, sure as they are of being
generously recompensed. Generally speaking these soldiers are themselves
candidates for the convict prison. The escapades are scarcely ever
discovered. I must add that they are very rare, for they are very expensive,
and the admirers of the fair sex are obliged to have recourse to other less
costly means.
At the beginning of my stay, a young convict with very regular features
excited my curiosity; his name was Sirotkin, he was in many respects an
enigmatic being. His face had struck me, he was not more than twenty-three
years of age, and he belonged to the special section; that is to say, he was
condemned to hard labour in perpetuity. He accordingly was to be looked
upon as one of the most dangerous of military criminals. Mild and tranquil,
he spoke little and rarely laughed; his blue eyes, his clear complexion, his
fair hair gave him a soft expression, which even his shaven crown did not
destroy. Although he had no trade, he managed to get himself money from
time to time. He was remarkably lazy, and always dressed like a sloven; but
if any one was generous enough to present him with a red shirt, he was
beside himself with joy at having a new garment, and he exhibited it
everywhere. Sirotkin neither drank nor played, and he scarcely ever
quarrelled with the other convicts. He walked about with his hands in his
pockets peacefully, and with a pensive air. What he was thinking of I cannot
say. When any one called to him, to ask him a question, he replied with
deference, precisely, without chattering like the others. He had in his eyes
the expression of a child of ten; when he had money he bought nothing of
what the others looked upon as indispensable. His vest might be torn, he did
not get it mended, any more than he bought himself new boots. What
particularly pleased him were the little white rolls and gingerbread, which
he would eat with the satisfaction of a child of seven. When he was not at
work he wandered about the barracks; when every one else was occupied,
he remained with his arms by his sides; if any one joked with him, or

laughed at him—which happened often enough—he turned on his heel
without speaking and went elsewhere. If the pleasantry was too strong he
blushed. I often asked myself for what crime he could have been
condemned to hard labour. One day when I was ill, and lying in the
hospital, Sirotkin was also there, stretched out on a bedstead not far from
me. I entered into conversation with him; he became animated, and told me
freely how he had been taken for a soldier, how his mother had followed
him in tears, and what treatment he had endured in military service. He
added that he had never been able to accustom himself to this life; every
one was severe and angry with him about nothing, his officers were always
against him.
“But why did they send you here?—and into the special section above all!
Ah, Sirotkin!”
“Yes, Alexander Petrovitch, although I was only one year with the battalion,
I was sent here for killing my captain, Gregory Petrovitch.”
“I heard about that, but I did not believe it; how was it that you killed him?”
“All that was told you was true; my life was insupportable.”
“But the other recruits supported it well enough. It is very hard at the
beginning, but men get accustomed to it and end by becoming excellent
soldiers. Your mother must have pampered you and spoiled you. I am sure
that she fed you with gingerbread and with sweet milk until you were
eighteen.”
“My mother, it is true, was very fond of me. When I left her she took to her
bed and remained there. How painful to me everything in my military life
was; after that all went wrong. I was perpetually being punished, and why?
I obeyed every one, I was exact, careful. I did not drink, I borrowed from no
one—it’s all up with a man when he begins to borrow—and yet every one
around me was harsh and cruel. I sometimes hid myself in a corner and did
nothing but sob. One day, or rather one night, I was on guard. It was
autumn: there was a strong wind, and it was so dark that you could not see a
speck, and I was sad, so sad! I took the bayonet from the end of my musket
and placed it by my side. Then I put the barrel to my breast and with my big
toe—I had taken my boot off—pressed the trigger. It missed fire. I looked at

my musket and loaded it with a charge of fresh powder. Then I broke off the
corner of my flint, and once more I placed the muzzle against my breast.
Again there was a misfire. What was I to do? I said to myself. I put my boot
on, I fastened my bayonet to the barrel, and walked up and down with my
musket on my shoulder. Let them do what they like, I said to myself; but I
will not be a soldier any longer. Half-an-hour afterwards the captain arrived,
making his rounds. He came straight upon me. ‘Is that the way you carry
yourself when you are on guard?’ I seized my musket, and stuck the
bayonet into his body. Then I had to walk forty-six versts. That is how I
came to be in the special section.”
He was telling no falsehood, yet I did not understand how they could have
sent him there; such crimes deserve a much less severe punishment.
Sirotkin was the only one of the convicts who was really handsome. As for
his companions of the special section—to the number of fifteen—they were
frightful to behold with their hideous, disgusting physiognomies. Gray
heads were plentiful among them. I shall speak of these men further on.
Sirotkin was often on good terms with Gazin, the drink-seller, of whom I
have already spoken at the beginning of this chapter.
This Gazin was a terrible being; the impression that he produced on every
one was confusing or appalling. It seemed to me that a more ferocious, a
more monstrous creature could not exist. Yet I have seen at Tobolsk,
Kameneff, the brigand, celebrated for his crimes. Later, I saw Sokoloff, the
escaped convict, formerly a deserter, who was a ferocious creature; but
neither of them inspired me with so much disgust as Gazin. I often fancied
that I had before my eyes an enormous, gigantic spider of the size of a man.
He was a Tartar, and there was no convict so strong as he was. It was less
by his great height and his herculean construction, than by his enormous
and deformed head, that he inspired terror. The strangest reports were
current about him. Some said that he had been a soldier, others that he had
escaped from Nertchinsk, and that he had been exiled several times to
Siberia, but had always succeeded in getting away. Landing at last in our
convict prison, he belonged there to the special section. It appeared that he
had taken a pleasure in killing little children when he had attracted them to
some deserted place; then he frightened them, tortured them, and after
having fully enjoyed the terror and the convulsions of the poor little things,
he killed them resolutely and with delight. These horrors had perhaps been

imagined by reason of the painful impression that the monster produced
upon us; but they seemed probable, and harmonised with his physiognomy.
Nevertheless, when Gazin was not drunk, he conducted himself well
enough.
He was always quiet, never quarrelled, avoided all disputes as if from
contempt for his companions, just as though he had entertained a high
opinion of himself. He spoke very little, all his movements were measured,
calm, resolute. His look was not without intelligence, but its expression was
cruel and derisive like his smile. Of all the convicts who sold vodka, he was
the richest. Twice a year he got completely drunk, and it was then that all
his brutal ferocity exhibited itself. Little by little he got excited, and began
to tease the prisoners with venomous satire prepared long beforehand.
Finally when he was quite drunk, he had attacks of furious rage, and,
seizing a knife, would rush upon his companions. The convicts who knew
his herculean vigour, avoided him and protected themselves against him, for
he would throw himself on the first person he met. A means of disarming
him had been discovered. Some dozen prisoners would rush suddenly upon
Gazin, and give him violent blows in the pit of the stomach, in the belly,
and generally beneath the region of the heart, until he lost consciousness.
Any one else would have died under such treatment, but Gazin soon got
well. When he had been well beaten they would wrap him up in his pelisse,
and throw him upon his plank bedstead, leaving him to digest his drink. The
next day he woke up almost well, and went to his work silent and sombre.
Every time that Gazin got drunk, all the prisoners knew how his day would
finish. He knew also, but he drank all the same. Several years passed in this
way. Then it was noticed that Gazin had lost his energy, and that he was
beginning to get weak. He did nothing but groan, complaining of all kinds
of illnesses. His visits to the hospital became more and more frequent. “He
is giving in,” said the prisoners.
At one time Gazin had gone into the kitchen followed by the little fellow
who scraped the violin, and whom the convicts in their festivities used to
hire to play to them. He stopped in the middle of the hall silently examining
his companions one after another. No one breathed a word. When he saw
me with my companions, he looked at us in his malicious, jeering style, and
smiled horribly with the air of a man who was satisfied with a good joke
that he had just thought of. He approached our table, tottering.

“Might I ask,” he said, “where you get the money which allows you to
drink tea?”
I exchanged a look with my neighbour. I understood that the best thing for
us was to be silent, and not to answer. The least contradiction would have
put Gazin in a passion.
“You must have money,” he continued, “you must have a good deal of
money to drink tea; but, tell me, are you sent to hard labour to drink tea? I
say, did you come here for that purpose? Please answer, I should like to
know.”
Seeing that we were resolved on silence, and that we had determined not to
pay any attention to him, he ran towards us, livid and trembling with rage.
At two steps’ distance, he saw a heavy box, which served to hold the bread
given for the dinner and supper of the convicts. Its contents were sufficient
for the meal of half the prisoners. At this moment it was empty. He seized it
with both hands and brandished it above our heads. Although murder, or
attempted, was an inexhaustible source of trouble for the convicts—
examinations, counter-examinations, and inquiries without end would be
the natural consequence—and though quarrels were generally cut short,
when they did not lead to such serious results, yet every one remained silent
and waited.
Not one word in our favour, not one cry against Gazin. The hatred of all the
prisoners for all who were of gentle birth was so great that every one of
them was evidently pleased to see that we were in danger. But a fortunate
incident terminated this scene, which must have become tragic. Gazin was
about to let fly the enormous box, which he was turning and twisting above
his head, when a convict ran in from the barracks, and cried out:
“Gazin, they have stolen your vodka!”
The horrible brigand let fall the box with a frightful oath, and ran out of the
kitchen.
“Well, God has saved them,” said the prisoners among themselves,
repeating the words several times.

I never knew whether his vodka had been stolen, or whether it was only a
stratagem invented to save us.
That same evening, before the closing of the barracks, when it was already
dark, I walked to the side of the palisade. A heavy feeling of sadness
weighed upon my soul. During all the time that I passed in the convict
prison I never felt myself so miserable as on that evening, though the first
day is always the hardest, whether at hard labour or in the prison. One
thought in particular had left me no respite since my deportation—a
question insoluble then and insoluble now. I reflected on the inequality of
the punishments inflicted for the same crimes. Often, indeed, one crime
cannot be compared even approximately to another. Two murderers kill a
man under circumstances which in each case are minutely examined and
weighed. They each receive the same punishment; and yet by what an abyss
are their two actions separated! One has committed a murder for a trifle—
for an onion. He has killed on the high-road a peasant who was passing, and
found on him an onion, and nothing else.
“Well, I was sent to hard labour for a peasant who had nothing but an
onion!”
“Fool that you are! an onion is worth a kopeck. If you had killed a hundred
peasants you would have had a hundred kopecks, or one rouble.” The above
is a prison joke.
Another criminal has killed a debauchee who was oppressing or
dishonouring his wife, his sister, or his daughter.
A third, a vagabond, half dead with hunger, pursued by a whole band of
police, was defending his liberty, his life. He is to be regarded as on an
equality with the brigand who assassinates children for his amusement, for
the pleasure of feeling their warm blood flow over his hands, of seeing
them shudder in a last bird-like palpitation beneath the knife which tears
their flesh!
They will all alike be sent to hard labour; though the sentence will perhaps
not be for the same number of years. But the variations in the punishment
are not very numerous, whereas different kinds of crimes may be reckoned
by thousands. As many characters, so many crimes.

Let us admit that it is impossible to get rid of this first inequality in
punishment, that the problem is insoluble, and that in connection with penal
matters it is the squaring of the circle. Let all that be admitted; but even if
this inequality cannot be avoided, there is another thing to be thought of—
the consequences of the punishment. Here is a man who is wasting away
like a candle; there is another one, on the contrary, who had no idea before
going into exile that there could be such a gay, such an idle life, where he
would find a circle of such agreeable friends. Individuals of this latter class
are to be found in the convict prison.
Now take a man of heart, of cultivated mind, and of delicate conscience.
What he feels kills him more certainly than the material punishment. The
judgment which he himself pronounces on his crime is more pitiless than
that of the most severe tribunal, the most Draconian law. He lives by the
side of another convict, who has not once reflected on the murder he is
expiating, during the whole time of his sojourn in the convict prison. He,
perhaps, even considers himself innocent. Are there not, also, poor devils
who commit crimes in order to be sent to hard labour, and thus to escape the
liberty which is much more painful than confinement? A man’s life is
miserable, he has never, perhaps, been able to satisfy his hunger. He is
worked to death in order to enrich his master. In the convict prison his work
will be less severe, less crushing. He will eat as much as he wants, better
than he could ever have hoped to eat, had he remained free. On holidays he
will have meat, and fine people will give him alms, and his evening’s work
will bring him in some money. And the society one meets with in the
convict prison, is that to be counted for nothing? The convicts are clever,
wide-awake people, who are up to everything. The new arrival can scarcely
conceal the admiration he feels for his companions in labour. He has seen
nothing like it before, and he will consider himself in the best company
possible.
Is it possible that men so differently situated can feel in an equal degree the
punishment inflicted? But why think about questions that are insoluble? The
drum beats, let us go back to barracks.

CHAPTER V. FIRST IMPRESSIONS (continued)

We were between walls once more. The doors of the barracks were locked,
each with a particular padlock, and the prisoners remained shut up till the
next morning.
The verification was made by a non-commissioned officer accompanied by
two soldiers. When by chance an officer was present, the convicts were
drawn up in the court-yard, but generally speaking they were identified in
the buildings. As the soldiers often made mistakes, they went out and came
back in order to count us again and again, until their reckoning was
satisfactory, then the barracks were closed. Each one contained about thirty
prisoners, and we were very closely packed in our camp bedsteads. As it
was too soon to go to sleep, the convicts occupied themselves with work.
Besides the old soldier of whom I have spoken, who slept in our dormitory,
and represented there the administration of the prison, there was in our
barrack another old soldier wearing a medal as rewarded for good conduct.
It happened often enough, however, that the good-conduct men themselves
committed offences for which they were sentenced to be whipped. They
then lost their rank, and were immediately replaced by comrades whose
conduct was considered satisfactory.
Our good-conduct man was no other than Akim Akimitch. To my great
astonishment, he was very rough with the prisoners, but they only replied
by jokes. The other old soldier, more prudent, interfered with no one, and if
he opened his mouth, it was only as a matter of form, as an affair of duty.
For the most part he remained silent, seated on his little bedstead, occupied
in mending his own boots.
That day I could not help making to myself an observation, the accuracy of
which became afterwards apparent: that all those who are not convicts and
who have to deal with them, whoever they may be—beginning with the
soldiers of the escort and the sentinels—look upon the convicts in a false
and exaggerated light, expecting that for a yes or a no, these men will throw
themselves upon them knife in hand. The prisoners, perfectly conscious of
the fear they inspire, show a certain arrogance. Accordingly, the best prison
director is the one who experiences no emotion in their presence. In spite of

the airs they give themselves, the convicts prefer that confidence should be
placed in them. By such means, indeed, they may be conciliated. I have
more than once had occasion to notice their astonishment at an official
entering their prison without an escort, and certainly their astonishment was
not unflattering. A visitor who is intrepid imposes respect. If anything
unfortunate happens, it will not be in his presence. The terror inspired by
the convicts is general, and yet I saw no foundation for it. Is it the
appearance of the prisoner, his brigand-like look, that causes a certain
repugnance? Is it not rather the feeling that invades you directly you enter
the prison, that in spite of all efforts, all precautions, it is impossible to turn
a living man into a corpse, to stifle his feelings, his thirst for vengeance and
for life, his passions, and his imperious desire to satisfy them? However
that may be, I declare that there is no reason for fearing the convicts. A man
does not throw himself so quickly nor so easily upon his fellow-man, knife
in hand. Few accidents happen; sometimes they are so rare that the danger
may be looked upon as non-existent.
I speak, it must be understood, only of prisoners already condemned, who
are undergoing their punishment, and some of whom are almost happy to
find themselves in the convict prison; so attractive under all circumstances
is a new form of life. These latter live quiet and contented. As for the
turbulent ones, the convicts themselves keep them in restraint, and their
arrogance never goes too far. The prisoner, audacious and reckless as he
may be, is afraid of every official connected with the prison. It is by no
means the same with the accused whose fate has not been decided. Such a
one is quite capable of attacking, no matter whom, without any motive of
hatred, and solely because he is to be whipped the next day. If, indeed, he
commits a fresh crime his offence becomes complicated. Punishment is
delayed, and he gains time. The act of aggression is explained; it has a
cause, an object. The convict wishes at all hazards to change his fate, and
that as soon as possible. In connection with this, I myself have witnessed a
physiological fact of the strangest kind.
In the section of military convicts was an old soldier who had been
condemned to two years’ hard labour, a great boaster, and at the same time a
coward. Generally speaking, the Russian soldier does not boast. He has no
time for doing so, even had he the inclination. When such a one appears
among a multitude of others, he is always a coward and a rogue. Dutoff—

that was the name of the prisoner of whom I am speaking—underwent his
punishment, and then went back to the same battalion in the Line; but, like
all who are sent to the convict prison to be corrected, he had been
thoroughly corrupted. A “return horse” re-appears in the convict prison after
two or three weeks’ liberty, not for a comparatively short time, but for
fifteen or twenty years. So it happened in the case of Dutoff. Three weeks
after he had been set at liberty, he robbed one of his comrades, and was,
moreover, mutinous. He was taken before a court-martial and sentenced to a
severe form of corporal punishment. Horribly frightened, like the coward
that he was, at the prospect of punishment, he threw himself, knife in hand,
on to the officer of the guard, as he entered his dungeon on the eve of the
day that he was to run the gauntlet through the men of his company. He
quite understood that he was aggravating his offence, and that the duration
of his punishment would be increased; but all he wanted was to postpone
for some days, or at least for some hours, a terrible moment. He was such a
coward that he did not even wound the officer whom he had attacked. He
had, indeed, only committed this assault in order to add a new crime to the
last already against him, and thus defer the sentence.
The moment preceding the punishment is terrible for the man condemned to
the rods. I have seen many of them on the eve of the fatal day. I generally
met with them in the hospital when I was ill, which happened often enough.
In Russia the people who show most compassion for the convicts are
certainly the doctors, who never make between the prisoners the
distinctions observed by other persons brought into direct relations with
them. In this respect the common people can alone be compared with the
doctors, for they never reproach a criminal with the crime that he has
committed, whatever it may be. They forgive him in consideration of the
sentence passed upon him.
Is it not known that the common people throughout Russia call crime a
“misfortune,” and the criminal an “unfortunate”? This definition is
expressive, profound, and, moreover, unconscious, instinctive. To the doctor
the convicts have naturally recourse, above all when they are to undergo
corporal punishment. The prisoner who has been before a court-martial
knows pretty well at what moment his sentence will be executed. To escape
it he gets himself sent to the hospital, in order to postpone for some days the
terrible moment. When he is declared restored to health, he knows that the

day after he leaves the hospital this moment will arrive. Accordingly, on
quitting the hospital the convict is always in a state of agitation. Some of
them may endeavour from vanity to conceal their anxiety, but no one is
taken in by that; every one understands the cruelty of such a moment, and is
silent from humane motives.
I knew one young convict, an ex-soldier, sentenced for murder, who was to
receive the maximum of rods. The eve of the day on which he was to be
flogged, he had resolved to drink a bottle of vodka in which he had infused
a quantity of snuff.
The prisoner condemned to the rods always drinks, before the critical
moment arrives, a certain amount of spirits which he has procured long
beforehand, and often at a fabulous price. He would deprive himself of the
necessaries of life for six months rather than not be in a position to swallow
half a pint of vodka before the flogging. The convicts are convinced that a
drunken man suffers less from the sticks or whip than one who is in cold
blood.
I will return to my narrative. The poor devil felt ill a few moments after he
had swallowed his bottle of vodka. He vomited blood, and was carried in a
state of unconsciousness to the hospital. His lungs were so much injured by
this accident that phthisis declared itself, and carried off the soldier in a few
months. The doctors who had attended him never knew the origin of his
illness.
If examples of cowardice are not rare among the prisoners, it must be added
that there are some whose intrepidity is quite astounding. I remember many
instances of courage pushed to the extreme. The arrival in the hospital of a
terrible bandit remains fixed in my memory.
One fine summer day the report was spread in the infirmary that the famous
prisoner, Orloff, was to be flogged the same evening, and that he would be
brought afterwards to the hospital. The prisoners who were already there
said that the punishment would be a cruel one, and every one—including
myself I must admit—was awaiting with curiosity the arrival of this
brigand, about whom the most unheard-of things were told. He was a
malefactor of a rare kind, capable of assassinating in cold blood old men
and children. He possessed an indomitable force of will, and was fully

conscious of his power. As he had been guilty of several crimes, they had
condemned him to be flogged through the ranks.
He was brought, or, rather carried, in towards evening. The place was
already dark. Candles were lighted. Orloff was excessively pale, almost
unconscious, with his thick curly hair of dull black without the least
brilliancy. His back was skinned and swollen, blue, and stained with blood.
The prisoners nursed him throughout the night; they changed his poultices,
placed him on his side, prepared for him the lotion ordered by the doctor; in
a word, showed as much solicitude for him as for a relation or benefactor.
Next day he had fully recovered his faculties, and took one or two turns
round the room. I was much astonished, for he was broken down and
powerless when he was brought in. He had received half the number of
blows ordered by the sentence. The doctor had stopped the punishment,
convinced that if it were continued Orloff’s death would inevitably ensue.
This criminal was of a feeble constitution, weakened by long imprisonment.
Whoever has seen prisoners after having been flogged, will remember their
thin, drawn-out features and their feverish looks. Orloff soon recovered his
powerful energy, which enabled him to get over his physical weakness. He
was no ordinary man. From curiosity I made his acquaintance, and was able
to study him at leisure for an entire week. Never in my life did I meet a man
whose will was more firm or inflexible.
I had seen at Tobolsk a celebrity of the same kind—a former chief of
brigands. This man was a veritable wild beast; by being near him, without
even knowing him, it was impossible not to recognise in him a dangerous
creature. What above all frightened me was his stupidity. Matter, in this
man, had taken such an ascendant over mind, that one could see at a glance
that he cared for nothing in the world but the brutal satisfaction of his
physical wants. I was certain, however, that Kareneff—that was his name—
would have fainted on being condemned to such rigorous corporal
punishment as Orloff had undergone; and that he would have murdered the
first man near him without blinking.
Orloff, on the contrary, was a brilliant example of the victory of spirit over
matter. He had a perfect command over himself. He despised punishment,
and feared nothing in the world. His dominant characteristic was boundless

energy, a thirst for vengeance, and an immovable will when he had some
object to attain.
I was not astonished at his haughty air. He looked down upon all around
him from the height of his grandeur. Not that he took the trouble to pose;
his pride was an innate quality. I don’t think that anything had the least
influence over him. He looked upon everything with the calmest eye, as if
nothing in the world could astonish him. He knew well that the other
prisoners respected him; but he never took advantage of it to give himself
airs.
Nevertheless, vanity and conceit are defects from which scarcely any
convict is exempt. He was intelligent and strangely frank in talking too
much about himself. He replied point-blank to all the questions I put to him,
and confessed to me that he was waiting impatiently for his return to health
in order to take the remainder of the punishment he was to undergo.
“Now,” he said to me with a wink, “it is all over. I shall have the remainder,
and shall be sent to Nertchinsk with a convoy of prisoners. I shall profit by
it to escape. I shall get away beyond doubt. If only my back would heal a
little quicker!”
For five days he was burning with impatience to be in a condition for
leaving the hospital At times he was gay and in the best of humours. I
profited by these rare occasions to question him about his adventures.
Then he would contract his eyebrows a little; but he always answered my
questions in a straightforward manner. When he understood that I was
endeavouring to see through him, and to discover in him some trace of
repentance, he looked at me with a haughty and contemptuous air, as if I
were a foolish little boy, to whom he did too much honour by conversing
with him.
I detected in his countenance a sort of compassion for me. After a moment’s
pause he laughed out loud, but without the least irony. I fancy he must,
more than once, have laughed in the same manner, when my words returned
to his memory. At last he wrote down his name as cured, although his back
was not yet entirely healed. As I also was almost well, we left the infirmary
together and returned to the convict prison, while he was shut up in the

guard-room, where he had been imprisoned before. When he left me he
shook me by the hand, which in his eyes was a great mark of confidence. I
fancy he did so, because at that moment he was in a good humour. But in
reality he must have despised me, for I was a feeble being, contemptible in
all respects, and guilty above all of resignation. The next day he underwent
the second half of his punishment.
When the gates of the barracks had been closed, it assumed, in less than no
time, quite another aspect—that of a private house, of quite a home. Then
only did I see my convict comrades at their ease. During the day the under
officers, or some of the other authorities, might suddenly arrive, so that the
prisoners were then always on the look-out. They were only half at their
ease. As soon, however, as the bolts had been pushed and the gates
padlocked, every one sat down in his place and began to work. The barrack
was lighted up in an unexpected manner. Each convict had his candle and
his wooden candlestick. Some of them stitched boots, others sewed
different kinds of garments. The air, already mephitic, became more and
more impure.
Some of the prisoners, huddled together in a corner, played at cards on a
piece of carpet. In each barrack there was a prisoner who possessed a small
piece of carpet, a candle, and a pack of horribly greasy cards. The owner of
the cards received from the players fifteen kopecks [about sixpence] a
night. They generally played at the “three leaves”—Gorka, that is to say: a
game of chance. Each player placed before him a pile of copper money—all
that he possessed—and did not get up until he had lost it or had broken the
bank.
Playing was continued until late at night; sometimes the dawn found the
gamblers still at their game. Often, indeed, it did not cease until a few
minutes before the opening of the gates. In our room—as in all the others—
there were beggars ruined by drink and play, or rather beggars innate—I say
innate, and maintain my expression. Indeed, in our country, and in all
classes, there are, and always will be, strange easy-going people whose
destiny it is to remain always beggars. They are poor devils all their lives;
quite broken down, they remain under the domination or guardianship of
some one, generally a prodigal, or a man who has suddenly made his
fortune. All initiative is for them an insupportable burden. They only exist

on condition of undertaking nothing for themselves, and by serving, always
living under the will of another. They are destined to act by and through
others. Under no circumstances, even of the most unexpected kind, can they
get rich; they are always beggars. I have met these persons in all classes of
society, in all coteries, in all associations, including the literary world.
As soon as a party was made up, one of these beggars, quite indispensable
to the game, was summoned. He received five kopecks for a whole night’s
employment; and what employment it was! His duty was to keep guard in
the vestibule, with thirty degrees (Réaumur) of frost, in total darkness, for
six or seven hours. The man on watch had to listen for the slightest noise,
for the Major or one of the other officers of the guard would sometimes
make a round rather late in the night. They arrived secretly, and sometimes
discovered the players and the watchers in the act—thanks to the light of
the candles, which could be seen from the court-yard.
When the key was heard grinding in the padlock which closed the gate, it
was too late to put the lights out and lie down on the plank bedsteads. Such
surprises were, however, rare. Five kopecks was a ridiculous payment even
in our convict prison, and the exigency and hardness of the gamblers
astonished me in this as in many cases: “You are paid, you must do what
you are told.” This was the argument, and it admitted of no reply. To have
paid a few kopecks to any one gave the right to turn him to the best possible
account, and even to claim his gratitude. More than once it happened to me
to see the convicts spend their money extravagantly, throwing it away on all
sides, and, at the same time, cheat the man employed to watch. I have seen
this in several barracks on many occasions.
I have already said that, with the exception of the gamblers, every one
worked. Five only of the convicts remained completely idle, and went to
bed on the first opportunity. My sleeping place was near the door. Next to
me was Akim Akimitch, and when we were lying down our heads touched.
He used to work until ten or eleven at making, by pasting together pieces of
paper, multicolour lanterns, which some one living in the town had ordered
from him, and for which he used to be well paid. He excelled in this kind of
work, and did it methodically and regularly. When he had finished he put
away carefully his tools, unfolded his mattress, said his prayers, and went to
sleep with the sleep of the just. He carried his love of order even to

pedantry, and must have thought himself in his inner heart a man of brains,
as is generally the case with narrow, mediocre persons. I did not like him
the first day, although he gave me much to think of. I was astonished that
such a man could be found in a convict prison. I shall speak of Akimitch
further on in the course of this book.
But I must now continue to describe the persons with whom I was to live a
number of years. Those who surrounded me were to be my companions
every minute, and it will be understood that I looked upon them with
anxious curiosity.
On my left slept a band of mountaineers from the Caucasus, nearly all
exiled for brigandage, but condemned to different punishments. There were
two Lesghians, a Circassian, and three Tartars from Daghestan. The
Circassian was a morose and sombre person. He scarcely ever spoke, and
looked at you sideways with a sly, sulky, wild-beast-like expression. One of
the Lesghians, an old man with an aquiline nose, tall and thin, seemed to be
a true brigand; but the other Lesghian, Nourra by name, made a most
favourable impression upon me. Of middle height, still young, built like a
Hercules, with fair hair and violet eyes; he had a slightly turned up nose,
while his features were somewhat of a Finnish cast. Like all horsemen, he
walked with his toes in. His body was striped with scars, ploughed by
bayonet wounds and bullets. Although he belonged to the conquered part of
the Caucasus, he had joined the rebels, with whom he used to make
continual incursions into our territory. Every one liked him in the prison by
reason of his gaiety and affability. He worked without murmuring, always
calm and peaceful. Thieving, cheating, and drunkenness filled him with
disgust, or put him in a rage—not that he wished to quarrel with any one; he
simply turned away with indignation. During his confinement he committed
no breach of the rules. Fervently pious, he said his prayers religiously every
evening, observed all the Mohammedan fasts like a true fanatic, and passed
whole nights in prayer. Every one liked him, and looked upon him as a
thoroughly honest man. “Nourra is a lion,” said the convicts; and the name
of “Lion” stuck to him. He was quite convinced that as soon as he had
finished his sentence he would be sent to the Caucasus. Indeed, he only
lived by this hope, and I believe he would have died had he been deprived
of it. I noticed it the very day of my arrival. How was it possible not to

distinguish this calm, honest face in the midst of so many sombre, sardonic,
repulsive countenances!
Before I had been half-an-hour in the prison, he passed by my side and
touched me gently on the shoulder, smiling at the same time with an
innocent air. I did not at first understand what he meant, for he spoke
Russian very badly; but soon afterwards he passed again, and, with a
friendly smile, again touched me on the shoulder. For three days running he
repeated this strange proceeding. As I soon found out, he wanted to show
me that he pitied me, and that he felt how painful the first moment of
imprisonment must be. He wanted to testify his sympathy, to keep up my
spirits, and to assure me of his good-will. Kind and innocent Nourra!
Of the three Tartars from Daghestan, all brothers, the two eldest were well-
developed men, while the youngest, Ali, was not more than twenty-two, and
looked younger. He slept by my side, and when I observed his frank,
intelligent countenance, thoroughly natural, I was at once attracted to him,
and thanked my fate that I had him for a neighbour in place of some other
prisoner. His whole soul could be read in his beaming countenance. His
confident smile had a certain childish simplicity; his large black eyes
expressed such friendliness, such tender feeling, that I always took a
pleasure in looking at him. It was a relief to me in moments of sadness and
anguish. One day his eldest brother—he had five, of whom two were
working in the mines of Siberia—had ordered him to take his yataghan, to
get on horseback, and follow him. The respect of the mountaineers for their
elders is so great that young Ali did not dare to ask the object of the
expedition. He probably knew nothing about it, nor did his brothers
consider it necessary to tell him. They were going to plunder the caravan of
a rich Armenian merchant, and they succeeded in their enterprise. They
assassinated the merchant and stole his goods. Unhappily for them, their act
of brigandage was discovered. They were tried, flogged, and then sent to
hard labour in Siberia. The Court admitted no extenuating circumstances,
except in the case of Ali. He was condemned to the minimum punishment—
four years’ confinement. These brothers loved him, their affection being
paternal rather than fraternal. He was the only consolation of their exile.
Dull and sad as a rule, they had always a smile for him when they spoke to
him, which they rarely did—for they looked upon him as a child to whom it
would be useless to speak seriously—their forbidding countenances

lightened up. I fancied they always spoke to him in a jocular tone, as to an
infant. When he replied, the brothers exchanged glances, and smiled good-
naturedly.
He would not have dared to speak to them first by reason of his respect for
them. How this young man preserved his tender heart, his native honesty,
his frank cordiality without getting perverted and corrupted during his
period of hard labour, is quite inexplicable. In spite of his gentleness, he had
a strong stoical nature, as I afterwards saw. Chaste as a young girl,
everything that was foul, cynical, shameful, or unjust filled his fine black
eyes with indignation, and made them finer than ever. Without being a
coward, he would allow himself to be insulted with impunity. He avoided
quarrels and insults, and preserved all his dignity. With whom, indeed, was
he to quarrel? Every one loved him, caressed him.
At first he was only polite to me; but little by little we got into the habit of
talking together in the evening, and in a few months he had learnt to speak
Russian perfectly, whereas his brothers never gained a correct knowledge of
the language. He was intelligent, and at the same time modest and full of
delicate feeling.
Ali was an exceptional being, and I always think of my meeting him as one
of the lucky things in my life. There are some natures so spontaneously
good and endowed by God with such great qualities that the idea of their
getting perverted seems absurd. One is always at ease about them.
Accordingly I had never any fears about Ali. Where is he now?
One day, a considerable time after my arrival at the convict prison, I was
stretched out on my camp-bedstead agitated by painful thoughts. Ali,
always industrious, was not working at this moment. His time for going to
bed had not arrived. The brothers were celebrating some Mussulman
festival, and were not working. Ali was lying down with his head between
his hands in a state of reverie. Suddenly he said to me:
“Well, you are very sad!”
I looked at him with curiosity. Such a remark from Ali, always so delicate,
so full of tact, seemed strange. But I looked at him more attentively, and
saw so much grief, so much repressed suffering in his countenance—of

suffering caused no doubt by sudden recollections—that I understood in
what pain he must be, and said so to him. He uttered a deep sigh, and
smiled with a melancholy air. I always liked his graceful, agreeable smile.
When he laughed, he showed two rows of teeth which the first beauty in the
world would have envied him.
“You were probably thinking, Ali, how this festival is celebrated in
Daghestan. Ah, you were happy there!”
“Yes,” he replied with enthusiasm, and his eyes sparkled. “How did you
know I was thinking of such things?”
“How was I not to know? You were much better off than you are here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“What beautiful flowers there are in your country! Is it not so? It is a true
paradise.”
“Be silent, please.”
He was much agitated.
“Listen, Ali. Had you a sister?”
“Yes; why do you ask me?”
“She must have been very beautiful if she is like you?”
“Oh, there is no comparison to make between us. In all Daghestan no such
beautiful girl is to be seen. My sister is, indeed, charming. I am sure that
you have never seen any one like her. My mother also is very handsome.”
“And your mother was fond of you?”
“What are you saying? Certainly she was. I am sure that she has died of
grief, she was so fond of me. I was her favourite child. Yes, she loved me
more than my sister, more than all the others. This very night she has
appeared to me in a dream, she shed tears for me.”
He was silent, and throughout the rest of the night did not open his mouth;
but from this very moment he sought my company and my conversation;

although very respectful, he never allowed himself to address me first. On
the other hand he was happy when I entered into conversation with him. He
spoke often of the Caucasus, and of his past life. His brothers did not forbid
him to converse with me; I think even that they encouraged him to do so.
When they saw that I had formed an attachment to him, they became more
affable towards me.
Ali often helped me in my work. In the barrack he did whatever he thought
would be agreeable to me, and would save me trouble. In his attentions to
me there was neither servility nor the hope of any advantage, but only a
warm, cordial feeling, which he did not try to hide. He had an extraordinary
aptitude for the mechanical arts. He had learnt to sew very tolerably, and to
mend boots; he even understood a little carpentering—everything in short
that could be learnt at the convict prison. His brothers were proud of him.
“Listen, Ali,” I said to him one day, “why don’t you learn to read and write
the Russian language, it might be very useful to you here in Siberia?”
“I should like to do so, but who would teach me?”
“There are plenty of people here who can read and write. I myself will teach
you if you like.”
“Oh, do teach me, I beg of you,” said Ali, raising himself up in bed; he
joined his hands and looked at me with a suppliant air.
We went to work the very next evening. I had with me a Russian translation
of the New Testament, the only book that was not forbidden in the prison.
With this book alone, without an alphabet, Ali learnt to read in a few weeks,
and after a few months he could read perfectly. He brought to his studies
extraordinary zeal and warmth.
One day we were reading together the Sermon on the Mount. I noticed that
he read certain passages with much feeling; and I asked him if he was
pleased with what he read. He glanced at me, and his face suddenly lighted
up.
“Yes, yes, Jesus is a holy prophet. He speaks the language of God. How
beautiful it is!”

“But tell me what it is that particularly pleases you.”
“The passage in which it is said, ‘Forgive those that hate you!’ Ah! how
divinely He speaks!”
He turned towards his brothers, who were listening to our conversation, and
said to them with warmth a few words. They talked together seriously for
some time, giving their approval of what their young brother had said by a
nodding of the head. Then with a grave, kindly smile, quite a Mussulman
smile (I liked the gravity of this smile), they assured me that Isu [Jesus] was
a great prophet. He had done great miracles. He had created a bird with a
little clay on which he breathed the breath of life, and the bird had then
flown away. That, they said, was written in their books. They were
convinced that they would please me much by praising Jesus. As for Ali, he
was happy to see that his brothers approved of our friendship, and that they
were giving me, what he thought would be, grateful words. The success I
had with my pupil in teaching him to write, was really extraordinary. Ali
had bought paper at his own expense, for he would not allow me to
purchase any, also pens and ink; and in less than two months he had learnt
to write. His brothers were astonished at such rapid progress. Their
satisfaction and their pride were without bounds. They did not know how to
show me enough gratitude. At the workshop, if we happened to be together,
there were disputes as to which of them should help me. I do not speak of
Ali, he felt for me more affection than even for his brothers. I shall never
forget the day on which he was liberated. He went with me outside the
barracks, threw himself on my neck and sobbed. He had never embraced
me before, and had never before wept in my presence.
“You have done so much for me,” he said; “neither my father nor my
mother have ever been kinder. You have made a man of me. God will bless
you, I shall never forget you, never!”
Where is he now, where is my good, kind, dear Ali?
Besides the Circassians, we had a certain number of Poles, who formed a
separate group. They had scarcely any relations with the other convicts. I
have already said that, thanks to their hatred for the Russian prisoners, they
were detested by every one. They were of a restless, morbid disposition:
there were six of them, some of them men of education, of whom I shall

speak in detail further on. It was from them that during the last days of my
imprisonment I obtained a few books. The first work I read made a deep
impression upon me. I shall speak further on of these sensations, which I
look upon as very curious, though it will be difficult to understand them. Of
this I am certain, for there are certain things as to which one cannot judge
without having experienced them oneself. It will be enough for me to say
that intellectual privations are more difficult to support than the most
frightful, physical tortures.
A common man sent to hard labour finds himself in kindred society,
perhaps even in a more interesting society than he has been accustomed to.
He loses his native place, his family; but his ordinary surroundings are
much the same as before. A man of education, condemned by law to the
same punishment as the common man, suffers incomparably more. He must
stifle all his needs, all his habits, he must descend into a lower sphere, must
breathe another air. He is like a fish thrown upon the sand. The punishment
that he undergoes, equal for all criminals according to the law, is ten times
more severe and more painful for him than for the common man. This is an
incontestable truth, even if one thinks only of the material habits that have
to be sacrificed.
I was saying that the Poles formed a group by themselves. They lived
together, and of all the convicts in the prison, they cared only for a Jew, and
for no other reason than because he amused them. Our Jew was generally
liked, although every one laughed at him. We only had one, and even now I
cannot think of him without laughing. Whenever I looked at him I thought
of the Jew Jankel, whom Gogol describes in his Tarass Boulba, and who,
when undressed and ready to go to bed with his Jewess in a sort of
cupboard, resembled a fowl; but Isaiah Fomitch Bumstein and a plucked
fowl were as like one another as two drops of water. He was already of a
certain age—about fifty—small, feeble, cunning, and, at the same time,
very stupid, bold, and boastful, though a horrible coward. His face was
covered with wrinkles, his forehead and cheeks were scarred from the
burning he had received in the pillory. I never understood how he had been
able to support the sixty strokes he received.
He had been sentenced for murder. He carried on his person a medical
prescription which had been given to him by other Jews immediately after

his exposure in the pillory. Thanks to the ointment prescribed, the scars
were to disappear in less than a fortnight. He had been afraid to use it. He
was waiting for the expiration of his twenty years (after which he would
become a colonist) in order to utilise his famous remedy.
“Otherwise I shall not be able to get married,” he would say; “and I must
absolutely marry.”
We were great friends: his good-humour was inexhaustible. The life of the
convict prison did not seem to disagree with him. A goldsmith by trade, he
received more orders than he could execute, for there was no jeweller’s
shop in our town. He thus escaped his hard labour. As a matter of course, he
lent money on pledges to the convicts, who paid him heavy interest. He
arrived at the prison before I did. One of the Poles related to me his
triumphal entry. It is quite a history, which I shall relate further on, for I
shall often have to speak of Isaiah Fomitch Bumstein.
As for the other prisoners there were, first of all, four “old believers,”
among whom was the old man from Starodoub, two or three Little
Russians, very morose persons, and a young convict with delicate features
and a finely-chiselled nose, about twenty-three years of age, who had
already committed eight murders; besides a band of coiners, one of whom
was the buffoon of our barracks; and, finally, some sombre, sour-tempered
convicts, shorn and disfigured, always silent, and full of envy. They looked
askance at all who came near them, and must have continued to do so
during a long course of years. I saw all this superficially on the first night of
my arrival, in the midst of thick smoke, in a mephitic atmosphere, amid
obscene oaths, accompanied by the rattling of chains, by insults, and
cynical laughter. I stretched myself out on the bare planks, my head resting
on my coat, rolled up to do duty in lieu of a pillow, not yet supplied to me.
Then I covered myself with my sheepskin, but, thanks to the painful
impression of this evening, I was unable for some time to get to sleep. My
new life was only just beginning. The future reserved for me many things
which I had not foreseen, and of which I had never the least idea.

CHAPTER VI. THE FIRST MONTH

Three days after my arrival I was ordered to go to work. The impression left
upon me to this day is still very clear, although there was nothing very
striking in it, unless one considers that my position was in itself
extraordinary. The first sensations count for a good deal, and I as yet looked
upon everything with curiosity. My first three days were certainly the most
painful of all my terms of imprisonment.
My wandering is at an end, I said to myself every moment. I am now in the
convict prison, my resting-place for many years. Here is where I am to live.
I come here full of grief, who knows that when I leave it I shall not do so
with regret? I said this to myself as one touches a wound, the better to feel
its pain. The idea that I might regret my stay was terrible to me. Already I
felt to what an intolerable degree man is a creature of habit, but this was a
matter of the future. The present, meanwhile, was terrible enough.
The wild curiosity with which my convict companions examined me, their
harshness towards a former nobleman now entering into their corporation, a
harshness which sometimes took the form of hatred—all this tormented me
to such a degree that I felt obliged of my own accord to go to work in order
to measure at one stroke the whole extent of my misfortune, that I might at
once begin to live like the others, and fall with them into the same abyss.
But convicts differ, and I had not yet disentangled from the general hostility
the sympathy here and there manifested towards me.
After a time the affability and good-will shown to me by certain convicts
gave me a little courage, and restored my spirits. Most friendly among them
was Akim Akimitch. I soon noticed some kind, good-natured faces in the
dark and hateful crowd. Bad people are to be found everywhere, but even
among the worst there may be something good, I began to think, by way of
consolation. Who knows? These persons are perhaps not worse than others
who are free. While making these reflections I felt some doubts, and,
nevertheless, how much I was in the right!
The convict Suchiloff, for example; a man whose acquaintance I did not
make until long afterwards, although he was near me during nearly the
whole period of my confinement. Whenever I speak of the convicts who are

not worse than other men, my thoughts turn involuntarily to him. He acted
as my servant, together with another prisoner named Osip, whom Akim
Akimitch had recommended to me immediately after my arrival. For thirty
kopecks a month this man agreed to cook me a separate dinner, in case I
should not be able to put up with the ordinary prison fare, and should be
able to pay for my own food. Osip was one of the four cooks chosen by the
prisoners in our two kitchens. I may observe that they were at liberty to
refuse these duties, and give them up whenever they might think fit. The
cooks were men from whom hard labour was not expected. They had to
bake bread and prepare the cabbage soup. They were called “cook-maids,”
not from contempt, for the men chosen were always the most intelligent,
but merely in fun. The name given to them did not annoy them.
For many years past Osip had been constantly selected as “cook-maid.” He
never refused the duty except when he was out of sorts, or when he saw an
opportunity of getting spirits into the barracks. Although he had been sent to
the convict prison as a smuggler, he was remarkably honest and good-
tempered (I have spoken of him before); at the same time he was a dreadful
coward, and feared the rod above all things. Of a peaceful, patient
disposition, affable with everybody, he never got into quarrels; but he could
never resist the temptation of bringing spirits in, notwithstanding his
cowardice, and simply from his love of smuggling. Like all the other cooks
he dealt in spirits, but on a much less extensive scale than Gazin, because
he was afraid of running the same risks. I always lived on good terms with
Osip. To have a separate table it was not necessary to be very rich; it cost
me only one rouble a month apart from the bread, which was given to us.
Sometimes when I was very hungry I made up my mind to eat the cabbage
soup, in spite of the disgust with which it generally filled me. After a time
this disgust entirely disappeared. I generally bought one pound of meat a
day, which cost me two kopecks—[5 kopecks = 2 pence.]
The old soldiers, who watched over the internal discipline of the barracks,
were ready, good-naturedly, to go every day to the market to make
purchases for the convicts. For this they received no pay, except from time
to time a trifling present. They did it for the sake of their peace; their life in
the convict prison would have been a perpetual torment had they refused.
They used to bring in tobacco, tea, meat—everything, in short, that was
desired, always excepting spirits.

For many years Osip prepared for me every day a piece of roast meat. How
he managed to get it cooked was a secret. What was strangest in the matter
was, that during all this time I scarcely exchanged two words with him. I
tried many times to make him talk, but he was incapable of keeping up a
conversation. He would only smile and answer my questions by “yes” or
“no.” He was a Hercules, but he had no more intelligence than a child of
seven.
Suchiloff was also one of those who helped me. I had never asked him to do
so, he attached himself to me on his own account, and I scarcely remember
when he began to do so. His principal duty consisted in washing my linen.
For this purpose there was a basin in the middle of the court-yard, round
which the convicts washed their clothes in prison buckets.
Suchiloff had found means for rendering me a number of little services. He
boiled my tea-urn, ran right and left to perform various commissions for
me, got me all kinds of things, mended my clothes, and greased my boots
four times a month. He did all this in a zealous manner, with a business-like
air, as if he felt all the weight of the duties he was performing. He seemed
quite to have joined his fate to mine, and occupied himself with all my
affairs. He never said: “You have so many shirts, or your waistcoat is torn;”
but, “We have so many shirts, and our waistcoat is torn.” I had somehow
inspired him with admiration, and I really believe that I had become his sole
care in life. As he knew no trade whatever his only source of income was
from me, and it must be understood that I paid him very little; but he was
always pleased, whatever he might receive. He would have been without
means had he not been a servant of mine, and he gave me the preference
because I was more affable than the others, and, above all, more equitable
in money matters. He was one of those beings who never get rich, and
never know how to manage their affairs; one of those in the prison who
were hired by the gamblers to watch all night in the ante-chamber, listening
for the least noise that might announce the arrival of the Major. If there was
a night visit they received nothing, indeed their back paid for their want of
attention. One thing which marks this kind of men is their entire absence of
individuality, which they seem entirely to have lost.
Suchiloff was a poor, meek fellow; all the courage seemed to have been
beaten out of him, although he had in reality been born meek. For nothing

in the world would he have raised his hand against any one in the prison. I
always pitied him without knowing why. I could not look at him without
feeling the deepest compassion for him. If asked to explain this, I should
find it impossible to do so. I could never get him to talk, and he never
became animated, except when, to put an end to all attempts at
conversation, I gave him something to do, or told him to go somewhere for
me. I soon found that he loved to be ordered about. Neither tall nor short,
neither ugly nor handsome, neither stupid nor intelligent, neither old nor
young, it would be difficult to describe in any definite manner this man,
except that his face was slightly pitted with the small-pox, and that he had
fair hair. He belonged, as far as I could make out, to the same company as
Sirotkin. The prisoners sometimes laughed at him because he had
“exchanged.” During the march to Siberia he had exchanged for a red shirt
and a silver rouble. It was thought comical that he should have sold himself
for such a small sum, to take the name of another prisoner in place of his
own, and consequently to accept the other’s sentence. Strange as it may
appear it was nevertheless true. This custom, which had become traditional,
and still existed at the time I was sent to Siberia, I, at first, refused to
believe, but found afterwards that it really existed. This is how the exchange
was effected:
A company of prisoners started for Siberia. Among them there are exiles of
all kinds, some condemned to hard labour, others to labour in the mines,
others to simple colonisation. On the way out, no matter at what stage of the
journey, in the Government of Perm, for instance, a prisoner wishes to
exchange with another man, who—we will say he is named Mikhailoff—
has been condemned to hard labour for a capital offence, and does not like
the prospect of passing long years without his liberty. He knows, in his
cunning, what to do. He looks among his comrades for some simple, weak-
minded fellow, whose punishment is less severe, who has been condemned
to a few years in the mines, or to hard labour, or has perhaps been simply
exiled. At last he finds such a man as Suchiloff, a former serf, sentenced
only to become a colonist. The man has made fifteen hundred versts [about
one thousand miles] without a kopeck, for the good reason that a Suchiloff
is always without money; fatigued, exhausted, he can get nothing to eat
beyond the fixed rations, nothing to wear in addition to the convict uniform.

Mikhailoff gets into conversation with Suchiloff, they suit one another, and
they strike up a friendship. At last at some station Mikhailoff makes his
comrade drunk, then he will ask him if he will “exchange.”
“My name is Mikhailoff,” he says to him, “condemned to what is called
hard labour, but which, in my own case, will be nothing of the kind, as I am
to enter a particular special section. I am classed with the hard-labour men,
but in my special division the labour is not so severe.”
Before the special section was abolished, many persons in the official
world, even at St. Petersburg, were unaware even of its existence. It was in
such a retired corner of one of the most distant regions of Siberia, that it
was difficult to know anything about it. It was insignificant, moreover, from
the number of persons belonging to it. In my time they numbered altogether
only seventy. I have since met men who have served in Siberia, and know
the country well, and yet have never heard of the “special section.” In the
rules and regulations there are only six lines about this institution. Attached
to the convict prison of ---- is a special section reserved for the most
dangerous criminals, while the severest labours are being prepared for
them. The prisoners themselves knew nothing of this special section. Did it
exist temporarily or constantly? Neither Suchiloff nor any of the prisoners
being sent out, not Mikhailoff himself could guess the significance of those
two words. Mikhailoff, however, had his suspicion as to the true character
of this section. He formed his opinion from the gravity of the crime for
which he was made to march three or four thousand versts on foot. It was
certain that he was not being sent to a place where he would be at his ease.
Suchiloff was to be a colonist. What could Mikhailoff desire better than
that?
“Won’t you change?” he asks. Suchiloff is a little drunk, he is a simple-
minded man, full of gratitude to the comrade who entertains him, and dare
not refuse; he has heard, moreover, from other prisoners, that these
exchanges are made, and understands, therefore, that there is nothing
extraordinary, unheard-of, in the proposition made to him. An agreement is
come to, the cunning Mikhailoff, profiting by Suchiloff’s simplicity, buys
his name for a red shirt, and a silver rouble, which are given before
witnesses. The next day Suchiloff is sober; but more liquor is given to him.

Then he drinks up his own rouble, and after a while the red shirt has the
same fate.
“If you don’t like the bargain we made, give me back my money,” says
Mikhailoff. But where is Suchiloff to get a rouble? If he does not give it
back, the “artel” [i.e., the association—in this case of convicts] will force
him to keep his promise. The prisoners are very sensitive on such points: he
must keep his promise. The “artel” requires it, and, in case of disobedience,
woe to the offender! He will be killed, or at least seriously intimidated. If
indeed the “artel” once showed mercy to the men who had broken their
word, there would be an end to its existence. If the given word can be
recalled, and the bargain put an end to after the stipulated sum has been
paid, who would be bound by such an agreement? It is a question of life or
death for the “artel.” Accordingly the prisoners are very severe on the point.
Suchiloff then finds that it is impossible to go back, that nothing can save
him, and he accordingly agrees to all that is demanded of him. The bargain
is then made known to all the convoy, and if denunciations are feared, the
men looked upon as suspicious are entertained. What, moreover, does it
matter to the others whether Mikhailoff or Suchiloff goes to the devil? They
have had gratuitous drinks, they have been feasted for nothing, and the
secret is kept by all.
At the next station the names are called. When Mikhailoff’s turn arrives,
Suchiloff answers “present,” Mikhailoff replies “present” for Suchiloff, and
the journey is continued. The matter is not now even talked about. At
Tobolsk the prisoners are told off. Mikhailoff will become a colonist, while
Suchiloff is sent to the special section under a double escort. It would be
useless now to cry out, to protest, for what proof could be given? How
many years would it take to decide the affair, what benefit would the
complainant derive? Where, moreover, are the witnesses? They would deny
everything, even if they could be found.
That is how Suchiloff, for a silver rouble and a red shirt, came to be sent to
the special section. The prisoners laughed at him, not because he had
exchanged—though in general they despised those who had been foolish
enough to exchange a work that was easy for a work that was hard—but

simply because he had received nothing for the bargain except a red shirt
and a rouble—certainly a ridiculous compensation.
Generally speaking, the exchanges are made for relatively large sums;
several ten-rouble notes sometimes change hands. But Suchiloff was so
characterless, so insignificant, so null, that he could scarcely even be
laughed at. We lived a considerable time together, he and I; I had got
accustomed to him, and he had formed an attachment for me. One day,
however—I can never forgive myself for what I did—he had not executed
my orders, and when he came to ask me for his money I had the cruelty to
say to him, “You don’t forget to ask for your money, but you don’t do what
you are told.” Suchiloff remained silent and hastened to do as he was
ordered, but he suddenly became very sad. Two days passed. I could not
believe that what I had said to him could affect him so much. I knew that a
person named Vassilieff was claiming from him in a morose manner
payment of a small debt. Suchiloff was probably short of money, and did
not dare to ask me for any.
“Suchiloff, you wish, I think, to ask me for some money to pay Vassilieff;
take this.”
I was seated on my camp-bedstead. Suchiloff remained standing up before
me, much astonished that I myself should propose to give him money, and
that I remembered his difficult position; the more so as latterly he had asked
me several times for money in advance, and could scarcely hope that I
should give him any more. He looked at the paper I held out to him, then
looked at me, turned sharply on his heel and went out. I was as astonished
as I could be. I went out after him, and found him at the back of the
barracks. He was standing up with his face against the palisade and his arms
resting on the stakes.
“What is the matter, Suchiloff?” I asked him.
He made no reply, and to my stupefaction I saw that he was on the point of
bursting into tears.
“You think, Alexander Petrovitch,” he said, in a trembling voice, in
endeavouring not to look at me, “that I care only for your money, but I
——”

He turned away from me, and struck the palisade with his forehead and
began to sob. It was the first time in the convict prison that I had seen a man
weep. I had much trouble in consoling him; and he afterwards served me, if
possible, with more zeal than ever. He watched for my orders, but by almost
imperceptible indications I could see that his heart would never forgive me
for my reproach. Meanwhile other men laughed at him and teased him
whenever the opportunity presented itself, and even insulted him without
his losing his temper; on the contrary, he still remained on good terms with
them. It is indeed difficult to know a man, even after having lived long
years with him.
The convict prison had not at first for me the significance it was afterwards
to assume. I was at first, in spite of my attention, unable to understand many
facts which were staring me in the face. I was naturally first struck by the
most salient points, but I saw them from a false point of view, and the only
impression they made upon me was one of unmitigated sadness. What
contributed above all to this result was my meeting with A——f, the
convict who had come to the prison before me, and who had astonished me
in such a painful manner during the first few days. The effect of his
baseness was to aggravate my moral suffering, already sufficiently cruel.
He offered the most repulsive example of the kind of degradation and
baseness to which a man may fall when all feeling of honour has perished
within him. This young man of noble birth—I have spoken of him before—
used to repeat to the Major all that was done in the barracks, and in doing so
through the Major’s body-servant Fedka. Here is the man’s history.
Arrived at St. Petersburg before he had finished his studies, after a quarrel
with his parents, whom his life of debauchery had terrified, he had not
shrunk for the sake of money from doing the work of an informer. He did
not hesitate to sell the blood of ten men in order to satisfy his insatiable
thirst for the grossest and most licentious pleasures. At last he became so
completely perverted in the St. Petersburg taverns and houses of ill-fame,
that he did not hesitate to take part in an affair which he knew to be
conceived in madness—for he was not without intelligence. He was
condemned to exile and ten years’ hard labour in Siberia. One might have
thought that such a frightful blow would have shocked him, that it would
have caused some reaction and brought about a crisis; but he accepted his
new fate without the least confusion. It did not frighten him; all that he

feared in it was the necessity of working, and of giving up for ever his
habits of debauchery. The name of convict had no effect but to prepare him
for new acts of baseness, and more hideous villainies than any he had
previously perpetrated.
“I am now a convict, and can crawl at ease, without shame.”
That was the light in which he looked upon his new position. I think of this
disgusting creature as of some monstrous phenomenon. During the many
years I have lived in the midst of murderers, debauchees, and proved
rascals, never in my life did I meet a case of such complete moral
abasement, determined corruption, and shameless baseness. Among us there
was a parricide of noble birth. I have already spoken of him; but I could see
by several signs that he was much better and more humane than A——f.
During the whole time of my punishment, he was never anything more in
my eyes than a piece of flesh furnished with teeth and a stomach, greedy for
the most offensive and ferocious animal enjoyments, for the satisfaction of
which he was ready to assassinate anyone. I do not exaggerate in the least; I
recognised in A——f one of the most perfect specimens of animality,
restrained by no principles, no rule. How much I was disgusted by his
eternal smile! He was a monster—a moral Quasimodo. He was at the same
time intelligent, cunning, good-looking, had received some education, and
possessed a certain capacity. Fire, plague, famine, no matter what scourge,
is preferable to the presence of such a man in human society. I have already
said that in the convict prison espionage and denunciation flourished as the
natural product of degradation, without the convicts thinking much of it. On
the contrary, they maintained friendly relations with A——f. They were
more affable with him than with any one else. The kindly attitude towards
him of our drunken friend, the Major, gave him a certain importance, and
even a certain worth in the eyes of the convicts. Later on, this cowardly
wretch ran away with another convict and the soldier in charge of them; but
of this I shall speak in proper time and place. At first, he hung about me,
thinking I did not know his history. I repeat that he poisoned the first days
of my imprisonment so as to drive me nearly to despair. I was terrified by
the mass of baseness and cowardice in the midst of which I had been
thrown. I imagined that every one else was as foul and cowardly as he. But
I made a mistake in supposing that every one resembled A——f.

During the first three days I did nothing but wander about the convict
prison, when I did not remain stretched out on my camp-bedstead. I
entrusted to a prisoner of whom I was sure, the piece of linen which had
been delivered to me by the administration, in order that he might make me
some shirts. Always on the advice of Akim Akimitch, I got myself a folding
mattress. It was in felt, covered with linen, as thin as a pancake, and very
hard to any one who was not accustomed to it. Akim Akimitch promised to
get me all the most essential things, and with his own hands made me a
blanket out of a piece of old cloth, cut and sewn together from all the old
trousers and waistcoats which I had bought from various prisoners. The
clothes delivered to them, when they have been worn the regulation time,
become the property of the prisoners. They at once sell them, for however
much worn an article of clothing may be, it always possesses a certain
value. I was very much astonished by all this, above all at the outset, during
my first relations with this world. I became as low as my companions, as
much a convict as they. Their customs, their habits, their ideas influenced
me thoroughly, and externally became my own, without affecting my inner
self. I was astonished and confused as though I had never heard or
suspected anything of the kind before, and yet I knew what to expect, or at
least what had been told me. The thing itself, however, produced on me a
different impression from the mere description of it. How could I suppose,
for instance, that old rags possessed still some value? And, nevertheless, my
blanket was made up entirely of tatters. It would be difficult to describe the
cloth out of which the clothes of the convicts were made. It was like the
thick, gray cloth manufactured for the soldiers, but as soon as it had been
worn some little time it showed the threads and tore with abominable ease.
The uniform ought to have lasted for a whole year, but it never went so long
as that. The prisoner labours, carries heavy burdens, and the cloth naturally
wears out, and gets into holes very quickly. Our sheepskins were intended
to be worn for three years. During the whole of that time they served as
outer garments, blankets, and pillows, but they were very solid.
Nevertheless, at the end of the third year, it was not rare to see them
mended with ordinary linen. Although they were now very much worn, it
was always possible to sell them at the rate of forty kopecks a piece, the
best preserved ones even at the price of sixty kopecks, which was a great
sum for the convict prison.

Money, as I have before said, has a sovereign value in such a place. It is
certain that a prisoner who has some pecuniary resources suffers ten times
less than the one who has nothing.
“When the Government supplies all the wants of the convict, what need can
he have for money?” reasoned our chief.
Nevertheless, I repeat that if the prisoners had been deprived of the
opportunity of possessing something of their own, they would have lost
their reason, or would have died like flies. They would have committed
unheard-of crimes; some from wearisomeness or grief, the others, in order
to get sooner punished, and, according to their expression, “have a change.”
If the convict who has gained some kopecks by the sweat of his brow, who
has embarked in perilous undertakings in order to conquer them, if he
spends this money recklessly, with childish stupidity, that does not the least
in the world prove that he does not know its value, as might at first sight be
thought. The convict is greedy for money, to the point of losing his reason,
and, if he throws it away, he does so in order to procure what he places far
above money—liberty, or at least a semblance of liberty.
Convicts are great dreamers; I will speak of that further on with more detail.
At present I will confine myself to saying that I have heard men, who had
been condemned to twenty years’ hard labour, say, with a quiet air, “when I
have finished my time, if God wishes, then——” The very words hard
labour, or forced labour, indicate that the man has lost his freedom; and
when this man spends his money he is carrying out his own will.
In spite of the branding and the chains, in spite of the palisade which hides
from his eyes the free world, and encloses him in a cage like a wild beast,
he can get himself spirits and other delights; sometimes even (not always),
corrupt his immediate superintendents, the old soldiers and non-
commissioned officers, and get them to close their eyes to his infractions of
discipline within the prison. He can, moreover—what he adores—swagger;
that is to say, impress his companions and persuade himself for a time, that
he enjoys more liberty than he really possesses. The poor devil wishes, in a
word, to convince himself of what he knows to be impossible. This is why
the prisoners take such pleasure in boasting and exaggerating in burlesque
fashion their own unhappy personality.

Finally, they run some risk when they give themselves up to this boasting;
in which again they find a semblance of life and liberty—the only thing
they care for. Would not a millionaire with a rope round his neck give all his
millions for one breath of air? A prisoner has lived quietly for several years
in succession, his conduct has been so exemplary that he has been rewarded
by special exemptions. Suddenly, to the great astonishment of his chiefs,
this man becomes mutinous, plays the very devil, and does not recoil from a
capital crime such as assassination, violation, etc. Every one is astounded at
the cause of this unexpected explosion on the part of a man thought
incapable of such a thing. It is the convulsive manifestation of his
personality, an instinctive melancholia, an uncontrollable desire for self-
assertion, all of which obscures his reason. It is a sort of epileptic attack, a
spasm. A man buried alive who suddenly wakes up must strike in a similar
manner against the lid of his coffin. He tries to rise up, to push it from him,
although his reason must convince him of the uselessness of his efforts.
Reason, however, has nothing to do with this convulsion. It must not be
forgotten that almost every voluntary manifestation on the part of a convict
is looked upon as a crime. Accordingly, it is a perfect matter of indifference
to them whether this manifestation be important or insignificant, debauch
for debauch, danger for danger. It is just as well to go to the end, even as far
as a murder. The only difficulty is the first step. Little by little the man
becomes excited, intoxicated, and can no longer contain himself. For that
reason it would be better not to drive him to extremities. Everybody would
be much better for it.
But how can this be managed?

CHAPTER VII. THE FIRST MONTH (continued)

When I entered the convict prison I possessed a small sum of money; but I
carried very little of it about with me, lest it should be confiscated. I had
gummed some banknotes into the binding of my New Testament—the only
book authorised in the convict prison. This New Testament had been given

to me at Tobolsk, by a person who had been exiled some dozens of years,
and who had got accustomed to see in other “unfortunates” a brother.
There are in Siberia people who pass their lives in giving brotherly
assistance to the “unfortunates.” They feel the same sympathy for them that
they would have for their own children. Their compassion is something
sacred and quite disinterested. I cannot help here relating in some words a
meeting which I had at this time.
In the town where we were then imprisoned lived a widow, Nastasia
Ivanovna. Naturally, none of us were in direct relations with this woman.
She had made it the object of her life to come to the assistance of all the
exiles; but, above all, of us convicts. Had there been some misfortune in her
family? Had some person dear to her undergone a punishment similar to
ours? I do not know. In any case, she did for us whatever she could. It is
true she could do very little, for she was very poor. But we felt when we
were shut up in the convict prison that, outside, we had a devoted friend.
She often brought us news, which we were very glad to hear, for nothing of
the kind reached us.
When I left the prison to be taken to another town, I had the opportunity of
calling upon her and making her acquaintance. She lived in one of the
suburbs, at the house of a near relation.
Nastasia Ivanovna was neither old nor young, neither pretty nor ugly. It was
difficult, impossible even, to know whether she was intelligent and well-
bred. But in her actions could be seen infinite compassion, an irresistible
desire to please, to solace, to be in some way agreeable. All this could be
read in the sweetness of her smile.
I passed an entire evening at her house, with other companions of my
imprisonment. She looked us straight in the face, laughed when we laughed,
did everything we asked her, in conversation was always of our opinion,
and did her best in every way to entertain us. She gave us tea and various
little delicacies. If she had been rich we felt sure she would have been
pleased, if only to be able to entertain us better and offer for us some solid
consolation.

When we wished her “good-bye,” she gave us each a present of a cardboard
cigar-case as a souvenir. She had made them herself—Heaven knows how
—with coloured paper, the paper with which school-boys’ copy-books are
covered. All round this cardboard cigar-case she had gummed, by way of
ornamentation, a thin edge of gilt paper.
“As you smoke, these cigar-cases will perhaps be of use to you,” she said,
as if excusing herself for making such a present.
There are people who say, as I have read and heard, that a great love for
one’s neighbour is only a form of selfishness. What selfishness could there
be in this? That I could never understand.
Although I had not much money when I entered the convict prison, I could
not nevertheless feel seriously annoyed with convicts who, immediately on
my arrival, after having deceived me once, came to borrow of me a second,
a third time, and even oftener. But I admitted frankly that what did annoy
me was the thought that all these people, with their smiling knavery, must
take me for a fool, and laugh at me just because I lent the money for the
fifth time. It must have seemed to them that I was the dupe of their tricks
and their deceit. If, on the contrary, I had refused them and sent them away,
I am certain that they would have had much more respect for me. Still,
though it vexed me very much, I could not refuse them.
I was rather anxious during the first days to know what footing I should
hold in the convict prison, and what rule of conduct I should follow with
my companions. I felt and perfectly understood that the place being in every
way new to me, I was walking in darkness, and it would be impossible for
me to live for ten years in darkness. I decided to act frankly, according to
the dictates of my conscience and my personal feeling. But I also knew that
this decision might be very well in theory, and that I should, in practice, be
governed by unforeseen events. Accordingly, in addition to all the petty
annoyances caused to me by my confinement in the convict prison, one
terrible anguish laid hold of me and tormented me more and more.
“The dead-house!” I said to myself when night fell, and I looked from the
threshold of our barracks at the prisoners just returned from their labours
and walking about in the court-yard, from the kitchen to the barracks, and
vice versâ. As I examined their movements and their physiognomies I

endeavoured to guess what sort of men they were, and what their
disposition might be.
They lounged about in front of me, some with lowered brows, others full of
gaiety—one of these expressions was seen on every convict’s face—
exchanged insults or talked on indifferent matters. Sometimes, too, they
wandered about in solitude, occupied apparently with their own reflections;
some of them with a worn-out, pathetic look, others with a conceited air of
superiority. Yes, here, even here!—their cap balanced on the side of their
head, their sheepskin coat picturesquely over the shoulder, insolence in their
eyes and mockery on their lips.
“Here is the world to which I am condemned, in which, in spite of myself, I
must somehow live,” I said to myself.
I endeavoured to question Akim Akimitch, with whom I liked to take my
tea, in order not to be alone, for I wanted to know something about the
different convicts. In parenthesis I must say that the tea, at the beginning of
my imprisonment, was almost my only food. Akim Akimitch never refused
to take tea with me, and he himself heated our tin tea-urns, made in the
convict prison and let out to me by M——.
Akim Akimitch generally drank a glass of tea (he had glasses of his own)
calmly and silently, then thanked me when he had finished, and at once
went to work on my blanket; but he had not been able to tell me what I
wanted to know, and did not even understand my desire to know the
dispositions of the people surrounding me. He listened to me with a cunning
smile which I have still before my eyes. No, I thought, I must find out for
myself; it is useless to interrogate others.
The fourth day, the convicts were drawn up in two ranks, early in the
morning, in the court-yard before the guard-house, close to the prison gates.
Before and behind them were soldiers with loaded muskets and fixed
bayonets.
The soldier has the right to fire on the convict if he tries to escape. But, on
the other hand, he is answerable for his shot, if there was no absolute
necessity for him to fire. The same thing applies to revolts. But who would
think of openly taking to flight?

The Engineer officer arrived accompanied by the so-called “conductor” and
by some non-commissioned officers of the Line, together with sappers and
soldiers told off to superintend the labours of the convicts.
The roll was called. Then the convicts who were going to the tailors’
workshop started first. These men worked inside the prison, and made
clothes for all the inmates. The other exiles went into the outer workshops,
until at last arrived the turn of the prisoners destined for field labour. I was
of this number—there were altogether twenty of us. Behind the fortress on
the frozen river were two barges belonging to the Government, which were
not worth anything, but which had to be taken to pieces in order that the
wood might not be lost. The wood was in itself all but valueless, for
firewood can be bought in the town at a nominal price. The whole country
is covered with forests.
This work was given to us in order that we might not remain with our arms
crossed. This was understood on both sides. Accordingly, we went to it
apathetically; though just the contrary happened when work had to be done,
which would be profitable, or when a fixed task was assigned to us. In this
latter case, although prisoners were to derive no profit from their work, they
tried to get it over as soon as possible, and took a pride in doing it quickly.
When such work as I am speaking of had to be done as a matter of form,
rather than because it was necessary, task work could not be asked for. We
had to go on until the beating of the drum at eleven o’clock called back the
convicts.
The day was warm and foggy, the snow was on the point of melting. Our
entire band walked towards the bank behind the fortress, shaking lightly
their chains hid beneath their garments: the sound came forth clear and
ringing. Two or three convicts went to get their tools from the dépôt.
I walked on with the others. I had become a little animated, for I wanted to
see and know in what this field labour consisted, to what sort of work I was
condemned, and how I should do it for the first time in my life.
I remember the smallest particulars. We met, as we were walking along, a
townsman with a long beard, who stopped and slipped his hand into his
pocket. A prisoner left our party, took off his cap and received alms—to the
extent of five kopecks—then came back hurriedly towards us. The

townsman made the sign of the cross and went his way. The five kopecks
were spent the same morning in buying cakes of white bread which were
shared equally among us. In my squad some were gloomy and taciturn,
others indifferent and indolent. There were some who talked in an idle
manner. One of these men was extremely gay, heaven knows why. He sang
and danced as we went along, shaking and ringing his chains at each step.
This fat and corpulent convict was the very one who, on the very day of my
arrival during the general washing, had a quarrel with one of his
companions about the water, and had ventured to compare him to some sort
of bird. His name was Scuratoff. He finished by shouting out a lively song
of which I remember the burden:

They married me without my consent,
When I was at the mill.

Nothing was wanting but a balalaika [the Russian banjo].
His extraordinary good-humour was justly reproved by several of the
prisoners, who were offended by it.
“Listen to his hallooing,” said one of the convicts, “though it doesn’t
become him.”
“The wolf has but one song; this Tuliak [inhabitant of Tula] is stealing it
from him,” said another, who could be recognised by his accent as a Little
Russian.
“Of course I am from Tula,” replied Scuratoff; “but we don’t stuff ourselves
to bursting as you do in your Pultava.”
“Liar! what did you eat yourself? Bark shoes and cabbage soup?”
“You talk as if the devil fed you on sweet almonds,” broke in a third.
“I admit, my friend, that I am an effeminate man,” said Scuratoff with a
gentle sigh, as though he were really reproaching himself for his
effeminacy. “From my most tender infancy I was brought up in luxury, fed
on plums and delicate cakes. My brothers even now have a large business at
Moscow. They are wholesale dealers in the wind that blows; immensely
rich men, as you may imagine.”
“And what did you sell?”
“I was very successful, and when I received my first two hundred——”
“Roubles? impossible!” interrupted one of the prisoners, struck with
amazement at hearing of so large a sum.
“No, my good fellow, not two hundred roubles, two hundred blows of the
stick. Luka; I say Luka!”
“Some have the right to call me Luka, but for you I am Luka Kouzmitch,”
replied rather ill-temperedly a small, feeble convict with a pointed nose.

“The devil take you, you are really not worth speaking to; yet I wanted to
be civil to you. But to continue my story; this is how it happened that I did
not remain any longer at Moscow. I received my fifteen last strokes and was
then sent off, and was at——”
“But what were you sent for?” asked a convict who had been listening
attentively.
“Don’t ask stupid questions. I was explaining to you how it was I did not
make my fortune at Moscow; and yet how anxious I was to be rich, you
could scarcely imagine how much.”
Many of the prisoners began to laugh. Scuratoff was one of those lively
persons, full of animal spirits, who take a pleasure in amusing their graver
companions, and who, as a matter of course, received no reward except
insults. He belonged to a type of men, to whose characteristics I shall,
perhaps, have to return.
“And what a fellow he is now!” observed Luka Kouzmitch. “His clothes
alone must be worth a hundred roubles.”
Scuratoff had the oldest and greasiest sheepskin that could be seen. It was
mended in many different places with pieces that scarcely hung together. He
looked at Luka attentively from head to foot.
“It is my head, friend,” he said, “my head that is worth money. When I took
farewell of Moscow, I was half consoled, because my head was to make the
journey on my shoulders. Farewell, Moscow, I shall never forget your free
air, nor the tremendous flogging I got. As for my sheepskin, you are not
obliged to look at it.”
“You would like me, perhaps, to look at your head?”
“If it was really his own natural property, but it was given him in charity,”
cried Luka Kouzmitch. “It was a gift made to him at Tumen, when the
convoy was passing through the town.”
“Scuratoff, had you a workshop?”
“What workshop could he have? He was only a cobbler,” said one of the
convicts.

“It is true,” said Scuratoff, without noticing the caustic tone of the speaker.
“I tried to mend boots, but I never got beyond a single pair.”
“And were you paid for them?”
“Well, I found a fellow who certainly neither feared God nor honoured
either his father or his mother, and as a punishment, Providence made him
buy the work of my hands.”
The men around Scuratoff burst into a laugh.
“I also worked once at the convict prison,” continued Scuratoff, with
imperturbable coolness. “I did up the boots of Stepan Fedoritch, the
lieutenant.”
“And was he satisfied?”
“No, my dear fellows, indeed he was not; he blackguarded me enough to
last me for the rest of my life. He also pushed me from behind with his
knee. What a rage he was in! Ah! my life has deceived me. I see no fun in
the convict prison whatever.” He began to sing again.

Akolina’s husband is in the court-yard.
There he waits.

Again he sang, and again he danced and leaped.
“Most unbecoming!” murmured the Little Russian, who was walking by my
side.
“Frivolous man!” said another in a serious, decided tone.
I could not make out why they insulted Scuratoff, nor why they despised
those convicts who were light-hearted, as they seemed to do. I attributed the
anger of the Little Russian and the others to a feeling of personal hostility,
but in this I was wrong. They were vexed that Scuratoff had not that puffed-
up air of false dignity with which the whole of the convict prison was
impregnated.
They did not, however, get annoyed with all the jokers, nor treat them all
like Scuratoff. Some of them were men who would stand no nonsense, and

forgive no one voluntarily or involuntarily. It was necessary to treat them
with respect. There was in our band a convict of this very kind, a good-
natured, lively fellow, whom I did not see in his true light until later on. He
was a tall young fellow, with pleasant manners, and not without good looks.
There was at the same time a very comic expression on his face.
He was called the Sapper, because he had served in the Engineers. He
belonged to the special section.
But all the serious-minded convicts were not so particular as the Little
Russian, who could not bear to see people gay.
We had in our prison several men who aimed at a certain pre-eminence,
either in virtue of skill at their work, of their general ingenuity, of their
character, or their wit. Many of them were intelligent and energetic, and
reached the point they were aiming at—pre-eminence, that is to say, and
moral influence over their companions. They often hated one another, and
they excited general envy. They looked upon other convicts with a dignified
air, that was full of condescension; and they never quarrelled without a
cause. Favourably looked upon by the administration, they in some measure
directed the work, and none of them would have lowered himself so far as
to quarrel with a man about his songs. All these men were very polite to me
during the whole time of my imprisonment, but not at all communicative.
At last we reached the bank; a little lower down was the old hulk, which we
were to break up, stuck fast in the ice. On the other side of the water was
the blue steppe and the sad horizon. I expected to see every one go to work
at once. Nothing of the kind. Some of the convicts sat down negligently on
wooden beams that were lying near the shore, and nearly all took from their
pockets pouches containing native tobacco—which was sold in leaf at the
market at the rate of three kopecks a pound—and short wooden pipes. They
lighted them while the soldiers formed a circle around them, and began to
watch us with a tired look.
“Who the devil had the idea of sinking this barque?” asked one of the
convicts in a loud voice, without speaking to any one in particular.
“Were they very anxious, then, to have it broken up?”
“The people were not afraid to give us work,” said another.

“Where are all those peasants going to work?” said the first, after a short
silence.
He had not even heard his companion’s answer. He pointed with his finger
to the distance, where a troop of peasants were marching in file across the
virgin snow.
All the convicts turned negligently towards this side, and began from mere
idleness to laugh at the peasants as they approached them. One of them, the
last of the line, walked very comically with his arms apart, and his head on
one side. He wore a tall pointed cap. His shadow threw itself in clear lines
on the white snow.
“Look how our brother Petrovitch is dressed,” said one of my companions,
imitating the pronunciation of the peasants of the locality. One amusing
thing—the convicts looked down on peasants, although they were for the
most part peasants by origin.
“The last one, too, above all, looks as if he were planting radishes.”
“He is an important personage, he has lots of money,” said a third.
They all began to laugh without, however, seeming genuinely amused.
During this time a woman selling cakes came up. She was a brisk, lively
person, and it was with her that the five kopecks given by the townsman
were spent.
The young fellow who sold white bread in the convict prison took two
dozen of her cakes, and had a long discussion with the woman in order to
get a reduction in price. She would not, however, agree to his terms.
At last the non-commissioned officer appointed to superintend the work
came up with a cane in his hand.
“What are you sitting down for? Begin at once.”
“Give us our tasks, Ivan Matveitch,” said one of the “foremen” among us,
as he slowly got up.
“What more do you want? Take out the barque, that is your task.”

Then ultimately the convicts got up and went to the river, but very slowly.
Different “directors” appeared, “directors,” at least, in words. The barque
was not to be broken up anyhow. The latitudinal and longitudinal beams
were to be preserved, and this was not an easy thing to manage.
“Draw this beam out, that is the first thing to do,” cried a convict who was
neither a director nor a foreman, but a simple workman. This man, very
quiet and a little stupid, had not previously spoken. He now bent down,
took hold of a heavy beam with both hands, and waited for some one to
help him. No one, however, seemed inclined to do so.
“Not you, indeed, you will never manage it; not even your grandfather, the
bear, could do it,” muttered some one between his teeth.
“Well, my friend, are we to begin? As for me, I can do nothing alone,” said,
with a morose air, the man who had put himself forward, and who now,
quitting the beam, held himself upright.
“Unless you are going to do all the work by yourself, what are you in such a
hurry about?”
“I was only speaking,” said the poor fellow, excusing himself for his
forwardness.
“Must you have blankets to keep yourselves warm, or are you to be heated
for the winter?” cried a non-commissioned officer to the twenty men who
seemed to loathe to begin work. “Go on at once.”
“It is never any use being in a hurry, Ivan Matveitch.”
“But you are doing nothing at all, Savelieff. What are you casting your eyes
about for? Are they for sale, by chance? Come, go on.”
“What can I do alone?”
“Set us tasks, Ivan Matveitch.”
“I told you before that I had no task to give you. Attack the barque, and
when you have finished we will go back to the house. Come, begin.”

The prisoners began work, but with no good-will, and very indolently. The
irritation of the chief at seeing these vigorous men remain so idle was
intelligible enough. While the first rivet was being removed it suddenly
snapped.
“It broke to pieces,” said the convict in self-justification. It was impossible,
then, they suggested, to work in such a manner. What was to be done? A
long discussion took place between the prisoners, and little by little they
came to insults; nor did this seem likely to be the end of it. The under
officer cried out again as he agitated his stick, but the second rivet snapped
like the first. It was then agreed that hatchets were of no use, and that other
tools must be procured. Accordingly, two prisoners were sent under escort
to the fortress to get the proper instruments. Waiting their return, the other
convicts sat down on the bank as calmly as possible, pulled out their pipes
and began again to smoke. Finally, the under officer spat with contempt.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “the work you are doing will not kill you. Oh, what
people, what people!” he grumbled, with an ill-natured air. He then made a
gesture, and went away to the fortress, brandishing his cane.
After an hour the “conductor” arrived. He listened quietly to what the
convicts had to say, declared that the task he gave them was to get off four
rivets unbroken, and to demolish a good part of the barque. As soon as this
was done the prisoners could go back to the house. The task was a
considerable one, but, good heavens! how the convicts now went to work!
Where now was their idleness, their want of skill? The hatchets soon began
to dance, and soon the rivets were sprung. Those who had no hatchets made
use of thick sticks to push beneath the rivets, and thus in due time and in
artistic fashion, they got them out. The convicts seemed suddenly to have
become intelligent in their conversation. No more insults were heard. Every
one knew perfectly what to say, to do, to advise. Just half-an-hour before
the beating of the drum, the appointed task was executed, and the prisoners
returned to the convict prison fatigued, but pleased to have gained half-an-
hour from the working time fixed by the regulations.
As regards myself, I have only one thing to say. Wherever I stood to help
the workers I was never in my place; they always drove me away, and
generally insulted me. Any one of the ragged lot, any miserable workman

who would not have dared to say a syllable to the other convicts, all more
intelligent and skilful than he, assumed the right of swearing at me if I went
near him, under pretext that I interfered with him in his work. At last one of
the best of them said to me frankly, but coarsely:
“What do you want here? Be off with you! Why do you come when no one
calls you?”
“That is it,” added another.
“You would do better to take a pitcher,” said a third, “and carry water to the
house that is being built, or go to the tobacco factory. You are no good
here.”
I was obliged to keep apart. To remain idle while others were working
seemed a shame; but when I went to the other end of the barque I was
insulted anew.
“What men we have to work!” was the cry. “What can be done with fellows
of this kind?”
All this was said spitefully. They were pleased to have the opportunity of
laughing at a gentleman.
It will now be understood that my first thought on entering the convict
prison was to ask myself how I should ever get on with such people. I
foresaw that such incidents would often be repeated; but I resolved not to
change my conduct in any way, whatever might be the result. I had decided
to live simply and intelligently, without manifesting the least desire to
approach my companions; but also without repelling them, if they
themselves desired to approach me; in no way to fear their threats or their
hatred; and to pretend as much as possible not to be affected by them. Such
was my plan. I saw from the first that they would despise me, if I adopted
any other course.
When I returned in the evening to the convict prison, having finished my
afternoon’s work, fatigued and harassed, a deep sadness took possession of
me. “How many thousands of days have I to pass like this one?” Always the
same thought. I walked about alone and meditated as night fell, when,

suddenly, near the palisade behind the barracks, I saw my friend, Bull, who
ran towards me.
Bull was the dog of the prison; for the prison has its dog as companies of
infantry, batteries of artillery, and squadrons of cavalry have theirs. He had
been there for a long time, belonged to no one, looked upon every one as
his master, and lived on the remains from the kitchen. He was a good-sized
black dog, spotted with white, not very old, with intelligent eyes, and a
bushy tail. No one caressed him or paid the least attention to him. As soon
as I arrived I made friends with him by giving him a piece of bread. When I
patted him on the back he remained motionless, looked at me with a pleased
expression, and gently wagged his tail.
That evening, not having seen me the whole day—me, the first person who
in so many years had thought of caressing him—he ran towards me, leaping
and barking. It had such an effect on me that I could not help embracing
him. I placed his head against my body. He placed his paws on my
shoulders and looked me in the face.
“Here is a friend sent to me by destiny,” I said to myself, and during the
first weeks, so full of pain, every time that I came back from work I
hastened, before doing anything else, to go to the back of the barracks with
Bull, who leaped with joy before me. I took his head in my hands and
kissed it. At the same time a troubled, bitter feeling pressed my heart. I well
remember thinking—and taking pleasure in the thought—that this was my
one, my only friend in the world—my faithful dog, Bull.

CHAPTER VIII. NEW ACQUAINTANCES—PETROFF

Time went on, and little by little I accustomed myself to my new life. The
scenes I had daily before me no longer afflicted me so much. In a word, the
convict prison, its inhabitants, and its manners, left me indifferent. To get
reconciled to this life was impossible, but I had to accept it as an inevitable
fact. I had driven entirely away from me all the anxiety by which I had at
first been troubled. I no longer wandered through the convict prison like a

lost soul, and no longer allowed myself to be subjugated by my anxiety. The
wild curiosity of the convicts had had its edge taken off, and I was no
longer looked upon with that affectation or insolence previously displayed.
They had become indifferent to me, and I was very glad of it. I began to feel
at home in the barracks. I knew where to go and sleep at night; gradually I
became accustomed to things the very idea of which would formerly have
been repugnant to me. I went every week regularly to have my head shaved.
We were called every Saturday one after another to the guard-house. The
regimental barbers lathered our skulls with cold water and soap, and
scraped us afterwards with their saw-like razors.
Merely the thought of this torture gives me a shudder. I soon found a
remedy for it—Akim Akimitch pointed it out to me—a prisoner in the
military section who for one kopeck shaved those who paid for it with his
own razor. This was his trade. Many of the prisoners were his customers
merely to avoid the military barbers, yet these were not men of weak
nerves. Our barber was called the “major,” why, I cannot say. As far as I
know he possessed no points of resemblance with any major. As I write
these lines I see clearly before me the “major” and his thin face. He was a
tall fellow, silent, rather stupid, absorbed entirely by his business; he was
never to be seen without a strop in his hand, on which day and night he
sharpened a razor, which was always in admirable condition. He had
certainly made this work the supreme object of his life; he was really happy
when his razor was quite sharp and his services were in request; his soap
was always warm, and he had a very light hand—a hand of velvet. He was
proud of his skill, and used to take with a careless air the kopeck he
received; one might have thought that he worked from love of his art, and
not in order to gain money.
A——f was soundly corrected by our real Major one day, because he had
the misfortune to say the “major” when he was speaking of the barber who
shaved him. The real Major was in a violent rage.
“Blackguard,” he cried, “do you know what a major is?” and according to
his habit he shook A——f violently. “The idea of calling a scoundrel of a
convict a ‘major’ in my presence.”

From the first day of my imprisonment I began to dream of my liberation.
My favourite occupation was to count thousands and thousands of times in
a thousand different manners the number of days that I should have to pass
in prison. I thought of that only, and every one deprived of his liberty for a
fixed time does the same; of that I am certain. I cannot say that all the
convicts had the same degree of hopefulness, but their sanguine character
often astonished me. The hopefulness of a prisoner differs essentially from
that of a free man. The latter may desire an amelioration in his position, or a
realisation of some enterprise which he has undertaken, but meanwhile he
lives, he acts; he is swept away in the whirlwind of real life. Nothing of the
kind takes place in the case of the convict for life. He lives also in a way,
but not being condemned to a fixed number of years, he takes a vaguer view
of his situation than the one who is imprisoned for a definite term. The man
condemned for a comparatively short period feels that he is not at home; he
looks upon himself, so to say, as on a visit; he regards the twenty years of
his punishment as two years at most; he is sure that at fifty, when he has
finished his sentence, he will be as young and as lively as at thirty-five. “We
have time before us,” he thinks, and he strives obstinately to dispel
discouraging thoughts. Even a man sentenced for life thinks that some day
an order may arrive from St. Petersburg—“Transport such a one to the
mines at Nertchinsk and fix a term for his detention.” It would be famous,
first because it takes six months to get to Nertchinsk, and the life on the
road is a hundred times preferable to the convict prison. He would finish his
time at Nertchinsk, and then—more than one gray-haired old man
speculates in this way.
At Tobolsk I have seen men fastened to the wall by a chain about two yards
long; by their side they have their bed. They are thus chained for some
terrible crime committed after their transportation to Siberia; they are kept
chained up for five, ten years. They are nearly all brigands, and I only saw
one of them who looked like a man of good breeding; he had been in some
branch of the Civil Service, and spoke in a soft, lisping way; his smile was
sweet but sickly; he showed us his chain, and pointed out to us the most
convenient way of lying down. He must have been a nice person! All these
poor wretches are perfectly well-behaved; they all seem satisfied, and yet
their desire to finish their period of chains devours them. Why? it will be
asked. Because then they will leave their low, damp, stifling cells for the

court-yard of the convict prison, that is all. These last places of confinement
they will never leave; they know that those who have once been chained up
will never be liberated, and they will die in irons. They know all this, and
yet they are very anxious to be no longer chained up. Without this hope
could they remain five or six years fastened to a wall, and not die or go
mad?
I soon understood that work alone could save me, by fortifying my health
and my body, whereas incessant restlessness of mind, nervous irritation, and
the close air of the barracks would ruin them completely. I should go out
vigorous and full of elasticity. I did not deceive myself, work and
movement were very useful to me.
I saw one of my comrades, to my terror, melt away like a piece of wax; and
yet, when he was with me in the convict prison, he was young, handsome,
and vigorous; when he left his health was ruined, and his legs could no
longer support him. His chest, too, was oppressed by asthma.
“No,” I said to myself, as I gazed upon him; “I wish to live, and I will live.”
My love for work exposed me in the first place to the contempt and bitter
laughter of my comrades; but I paid no attention to them, and went away
with a light heart wherever I was sent. Sometimes, for instance, to break
and pound alabaster. This work, the first that was given to me, is easy. The
engineers did their utmost to lighten the task-work of all the gentlemen; this
was not indulgence, but simple justice. Would it not have been strange to
require the same work from a labourer as from a man whose strength was
less by half, and who had never worked with his hands? But we were not
“spoilt” in this way for ever, and we were only spared in secret, for we were
severely watched. As real severe work was by no means rare, it often
happened that the task given to us was beyond the strength of the
gentlemen, who thus suffered twice as much as their comrades.
Generally three or four men were sent to pound the alabaster, and nearly
always old men or feeble ones were chosen. We were of the latter class. A
man skilled in this particular kind of work was sent with us. For several
years it was always the same man, Almazoff by name. He was severe,
already in years, sunburnt, and very thin, by no means communicative,
moreover, and difficult to get on with. He despised us profoundly; but he

was of such a reserved disposition that he never broke it sufficient to call us
names. The shed in which we calcined the alabaster was built on a sloping
and deserted bank of the river. In winter, on a foggy day, the view was sad,
both on the river and on the opposite shore, even to a great distance. There
was something heartrending in this dull, naked landscape, but it was still
sadder when a brilliant sun shone above the boundless white plain. How
one would have liked to fly away beyond this steppe, which began on the
opposite shore and stretched out for fifteen hundred versts to the south like
an immense table-cloth.
Almazoff went to work silently, with a disagreeable air. We were ashamed
not to be able to help him more effectually, but he managed to do his work
without our assistance, and seemed to wish to make us understand that we
were acting unjustly towards him, and that we ought to repent our
uselessness. Our work consisted in heating the oven in order to calcine the
alabaster that we had got together in a heap.
The day following, when the alabaster was entirely calcined, we turned it
out. Each one filled a box of alabaster, which he afterwards crushed. This
work was not disagreeable. The fragile alabaster soon became a white,
brilliant dust. We brandished our heavy hammers, and dealt such formidable
blows, that we admired our own strength. When we were tired we felt
lighter, our cheeks were red, the blood circulated more rapidly in our veins.
Almazoff would then look at us in a condescending manner, as he would
have looked at little children. He smoked his pipe with an indulgent air,
unable, however, to prevent himself from grumbling. When he opened his
mouth he was never otherwise, and he was the same with every one. At
bottom I believe he was a kind man.
They gave me another kind of labour, which consisted in working the
turning wheel. This wheel was high and heavy, and great efforts were
necessary to make it go round, above all when the workmen from the
workshop of the engineers used to make the balustrade of a staircase or the
foot of a large table, which required almost the whole trunk. No one man
could have done the work alone. To two convicts, B—— (formerly
gentleman) and myself, this work was given nearly always for several
years, whenever there was anything to turn. B—— was weak, even still
young, and somewhat sympathetic. He had been sent to prison a year before

me, with two companions who were also of noble birth. One of them, an old
man, used to pray day and night. The prisoners respected him greatly for it.
He died in prison. The other one was quite a young man, fresh-coloured,
strong, and courageous. He had carried his companion B—— for several
hundred versts, seeing that at the end of the first half-stage he had fallen
down from fatigue. Their friendship for one another was something to see.
B—— was a perfectly well-bred man, of noble and generous disposition,
but spoiled and irritated by illness. We used to turn the wheel well together,
and the work interested us. As for me, I found the exercise most salutary.
I was very—too—fond of shovelling away the snow, which we generally
did after the hurricanes, so frequent in the winter. When the hurricane had
been raging for an entire day, more than one house would be buried up to
the windows, even if it was not covered over entirely. The hurricane ceased,
the sun reappeared, and we were ordered to disengage the houses,
barricaded as they were by heaps of snow.
We were sent in large bands, sometimes the whole of the convicts together.
Each of us received a shovel and had an appointed task to do, which it
sometimes seemed impossible to get through. But we all went to work with
a good-will. The light dust-like snow had not yet congealed, and was frozen
only on the surface. We removed it in enormous shovelfuls, which were
dispersed around us. In the air the snow-dust was as brilliant as diamonds.
The shovel sank easily into the white glittering mass. The convicts did this
work almost always with gaiety, the cold winter air and the exercise
animated them. Every one felt himself in better spirits, laughter and jokes
were heard, snowballs were exchanged, which after a time excited the
indignation of the serious-minded convicts, who liked neither laughter nor
gaiety. Accordingly these scenes finished almost always in showers of
insults.
Little by little the circle of my acquaintances increased, although I never
thought of making new ones. I was always restless, morose, and mistrustful.
Acquaintances, however, were made involuntarily. The first who came to
visit me was the convict Petroff. I say visit, and I retain the word, for he
lived in the special division which was at the farthest end of the barracks

from mine. It seemed as if no relations could exist between him and me, for
we had nothing in common.
Nevertheless, during the first period of my stay, Petroff thought it his duty
to come towards me nearly every day, or at least to stop me when, after
work, I went for a stroll at the back of the barracks as far as possible from
observation. His persistence was disagreeable to me; but he managed so
well that his visits became at last a pleasing diversion, although he was by
no means of a communicative disposition. He was short, strongly built,
agile, and skilful. He had rather an agreeable voice, and high cheek-bones, a
bold look, and white, regular teeth. He had always a quid of tobacco in his
mouth between the lower lip and the gums. Many of the convicts had the
habit of chewing. He seemed to me younger than he really was, for he did
not appear to be more than thirty, and he was really forty. He spoke to me
without any ceremony, and behaved to me on a footing of equality with
civility and attention. If, for instance, he saw that I wished to be alone, he
would talk to me for about two minutes and then go away. He thanked me,
moreover, each time for my kindness in conversing with him, which he
never did to any one else. I must add that his relations underwent no change
not only during the first period of my story, but for several years, and that
they never became more intimate, although he was really my friend. I never
could say exactly what he looked for in my society, nor why he came every
day to see me. He robbed me sometimes, but almost involuntarily. He never
came to me to borrow money; so that what attracted him was not personal
interest.
It seemed to me, I know not why, that this man did not live in the same
prison with me, but in another house in the town, far away. It appeared as
though he had come to the convict prison by chance in order to pick up
news, to inquire for me, in short, to see how I was getting on. He was
always in a hurry, as though he had left some one for a moment who was
waiting for him, or as if he had given up for a time some matter of business.
And yet he never hurried himself. His look was strongly fixed, with a slight
air of levity and irony. He had a habit of looking into the distance above the
objects near him, as though he were endeavouring to distinguish something
behind the person to whom he was talking. He always seemed absent-
minded. I sometimes asked myself where he went when he left me, where
could Petroff be so anxiously expected? He would simply go with a light

step to one of the barracks or to the kitchen, and sit down to hear the
conversation. He listened attentively, and joined in with animation; after
which he would suddenly become silent. But whether he spoke or kept
silent, one could always see on his countenance that he had business
somewhere else, and that some one was waiting for him in the town, not
very far away. The most astonishing thing was that he never had any
business—apart, of course, from the hard labour assigned to him. He knew
no trade, and had scarcely ever any money. But that did not seem to grieve
him. Why did he speak to me? His conversation was as strange as he
himself was singular. When he noticed that I was walking alone at the back
of the barracks he made a stand, and turned towards me. He walked very
fast, and when I turned he was suddenly on his heel. He approached me
walking, but so quickly that he seemed to be going at a run.
“Good-morning.”
“Good-morning.”
“I am not disturbing you?”
“No.”
“I wish to ask you something about Napoleon. I wanted to ask you if he is
not a relation of the one who came to us in the year 1812.”
Petroff was a soldier’s son, and knew how to read and write.
“Of course he is.”
“People say he is President. What President—and of what?”
His questions were always rapid and abrupt, as though he wished to know
as soon as possible what he asked. I explained to him of what Napoleon was
President, and I added that perhaps he would become Emperor.
“How will that be?”
I explained it to him as well as I could; Petroff listened with attention. He
understood perfectly all I told him, and added, as he leant his ear towards
me:

“Hem! Ah, I wished to ask you, Alexander Petrovitch, if there are really
monkeys who have hands instead of feet, and are as tall as a man?”
“Yes.”
“What are they like?”
I described them to him, and told him what I knew on the subject.
“And where do they live?”
“In warm climates. There are some to be found in the island of Sumatra.”
“Is that in America? I have heard that people there walk with their heads
downwards.”
“No, no; you are thinking of the Antipodes.” I explained to him as well as I
could what America was, and what the Antipodes. He listened to me as
attentively as if the question of the Antipodes had alone caused him to
approach me.
“Ah, ah! I read last year the story of the Countess de la Vallière. Arevieff
had bought this book from the Adjutant. Is it true or is it an invention? The
work is by Dumas.”
“It is an invention, no doubt.”
“Ah, indeed. Good-bye. I am much obliged to you.”
And Petroff disappeared. The above may be taken as a specimen of our
ordinary conversation.
I made inquiries about him. M—— thought he had better speak to me on
the subject, when he learnt what an acquaintance I had made. He told me
that many convicts had excited his horror on their arrival; but not one of
them, not even Gazin, had produced upon him such a frightful impression
as this Petroff.
“He is the most resolute, most to be feared of all the convicts,” said M——.
“He is capable of anything, nothing stops him if he has a caprice. He will
assassinate you, if the fancy takes him, without hesitation and without the
least remorse. I often think he is not in his right senses.”

This declaration interested me extremely; but M—— was never able to tell
me why he had such an opinion of Petroff. Strangely enough, for many
years together I saw this man and talked with him nearly every day. He was
always my sincere friend, though I could not at the time tell why, and
during the whole time he lived very quietly, and did nothing extreme. I am
moreover convinced that M—— was right, and that he was perhaps a most
intrepid man and the most difficult to restrain in the whole prison. And why
so, I can scarcely explain.
This Petroff was that very convict who, when he was called up to receive
his punishment, had wished to kill the Major. I have told you the latter was
saved by a miracle—that he had gone away one minute before the
punishment was inflicted.
Once when he was still a soldier—before his arrival at the convict prison—
his Colonel had struck him on parade. Probably he had often been beaten
before, but that day he was not in a humour to bear an insult, in open day,
before the battalion drawn up in line. He killed his Colonel. I don’t know all
the details of the story, for he never told it to me himself. It must be
understood that these explosions only took place when the nature within
him spoke too loudly, and these occasions were rare; as a rule he was
serious and even quiet. His strong, ardent passions were not burnt out, but
smouldering, like burning coals beneath ashes.
I never noticed that he was vain, or given to bragging like so many other
convicts. He hardly ever quarrelled, but he was on friendly relations with
scarcely any one, except, perhaps, Sirotkin, and then only when he had need
of him. I saw him, however, one day seriously irritated. Some one had
offended him by refusing him something he wanted. He was disputing on
the point with a tall convict, as vigorous as an athlete, named Vassili
Antonoff, known for his nagging, spiteful disposition. The man, however,
who belonged to the class of civil convicts, was far from being a coward.
They shouted at one another for some time, and I thought the quarrel would
finish like so many others of the same kind, by simple interchange of abuse.
The affair took an unexpected turn. Petroff only suddenly turned pale, his
lips trembled, and turned blue, his respiration became difficult. He got up,
and slowly, very slowly, and with imperceptible steps—he liked to walk
about with his feet naked—approached Antonoff; at once the noise of

shouting gave place to a death-like silence—a fly passing through the air
might have been heard—every one anxiously awaited the event. Antonoff
pointed to his adversary. His face was no longer human. I was unable to
endure the scene, and I left the prison. I was certain that before I got to the
staircase I should hear the shrieks of a man who was being murdered; but
nothing of the kind took place. Before Petroff had succeeded in getting up
to Antonoff, the latter threw him the object which had caused the quarrel—a
miserable rag, a worn-out piece of lining.
Of course afterwards, Antonoff did not fail to call Petroff names, merely as
a matter of conscience, and from a feeling of what was right, in order to
show that he had not been too much afraid; but Petroff paid no attention to
his insults, he did not even answer him. Everything had ended to his
advantage, and the insults scarcely affected him; he was glad to have got his
piece of rag.
A quarter of an hour later he was strolling about the barracks quite
unoccupied, looking for some group whose conversation might possibly
gratify his curiosity. Everything seemed to interest him, and yet he
remained apparently indifferent to all he heard. He might have been
compared to a workman, a vigorous workman, whom the work fears; but
who, for the moment, has nothing to do, and condescends meanwhile to put
out his strength in playing with his children. I did not understand why he
remained in prison, why he did not escape. He would not have hesitated to
get away if he had really desired to do so. Reason has no power on people
like Petroff unless they are spurred on by will. When they desire something
there are no obstacles in their way. I am certain that he would have been
clever enough to escape, that he would have deceived every one, that he
would have remained for a time without eating, hid in a forest, or in the
bulrushes of the river; but the idea had evidently not occurred to him. I
never noticed in him much judgment or good sense. People like him are
born with one idea, which, without being aware of it, pursues them all their
life. They wander until they meet with some object which apparently
excites their desire, and then they do not mind risking their head. I was
sometimes astonished that a man who had assassinated his Colonel for
having been struck, would lie down without opposition beneath the rods, for
he was always flogged when he was detected introducing spirits into the
prison. Like all those who had no settled occupation, he smuggled in spirits;

then, if caught, he would allow himself to be whipped as though he
consented to the punishment, and confessed himself in the wrong.
Otherwise they would have killed him rather than make him lie down. More
than once I was astonished to see that he was robbing me in spite of his
affection for me; but he did so from time to time. Thus he stole my Bible,
which I had asked him to carry to its place. He had only a few steps to go;
but on his way he met with a purchaser, to whom he sold the book, at once
spending the money he had received on vodka. Probably he felt that day a
violent desire for drink, and when he desired something it was necessary
that he should have it. A man like Petroff will assassinate any one for
twenty-five kopecks, simply to get himself a pint of vodka. On any other
occasion he will disdain hundreds and thousands of roubles. He told me the
same evening of the theft he had committed, but without showing the least
sign of repentance or confusion, in a perfectly indifferent tone, as though he
were speaking of an ordinary incident. I endeavoured to reprove him as he
deserved, for I regretted the loss of my Bible. He listened to me without
hesitation very calmly. He agreed that the Bible was a very useful book, and
sincerely regretted that I had it no longer; but he was not for one moment
sorry, though he had stolen it. He looked at me with such assurance that I
gave up scolding him. He bore my reproaches because he thought I could
not do otherwise than I was doing. He knew that he ought to be punished
for such an action, and consequently thought I ought to abuse him for my
own satisfaction, and to console myself for my loss. But in his inner heart
he considered that it was all nonsense, to which a serious man ought to be
ashamed to descend. I believe even that he looked upon me as a child, an
infant, who does not yet understand the simplest things in the world. If I
spoke to him of anything, except books and matters of knowledge, he
would answer me, but only from politeness, and in laconic phrases. I
wondered what made him question me so much on the subject of books. I
looked at him carefully during our conversation to assure myself that he
was not laughing at me; but no, he listened seriously, and with an attention
which was genuine, though not always maintained. This latter circumstance
irritated me sometimes. The questions he put to me were clear and precise,
and he always seemed prepared for the answer. He had made up his mind
once for all that it was no use speaking to me as to other matters, and that,
apart from books, I understood nothing. I am certain that he was attached to
me, and much that fact astonished me; but he looked upon me as a child, or

as an imperfect man. He felt for me that sort of compassion which every
stronger being feels for a weaker; he took me for—I do not know what he
took me for. Although this compassion did not prevent him from robbing
me, I am sure that in doing so he pitied me.
“What a strange person!” he must have said to himself, as he lay hands on
my property; “he does not even know how to take care of what he
possesses.” That, I think, is why he liked me. One day he said to me as if
involuntarily:
“You are too good-natured, you are so simple, so simple that one cannot
help pitying you. Do not be offended at what I was saying to you,
Alexander Petrovitch,” he added a minute afterwards, “it is not ill-meant.”
People like Petroff will sometimes, in times of trouble and excitement,
manifest themselves in a forcible manner; then they find the kind of activity
which suits them; they are not men of words; they could not be instigators
and chiefs of insurrections, but they are the men who execute and act; they
act simply without any fuss, and run just to throw themselves against an
obstacle with bared breast, neither thinking nor fearing. Every one follows
them to the foot of the wall, where they generally leave their life. I do not
think Petroff can have ended well, he was marked for a violent end; and if
he is not yet dead, that only means that the opportunity has not yet
presented itself. Who knows, however? He will, perhaps, die of extreme old
age, quite quietly, after having wandered through life, here and there,
without an object; but I believe M—— was right, and that Petroff was the
most determined man in the whole convict prison.

CHAPTER IX. MEN OF DETERMINATION—LUKA

It is difficult to speak of these men of determination. In the convict prison,
as elsewhere, they are rare. They can be known by the fear they inspire;
people beware of them. An irresistible feeling urged me first of all to turn
away from them, but I afterwards changed my point of view, even in regard
to the most frightful murderers. There are men who have never killed any

one, and who, nevertheless, are more atrocious than those who have
assassinated six persons. It is impossible to form an idea of certain crimes,
of so strange a nature are they.
A type of murderers that one often meets with is the following: A man lives
calmly and peacefully. His fate is a hard one, but he puts up with it. He is a
peasant attached to the soil, a domestic serf, a shopkeeper, or a soldier.
Suddenly he finds something give way within him; what he has hitherto
suffered he can bear no longer, and he plunges his knife into the breast of
his oppressor or his enemy. He then goes beyond all measure. He has killed
his oppressor, his enemy. That can be understood—there was cause for that
crime; but afterwards he does not assassinate his enemies alone, but the first
person he happens to meet he kills for the pleasure of killing—for an
abusive word, for a look, to make an equal number, or only because some
one is standing in his way. He behaves like a drunken man—a man in a
delirium. When once he has passed the fatal line, he is himself astonished to
find that nothing sacred exists for him. He breaks through all laws, defies
all powers, and gives himself boundless license. He enjoys the agitation of
his own heart and the terror that he inspires. He knows all the same that a
frightful punishment awaits him. His sensations are probably like those of a
man who, looking down from a high tower on to the abyss yawning at his
feet, would be happy to throw himself head first into it in order to bring
everything to an end. That is what happens with even the most quiet, the
most commonplace individuals. There are some even who give themselves
airs in this extremity. The more they were quiet, self-effacing before, the
more they now swagger and seek to inspire fear. The desperate men enjoy
the horror they cause; they take pleasure in the disgust they excite; they
perform acts of madness from despair, and care nothing how it must all end,
or seem impatient that it should end as soon as possible. The most curious
thing is that their excitement, their exaltation, will last until the pillory.
After that the thread is cut, the moment is fatal, and the man becomes
suddenly calm, or, rather, he becomes extinct, a thing without feeling. In the
pillory all his strength fails him, and he begs pardon of the people. Once at
the convict prison, he is quite different. No one would ever imagine that this
white-livered chicken had killed five or six men.
There are some men whom the convict prison does not easily subdue. They
preserve a certain swagger, a spirit of bravado.

“I say, I am not what you take me for; I have sent six fellows out of the
world,” you will hear them boast; but sooner or later they have all to
submit. From time to time, the murderer will amuse himself by recalling his
audacity, his lawlessness when he was in a state of despair. He likes at these
moments to have some silly fellow before whom he can brag, and to whom
he will relate his heroic deeds, by pretending not to have the least wish to
astonish him. “That is the sort of man I am,” he says.
And with what a refinement of prudent conceit he watches him while he is
delivering his narrative! In his accent, in every word, this can be perceived.
Where did he acquire this particular kind of artfulness?
During the long evening of one of the first days of my confinement, I was
listening to one of these conversations. Thanks to my inexperience I took
the narrator for the malefactor, a man with an iron character, a man to
whom Petroff was nothing. The narrator, Luka Kouzmitch, had “knocked
over” a Major, for no other reason but that it pleased him to do so. This
Luka Kouzmitch was the smallest and thinnest man in all the barracks. He
was from the South. He had been a serf, one of those not attached to the
soil, but who serve their masters as domestics. There was something cutting
and haughty in his demeanour. He was a little bird, but had a beak and nails.
The convicts sum up a man instinctively. They thought nothing of this one,
he was too susceptible and too full of conceit.
That evening he was stitching a shirt, seated on his camp-bedstead. Close to
him was a narrow-minded, stupid, but good-natured and obliging fellow, a
sort of Colossus, Kobylin by name. Luka often quarrelled with him in a
neighbourly way, and treated him with a haughtiness which, thanks to his
good-nature, Kobylin did not notice in the least. He was knitting a stocking,
and listening to Luka with an indifferent air. Luka spoke in a loud voice and
very distinctly. He wished every one to hear him, though he was apparently
speaking only to Kobylin.
“I was sent away,” said Luka, sticking his needle in the shirt, “as a
brigand.”
“How long ago?” asked Kobylin.

“When the peas are ripe it will be just a year. Well, we got to K——v, and I
was put into the convict prison. Around me there were a dozen men from
Little Russia, well-built, solid, robust fellows, like oxen, and how quiet!
The food was bad, the Major of the prison did what he liked. One day
passed, then another, and I soon saw that all these fellows were cowards.
“‘You are afraid of such an idiot?’ I said to them.
“‘Go and talk to him yourself,’ and they burst out laughing like brutes that
they were. I held my tongue.
“There was one fellow so droll, so droll,” added the narrator, now leaving
Kobylin to address all who chose to listen.
“This droll fellow was telling them how he had been tried, what he had
said, and how he had wept with hot tears.
“‘There was a dog of a clerk there,’ he said, ‘who did nothing but write and
take down every word I said. I told him I wished him at the devil, and he
actually wrote that down. He troubled me so, that I quite lost my head.’”
“Give me some thread, Vasili; the house thread is bad, rotten.”
“There is some from the tailor’s shop,” replied Vasili, handing it over to
him.
“Well, but about this Major?” said Kobylin, who had been quite forgotten.
Luka was only waiting for that. He did not go on at once with his story, as
though Kobylin were not worth such a mark of attention. He threaded his
needle quietly, bent his legs lazily beneath him, and at last continued as
follows:
“I excited the fellows to such an extent that they all called out against the
Major. That same morning I had borrowed the ‘rascal’ [prison slang for
knife] from my neighbour, and had hid it, so as to be ready for anything.
When the Major arrived, he was as furious as a madman. ‘Come now, you
Little Russians,’ I whispered to them, ‘this is not the time for fear.’ But, dear
me, all their courage had slipped down to the soles of their feet, they
trembled! The Major came in, he was quite drunk.

“‘What is this, how do you dare? I am your Tzar, your God,’ he cried.
“When he said that he was the Tzar and God, I went up to him with my
knife in my sleeve.
“‘No,’ I said to him, ‘your high nobility,’ and I got nearer and nearer to him,
‘that cannot be. Your “high nobility” cannot be our Tzar and our God.’
“‘Ah, you are the man, it is you,’ cried the Major; ‘you are the leader of
them.’
“‘No,’ I answered, and I got still nearer to him; ‘no, your “high nobility,” as
every one knows, and as you yourself know, the all-powerful God present
everywhere is alone in heaven. And we have only one Tzar placed above
every one else by God himself. He is our monarch, your “high nobility.”
And, your “high nobility,” you are as yet only Major, and you are our chief
only by the grace of the Tzar, and by your merits.’
“‘How? how? how?’ stammered the Major. He could not speak, so
astounded was he.
“This is how I answered, and I threw myself upon him and thrust my knife
into his belly up to the hilt. It had been done very quickly; the Major
tottered, turned, and fell.
“I had thrown my life away.
“‘Now, you fellows,’ I cried, ‘it is for you to pick him up.’”
I will here make a digression from my narrative. The expression, “I am the
Tzar! I am God!” and other similar ones were once, unfortunately, too often
employed in the good old times by many commanders. I must admit that
their number has seriously diminished, and perhaps even the last has
already disappeared. Let me observe that those who spoke in this way were,
above all, men promoted from the ranks. The grade of officer had turned
their brain upside down. After having laboured long years beneath the
knapsack, they suddenly found themselves officers, commanders, and
nobles above all. Thanks to their not being accustomed to it, and to the first
excitement caused by their promotion, they contracted an exaggerated idea
of their power and importance relatively to their subordinates. Before their

superiors such men are revoltingly servile. The most fawning of them will
even say to their superiors that they have been common soldiers, and that
they do not forget their place. But towards their inferiors they are despots
without mercy. Nothing irritates the convicts so much as such abuses. These
overweening opinions of their own greatness; this exaggerated idea of their
immunity, causes hatred in the hearts of the most submissive men, and
drives the most patient to excesses. Fortunately, all this dates from a time
that is almost forgotten, and even then the superior authorities used to deal
very severely with abuses of power. I know more than one example of it.
What exasperates the convicts above all is disdain or repugnance
manifested by any one in dealing with them. Those who think that it is only
necessary to feed and clothe the prisoner, and to act towards him in all
things according to the law, are much mistaken. However much debased he
may be, a man exacts instinctively respect for his character as a man. Every
prisoner knows perfectly that he is a convict and a reprobate, and knows the
distance which separates him from his superiors; but neither the branding
irons nor chains will make him forget that he is a man. He must, therefore,
be treated with humanity. Humane treatment may raise up one in whom the
divine image has long been obscured. It is with the “unfortunate,” above all,
that humane conduct is necessary. It is their salvation, their only joy. I have
met with some chiefs of a kind and noble character, and I have seen what a
beneficent influence they exercised over the poor, humiliated men entrusted
to their care. A few affable words have a wonderful moral effect upon the
prisoners. They render them as happy as children, and make them sincerely
grateful towards their chiefs. One other remark—they do not like their
chiefs to be familiar and too much hail-fellow-well-met with them. They
wish to respect them, and familiarity would prevent this. The prisoners will
feel proud, for instance, if their chief has a number of decorations; if he has
good manners; if he is well-considered by a powerful superior; if he is
severe, but at the same time just, and possesses a consciousness of dignity.
The convicts prefer such a man to all others. He knows what he is worth,
and does not insult others. Everything then is for the best.
“You got well skinned for that, I suppose,” asked Kobylin.
“As for being skinned, indeed, there is no denying it. Ali, give me the
scissors. But, what next; are we not going to play at cards to-night?”

“The cards we drank up long ago,” remarked Vassili. “If we had not sold
them to get drink they would be here now.”
“If!—— Ifs fetch a hundred roubles a piece on the Moscow market.”
“Well, Luka, what did you get for sticking him?” asked Kobylin.
“It brought me five hundred strokes, my friend. It did indeed. They did all
but kill me,” said Luka, once more addressing the assembly and without
heeding his neighbour Kobylin. “When they gave me those five hundred
strokes, I was treated with great ceremony. I had never before been flogged.
What a mass of people came to see me! The whole town had assembled to
see the brigand, the murderer, receive his punishment. How stupid the
populace is!—I cannot tell you to what extent. Timoshka the executioner
undressed me and laid me down and cried out, ‘Look out, I am going to
grill you!’ I waited for the first stroke. I wanted to cry out, but could not. It
was no use opening my mouth, my voice had gone. When he gave me the
second stroke—you need not believe me unless you please—I did not hear
when they counted two. I returned to myself and heard them count
seventeen. Four times they took me down from the board to let me breathe
for half-an-hour, and to souse me with cold water. I stared at them with my
eyes starting from my head, and said to myself, ‘I shall die here.’”
“But you did not die,” remarked Kobylin innocently.
Luka looked at him with disdain, and every one burst out laughing.
“What an idiot! Is he wrong in the upper storey?” said Luka, as if he
regretted that he had condescended to speak to such an idiot.
“He is a little mad,” said Vassili on his side.
Although Luka had killed six persons, no one was ever afraid of him in the
prison. He wished, however, to be looked upon as a terrible person.

CHAPTER X. ISAIAH FOMITCH—THE BATH—
BAKLOUCHIN.

But the Christmas holidays were approaching, and the convicts looked
forward to them with solemnity. From their mere appearance it was easy to
see that something extraordinary was about to arrive. Four days before the
holidays they were to be taken to the bath; every one was pleased, and was
making preparations. We were to go there after dinner. On this occasion
there was no work in the afternoon, and of all the convicts the one who was
most pleased, and showed the greatest activity, was a certain Isaiah Fomitch
Bumstein, a Jew, of whom I spoke in my fifth chapter. He liked to remain
stewing in the bath until he became unconscious. Whenever I think of the
prisoner’s bath, which is a thing not to be forgotten, the first thought that
presents itself to my memory is of that very glorious and eternally to be
remembered, Isaiah Fomitch Bumstein, my prison companion. Good Lord!
what a strange man he was! I have already said a few words about his face.
He was fifty years of age, his face wrinkled, with frightful scars on his
cheeks and on his forehead, and the thin, weak body of a fowl. His face
expressed perpetual confidence in himself, and, I may almost say, perfect
happiness. I do not think he was at all sorry to be condemned to hard labour.
He was a jeweller by trade, and as there was no other in the town, he had
always plenty of work to do, and was more or less well paid. He wanted
nothing, and lived, so to say, sumptuously, without spending all that he
gained, for he saved money and lent it out to the other convicts at interest.
He possessed a tea-urn, a mattress, a tea-cup, and a blanket. The Jews of the
town did not refuse him their patronage. Every Saturday he went under
escort to the synagogue (which was authorised by the law); and he lived
like a fighting cock. Nevertheless, he looked forward to the expiration of
his term of imprisonment in order to get married. He was the most comic
mixture of simplicity, stupidity, cunning, timidity, and bashfulness; but the
strangest thing was that the convicts never laughed, or seriously mocked
him—they only teased him for amusement. Isaiah Fomitch was a subject of
distraction and amusement for every one.
“We have only one Isaiah Fomitch, we will take care of him,” the convicts
seemed to say; and as if he understood this, he was proud of his own
importance. From the account given to me it appeared he had entered the
convict prison in the most laughable manner (it took place before my
arrival). Suddenly one evening a report was spread in the convict prison that
a Jew had been brought there, who at that moment was being shaved in the

guard-house, and that he was immediately afterwards to be taken to the
barracks. As there was not a single Jew in the prison, the convicts looked
forward to his entry with impatience, and surrounded him as soon as he
passed the great gates. The officer on service took him to the civil prison,
and pointed out the place where his plank bedstead was to be.
Isaiah Fomitch held in his hand a bag containing the things given to him,
and some other things of his own. He put down his bag, took his place at
the plank bedstead, and sat down there with his legs crossed, without daring
to raise his eyes. People were laughing all round him. The convicts
ridiculed him by reason of his Jewish origin. Suddenly a young convict left
the others, and came up to him, carrying in his hand an old pair of summer
trousers, dirty, torn, and mended with old rags. He sat down by the side of
Isaiah Fomitch, and struck him on the shoulder.
“Well, my dear fellow,” said he, “I have been waiting for the last six years;
look up and tell me how much you will give for this article,” holding up his
rags before him.
Isaiah Fomitch was so dumbfounded that he did not dare to look at the
mocking crowd, with mutilated and frightful countenances, now grouped
around him, and did not speak a single word, so frightened was he. When
he saw who was speaking to him he shuddered, and began to examine the
rags carefully. Every one waited to hear his first words.
“Well, cannot you give me a silver rouble for it? It is certainly worth that,”
said the would-be vendor smiling, and looking towards Isaiah Fomitch with
a wink.
“A silver rouble! no; but I will give you seven kopecks.”
These were the first words pronounced by Isaiah Fomitch in the convict
prison. A loud laugh was heard from all sides.
“Seven kopecks! Well, give them to me; you are lucky, you are indeed.
Look! Take care of the pledge, you answer for it with your head.”
“With three kopecks for interest; that will make ten kopecks you will owe
me,” said the Jew, at the same time slipping his hand into his pocket to get
out the sum agreed upon.

“Three kopecks interest—for a year?”
“No, not for a year, for a month.”
“You are a terrible screw, what is your name?”
“Isaiah Fomitch.”
“Well, Isaiah Fomitch, you ought to get on. Good-bye.”
The Jew examined once more the rags on which he had lent seven kopecks,
folded them up, and put them carefully away in his bag. The convicts
continued to laugh at him.
In reality every one laughed at him, but, although every prisoner owed him
money, no one insulted him; and when he saw that every one was well
disposed towards him, he gave himself haughty airs, but so comic that they
were at once forgiven.
Luka, who had known many Jews when he was at liberty, often teased him,
less from malice than for amusement, as one plays with a dog or a parrot.
Isaiah Fomitch knew this and did not take offence.
“You will see, Jew, how I will flog you.”
“If you give me one blow I will return you ten,” replied Isaiah Fomitch
valiantly.
“Scurvy Jew.”
“As scurvy as you like; I have in any case plenty of money.”
“Bravo! Isaiah Fomitch. We must take care of you. You are the only Jew we
have; but they will send you to Siberia all the same.”
“I am already in Siberia.”
“They will send you farther on.”
“Is not the Lord God there?”
“Of course, he is everywhere.”

“Well, then! With the Lord God, and money, one has all that is necessary.”
“What a fellow he is!” cries every one around him.
The Jew sees that he is being laughed at, but does not lose courage. He
gives himself airs. The flattery addressed to him causes him much pleasure,
and with a high, squealing falsetto, which is heard throughout the barracks,
he begins to sing, “la, la, la, la,” to an idiotic and ridiculous tune; the only
song he was heard to sing during his stay at the convict prison. When he
made my acquaintance, he assured me solemnly that it was the song, and
the very air, that was sung by 600,000 Jews, small and great, when they
crossed the Red Sea, and that every Israelite was ordered to sing it after a
victory gained over an enemy.
The eve of each Saturday the convicts came from the other barracks to ours,
expressly to see Isaiah Fomitch celebrating his Sabbath. He was so vain, so
innocently conceited, that this general curiosity flattered him immensely.
He covered the table in his little corner with a pedantic air of importance,
opened a book, lighted two candles, muttered some mysterious words, and
clothed himself in a kind of chasuble, striped, and with sleeves, which he
preserved carefully at the bottom of his trunk. He fastened to his hands
leather bracelets, and finally attached to his forehead, by means of a ribbon,
a little box, which made it seem as if a horn were starting from his head. He
then began to pray. He read in a drawling voice, cried out, spat, and threw
himself about with wild and comic gestures. All this was prescribed by the
ceremonies of his religion. There was nothing laughable or strange in it,
except the airs which Isaiah Fomitch gave himself before us in performing
his ceremonies. Then he suddenly covered his head with both hands, and
began to read with many sobs. His tears increased, and in his grief he
almost lay down upon the book his head with the ark upon it, howling as he
did so; but suddenly in the midst of his despondent sobs he burst into a
laugh, and recited with a nasal twang a hymn of triumph, as if he were
overcome by an excess of happiness.
“Impossible to understand it,” the convicts would sometimes say to one
another. One day I asked Isaiah Fomitch what these sobs signified, and why
he passed so suddenly from despair to triumphant happiness. Isaiah Fomitch
was very pleased when I asked him these questions. He explained to me

directly that the sobs and tears were provoked by the loss of Jerusalem, and
that the law ordered the pious Jew to groan and strike his breast; but at the
moment of his most acute grief he was suddenly to remember that a
prophecy had foretold the return of the Jews to Jerusalem, and he was then
to manifest overflowing joy, to sing, to laugh, and to recite his prayers with
an expression of happiness in his voice and on his countenance. This
sudden passage from one phase of feeling to another delighted Isaiah
Fomitch, and he explained to me this ingenious prescription of his faith
with the greatest satisfaction.
One evening, in the midst of his prayers, the Major entered, followed by the
officer of the guard and an escort of soldiers. All the prisoners got
immediately into line before their camp-bedsteads. Isaiah Fomitch alone
continued to shriek and gesticulate. He knew that his worship was
authorised, and that no one could interrupt him, so that in howling in the
presence of the Major he ran no risk. It pleased him to throw himself about
beneath the eyes of the chief.
The Major approached within a few steps. Isaiah Fomitch turned his back to
the table, and just in front of the officer began to sing his hymn of triumph,
gesticulating and drawling out certain syllables. When he came to the part
where he had to assume an expression of extreme happiness, he did so by
blinking with his eyes, at the same time laughing and nodding his head in
the direction of the Major. The latter was at first much astonished; then he
burst into a laugh, called out, “Idiot!” and went away, while the Jew still
continued to shriek. An hour later, when he had finished, I asked him what
he would have done if the Major had been wicked enough and foolish
enough to lose his temper.
“What Major?”
“What Major! Did you not see him? He was only two steps from you, and
was looking at you all the time.” But Isaiah Fomitch assured me as
seriously as possible that he had not seen the Major, for while he was
saying his prayers he was in such a state of ecstasy that he neither saw nor
heard anything that was taking place around him.
I can see Isaiah Fomitch wandering about on Saturday throughout the
prison, endeavouring to do nothing, as the law prescribes to every Jew.

What improbable anecdotes he told me! Every time he returned from the
synagogue he always brought me some news of St. Petersburg, and the most
absurd rumours imaginable from his fellow Jews of the town, who
themselves had received them at first hand. But I have already spoken too
much of Isaiah Fomitch.
In the whole town there were only two public baths. The first, kept by a
Jew, was divided into compartments, for which one paid fifty kopecks. It
was frequented by the aristocracy of the town.
The other bath, old, dirty, and close, was destined for the people. It was
there that the convicts were taken. The air was cold and clear. The prisoners
were delighted to get out of the fortress and have a walk through the town.
During the walk their laughter and jokes never ceased. A platoon of
soldiers, with muskets loaded, accompanied us. It was quite a sight for the
town’s-people. When we had reached our destination, the bath was so small
that it did not permit us all to enter at once. We were divided into two
bands, one of which waited in the cold room while the other one bathed in
the hot one. Even then, so narrow was the room that it was difficult for us to
understand how half of the convicts could stand together in it.
Petroff kept close to me. He remained by my side without my having
begged him to do so, and offered to rub me down. Baklouchin, a convict of
the special section, offered me at the same time his services. I recollect this
prisoner, who was called the “Sapper,” as the gayest and most agreeable of
all my companions. We had become intimate friends. Petroff helped me to
undress, because I was generally a long time getting my things off, not
being yet accustomed to the operation; and it was almost as cold in the
dressing-room as outside the doors.
It is very difficult for a convict who is still a novice to get his things off, for
he must know how to undo the leather straps which fasten on the chains.
These leather straps are buckled over the shirt, just beneath the ring which
encloses the leg. One pair of straps costs sixty kopecks, and each convict is
obliged to get himself a pair, for it would be impossible to walk without
their assistance. The ring does not enclose the leg too tightly. One can pass
the finger between the iron and the flesh; but the ring rubs against the calf,

so that in a single day the convict who walks without leather straps, gets his
skin broken.
To take off the straps presents no difficulty. It is not the same with the
clothes. To get the trousers off is in itself a prodigious operation, and the
same may be said of the shirt whenever it has to be changed. The first who
gave us lessons in this art was Koreneff, a former chief of brigands,
condemned to be chained up for five years. The convicts are very skilful at
the work, and do it readily.
I gave a few kopecks to Petroff to buy soap and a bunch of the twigs with
which one rubs oneself in the bath. Bits of soap were given to the convicts,
but they were not larger than pieces of two kopecks. The soap was sold in
the dressing-room, as well as mead, cakes of white flour, and boiling water;
for each convict received but one pailful, according to the agreement made
between the proprietor of the bath and the administration of the prison. The
convicts who wished to make themselves thoroughly clean, could for two
kopecks buy another pailful, which the proprietor handed to them through a
window pierced in the wall for that purpose. As soon as I was undressed,
Petroff took me by the arm and observed to me that I should find it difficult
to walk with my chains.
“Drag them up on to your calves,” he said to me, holding me by the arms at
the same time, as if I were an old man. I was ashamed at his care, and
assured him that I could walk well enough by myself, but he did not believe
me. He paid me the same attention that one gives to an awkward child.
Petroff was not a servant in any sense of the word. If I had offended him, he
would have known how to deal with me. I had promised him nothing for his
assistance, nor had he asked me for anything. What inspired him with so
much solicitude for me?
Represent to yourself a room of twelve feet long by as many broad, in
which a hundred men are all crowded together, or at least eighty, for we
were in all two hundred divided into two sections. The steam blinded us; the
sweat, the dirt, the want of space, were such that we did not know where to
put a foot down. I was frightened and wished to go out. Petroff hastened to
reassure me. With great trouble we succeeded in raising ourselves on to the
benches, by passing over the heads of the convicts, whom we begged to

bend down, in order to let us pass; but all the benches were already
occupied. Petroff informed me that I must buy a place, and at once entered
into negotiations with the convict who was near the window. For a kopeck
this man consented to cede me his place. After receiving the money, which
Petroff held tight in his hand, and which he had prudently provided himself
with beforehand, the man crept just beneath me into a dark and dirty corner.
There was there, at least, half an inch of filth; even the places above the
benches were occupied, the convicts swarmed everywhere. As for the floor
there was not a place as big as the palm of the hand which was not occupied
by the convicts. They sent the water in spouts out of their pails. Those who
were standing up washed themselves pail in hand, and the dirty water ran
all down their body to fall on the shaved heads of those who were sitting
down. On the upper bench, and the steps which led to it, were heaped
together other convicts who washed themselves more thoroughly, but these
were in small number. The populace does not care to wash with soap and
water, it prefers stewing in a horrible manner, and then inundating itself
with cold water. That is how the common people take their bath. On the
floor could be seen fifty bundles of rods rising and falling at the same time,
the holders were whipping themselves into a state of intoxication. The
steam became thicker and thicker every minute, so that what one now felt
was not a warm but a burning sensation, as from boiling pitch. The convicts
shouted and howled to the accompaniment of the hundred chains shaking
on the floor. Those who wished to pass from one place to another got their
chains mixed up with those of their neighbours, and knocked against the
heads of the men who were lower down than they. Then there were volleys
of oaths as those who fell dragged down the ones whose chains had become
entangled in theirs. They were all in a state of intoxication of wild
exultation. Cries and shrieks were heard on all sides. There was much
crowding and crushing at the window of the dressing-room through which
the hot water was delivered, and much of it got spilt over the heads of those
who were seated on the floor before it arrived at its destination. We seemed
to be fully at liberty; and yet from time to time, behind the window of the
dressing-room, or through the open door, could be seen the moustached face
of a soldier, with his musket at his feet, watching that no serious disorder
took place.

The shaved heads of the convicts, and their red bodies, which the steam
made the colour of blood, seemed more monstrous than ever. On their
backs, made scarlet by the steam, stood out in striking relief the scars left
by the whips and the rods, made long before, but so thoroughly that the
flesh seemed to have been quite recently torn. Strange scars. A shudder
passed through me at the mere sight of them. Again the volume of steam
increased, and the bath-room was now covered with a thick, burning cloud,
covering agitation and cries. From this cloud stood out torn backs, shaved
heads; and, to complete the picture, Isaiah Fomitch howling with joy on the
highest of the benches. He was saturating himself with steam. Any other
man would have fainted away, but no temperature is too high for him; he
engages the services of a rubber for a kopeck, but after a few moments the
latter is unable to continue, throws away his bunch of twigs, and runs to
inundate himself with cold water. Isaiah Fomitch does not lose courage, he
runs to hire a second rubber, then a third; on these occasions he thinks
nothing of expense, and changes his rubber four or five times. “He stews
well, the gallant Isaiah Fomitch,” cry the convicts from below. The Jew
feels that he goes beyond all the others, he has beaten them; he triumphs
with his hoarse falsetto voice, and sings out his favourite air which rises
above the general hubbub. It seemed to me that if ever we met in hell we
should be reminded of the place where we then were. I could not resist a
wish to communicate this idea to Petroff. He looked all round him, but
made no answer.
I wished to buy a place for him on the bench by my side; but he sat down at
my feet and declared that he felt quite at his ease. Baklouchin meanwhile
bought us some hot water which he would bring to us as soon as we wanted
it. Petroff offered to clean me from head to foot, and he begged me to go
through the preliminary stewing process. I could not make up my mind to it.
At last he rubbed me all over with soap. I wished to make him understand
that I could wash myself, but it was no use contradicting him and I gave
myself up to him.
When he had done with me he took me back to the dressing-room, holding
me up, and telling me at each step to take care, as if I had been made of
porcelain. He helped me to put on my clothes, and when he had finished his
kindly work he rushed back to the bath to have a thorough stewing.

When we got back to the barracks I offered him a glass of tea, which he did
not refuse. He drank it and thanked me. I wished to go to the expense of a
glass of vodka in his honour, and I succeeded in getting it on the spot.
Petroff was exceedingly pleased. He swallowed his vodka with a murmur of
satisfaction, declared that I had restored him to life, and then suddenly
rushed to the kitchen, as if the people who were talking there could not
decide anything important without him.
Now another man came up for a talk. This was Baklouchin, of whom I have
already spoken, and whom I had also invited to take tea.
I never knew a man of a more agreeable disposition than Baklouchin. It
must be admitted that he never forgave a wrong, and that he often got into
quarrels. He could not, above all, endure people interfering with his affairs.
He knew, in a word, how to take care of himself; but his quarrels never
lasted long, and I believe that all the convicts liked him. Wherever he went
he was well received. Even in the town he was looked upon as the most
amusing man in the world. He was a man of lofty stature, thirty years old,
with a frank, determined countenance, and rather good-looking, with his
tuft of hair on his chin. He possessed the art of changing his face in such a
comic manner by imitating the first person he happened to see, that the
people around him were constantly in a roar. He was a professed joker, but
he never allowed himself to be slighted by those who did not enjoy his fun.
Accordingly, no one spoke disparagingly of him. He was full of life and
fire. He made my acquaintance at the very beginning of my imprisonment,
and related to me his military career, when he was a sapper in the
Engineers, where he had been placed as a favour by people of influence. He
put a number of questions to me about St. Petersburg; he even read books
when he came to take tea with me. He amused the whole company by
relating how roughly Lieutenant K—— had that morning handled the
Major. He told me, moreover, with a satisfied air, as he took his seat by my
side, that we should probably have a theatrical representation in the prison.
The convicts proposed to get up a play during the Christmas holidays. The
necessary actors were found, and, little by little, the scenery was prepared.
Some persons in the town had promised to lend women’s clothes for the
performance. Some hopes were even entertained of obtaining, through the
medium of an officer’s servant, a uniform with epaulettes, provided only
the Major did not take it into his head to forbid the performance, as he had

done the previous year. He was at that time in ill-humour through having
lost at cards, and he had been annoyed at something that had taken place in
the prison. Accordingly, in a fit of ill-humour, he had forbidden the
performance. It was possible, however, that this year he would not prevent
it. Baklouchin was in a state of exultation. It could be seen that he would be
one of the principal supporters of the meditated theatre. I made up my mind
to be present at the performance. The ingenuous joy which Baklouchin
manifested in speaking of the undertaking was quite touching. From
whispering, we gradually got to talk of the matter quite openly. He told me,
among other things, that he had not served at St. Petersburg alone. He had
been sent to R—— with the rank of non-commissioned officer in a garrison
battalion.
“From there they sent me on here,” added Baklouchin.
“And why?” I asked him.
“Why? You would never guess, Alexander Petrovitch. Because I was in
love.”
“Come now. A man is not exiled for that,” I said, with a laugh.
“I should have added,” continued Baklouchin, “that it made me kill a
German with a pistol-shot. Was it worth while to send me to hard labour for
killing a German? Only think.”
“How did it happen? Tell me the story. It must be a strange one.”
“An amusing story indeed, Alexander Petrovitch.”
“So much the better. Tell me.”
“You wish me to do so? Well, then, listen.”
And he told me the story of his murder. It was not “amusing,” but it was
indeed strange.
“This is how it happened,” began Baklouchin; “I had been sent to Riga, a
fine, handsome city, which has only one fault, there are too many Germans
there. I was still a young man, and I had a good character with my officers.
I wore my cap cocked on the side of my head, and passed my time in the

most agreeable manner. I made love to the German girls. One of them,
named Luisa, pleased me very much. She and her aunt were getters-up of
fine linen. The old woman was a true caricature; but she had money. First of
all I merely passed under the young girl’s windows; but I soon made her
acquaintance. Luisa spoke Russian well enough, though with a slight
accent. She was charming. I never saw any one like her. I was most pressing
in my advances; but she only replied that she would preserve her innocence,
that as a wife she might prove worthy of me. She was an affectionate,
smiling girl, and wonderfully neat. In fact, I assure you, I never saw any
one like her. She herself had suggested that I should marry her, and how
was I not to marry her? Suddenly Luisa did not come to her appointment.
This happened once, then twice, then a third time. I sent her a letter, but she
did not reply. ‘What is to be done?’ I said to myself. If she had been
deceiving me she could easily have taken me in. She could have answered
my letter and come all the same to the appointment; but she was incapable
of falsehood. She had simply broken off with me. ‘This is a trick of the
aunt,’ I said to myself. I was afraid to go to her house.
“Even though she was aware of our engagement, we acted as if she were
ignorant of it. I wrote a fine letter in which I said to Luisa, ‘If you don’t
come, I will come to your aunt’s for you.’ She was afraid and came. Then
she began to weep, and told me that a German named Schultz, a distant
relation of theirs, a clockmaker by trade, and of a certain age, but rich, had
shown a wish to marry her—in order to make her happy, as he said, and that
he himself might not remain without a wife in his old age. He had loved her
a long time, so she told me, and had been nourishing this idea for years, but
he had kept it a secret, and had never ventured to speak out. ‘You see,
Sasha,’ she said to me, ‘that it is a question of my happiness; for he is rich,
and would you prevent my happiness?’ I looked her in the face, she wept,
embraced me, clasped me in her arms.
“‘Well, she is quite right,’ I said to myself, ‘what good is there in marrying
a soldier—even a non-commissioned officer? Come, farewell, Luisa. God
protect you. I have no right to prevent your happiness.’
“‘And what sort of a man is he? Is he good-looking?’
“‘No, he is old, and he has such a long nose.’

“She here burst into a fit of laughter. I left her. ‘It was my destiny,’ I said to
myself. The next day I passed by Schultz’ shop (she had told me where he
lived). I looked through the window and saw a German, who was arranging
a watch, forty-five years of age, an aquiline nose, swollen eyes, a dress-coat
with a very high collar. I spat with contempt as I looked at him. At that
moment I was ready to break the shop windows, but ‘What is the use of it?’
I said to myself; ‘there is nothing more to be done: it is over, all over.’ I got
back to the barracks as the night was falling, and stretched myself out on
my bed, and—will you believe it, Alexander Petrovitch?—began to sob—
yes, to sob. One day passed, then a second, then a third. I saw Luisa no
more. I had learned, however, from an old woman (she was also a
washerwoman, and the girl I loved used sometimes to visit her), that this
German knew of our relations, and that for that reason he had made up his
mind to marry her as soon as possible, otherwise he would have waited two
years longer. He had made Luisa swear that she would see me no more. It
appeared that on account of me he had refused to loosen his purse-strings,
and kept Luisa and her aunt very close. Perhaps he would yet change his
idea, for he was not very resolute. The old woman told me that he had
invited them to take coffee with him the next day, a Sunday, and that
another relation, a former shopkeeper, now very poor, and an assistant in
some liquor store, would also come. When I found that the business was to
be settled on Sunday, I was so furious that I could not recover my cold
blood, and the following day I did nothing but reflect. I believe I could have
devoured that German. On Sunday morning I had not come to any decision.
As soon as the service was over I ran out, got into my great-coat, and went
to the house of this German. I thought I should find them all there. Why I
went to the German, and what I meant to say to him, I did not know myself.
“I slipped a pistol into my pocket to be ready for everything; a little pistol
which was not worth a curse, with an old-fashioned lock—a thing I had
used when I was a boy, and which was really fit for nothing. I loaded it,
however, because I thought they would try to kick me out, and that the
German would insult me, in which case I would pull out my pistol to
frighten them all. I arrived. There was no one on the staircase; they were all
in the work-room. No servant. The one girl who waited upon them was
absent. I crossed the shop and saw that the door was closed—an old door
fastened from the inside. My heart beat; I stopped and listened. They were

speaking German. I broke open the door with a kick. I looked round. The
table was laid; there was a large coffee-pot on it, with a spirit lamp
underneath, and a plate of biscuits. On a tray there was a small decanter of
brandy, herrings, sausages, and a bottle of some wine. Luisa and her aunt,
both in their Sunday best, were seated on a sofa. Opposite them, the
German was exhibiting himself on a chair, got up like a bridegroom, and in
his coat with the high collar, and with his hair carefully combed. On the
other side, there was another German, old, fat, and gray. He was taking no
part in the conversation. When I entered, Luisa turned very pale. The aunt
sprang up with a bound and sat down again. The German became angry.
What a rage he was in! He got up, and walking towards me, said:
“‘What do you want?’
“I should have lost my self-possession if anger had not supported me.
“‘What do I want? Is this the way to receive a guest? Why do you not offer
him something to drink? I have come to pay you a visit.’
“The German reflected a moment, and then said, ‘Sit down.’
“I sat down.
“‘Here is some vodka. Help yourself, I beg.’
“‘And let it be good,’ I cried, getting more and more into a rage.
“‘It is good.’
“I was enraged to see him looking at me from top to toe. The most frightful
part of it was, that Luisa was looking on. I took a drink and said to him:
“‘Look here, German, what business have you to speak rudely to me? Let
us be better acquainted. I have come to see you as friends.’
“‘I cannot be your friend,’ he replied. ‘You are a private soldier.’
“Then I lost all self-command.
“‘Oh, you German! You sausage-seller! You know how much you are in my
power. Look here; do you wish me to break your head with this pistol?’

“I drew out my pistol, got up, and struck him on the forehead. The women
were more dead than alive; they were afraid to breathe. The eldest of the
two men, quite white, was trembling like a leaf.
“The German seemed much astonished. But he soon recovered himself.
“‘I am not afraid of you,’ he said, ‘and I beg of you, as a well-bred man, to
put an end to this pleasantry. I am not afraid of you!’
“‘You are afraid! You dare not move while this pistol is presented at you.’
“‘You dare not do such a thing!’ he cried.
“‘And why should I not dare?’
“‘Because you would be severely punished.’
“May the devil take that idiot of a German! If he had not urged me on, he
would have been alive now.
“‘So you think I dare not?’
“‘No.’
“‘I dare not, you think?’
“‘You would not dare!’
“‘Wouldn’t I, sausage-maker?’ I fired the pistol, and down he sank on his
chair. The others uttered shrieks. I put back my pistol in my pocket, and
when I returned to the fortress, threw it among some weeds near the
principal entrance.
“Inside the barracks I laid on my bed, and said to myself, ‘I shall be taken
away soon.’ One hour passed, then another, but I was not arrested.
“Towards evening I felt so sad, I went out at all hazards to see Luisa; I
passed before the house of the clockmaker’s. There were a number of
people there, including the police. I ran on to the old woman’s and said:
“‘Call Luisa!’

“I had only a moment to wait. She came immediately, and threw herself on
my neck in tears.
“‘It is my fault,’ she said. ‘I should not have listened to my aunt.’
“She then told me that her aunt, immediately after the scene, had gone back
home. She was in such a fright that she fell and did not speak a word; she
had uttered nothing. On the contrary, she ordered her niece to be as silent as
herself.
“‘No one has seen her since,’ said Luisa.
“The clockmaker had previously sent his servant away, for he was afraid of
her. She was jealous, and would have scratched his eyes out had she known
that he wished to get married.
“There were no workmen in the house, he had sent them all away; he had
himself prepared the coffee and collation. As for the relation, who had
scarcely spoken a word all his life, he took his hat, and, without opening his
mouth, went away.
“‘He is quite sure to be silent,’ added Luisa.
“So, indeed, he was. For two weeks no one arrested me nor suspected me
the least in the world.
“You need not believe me unless you choose, Alexander Petrovitch.
“These two weeks were the happiest in my life. I saw Luisa every day. And
how much she had become attached to me!
“She said to me through her tears: ‘If you are exiled, I will go with you. I
will leave everything to follow you.’
“I thought of making away with myself, so much had she moved me; but
after two weeks I was arrested. The old man and the aunt had agreed to
denounce me.”
“But,” I interrupted, “Baklouchin, for that they would only have given you
from ten to twelve years’ hard labour, and in the civil section; yet you are in
the special section. How does that happen?”

“That is another affair,” said Baklouchin. “When I was taken before the
Council of War, the captain appointed to conduct the case began by
insulting me, and calling me names before the Tribunal. I could not stand it,
and shouted out to him: ‘Why do you insult me? Don’t you see, you
scoundrel! that you are only looking at yourself in the glass?’
“This brought a new charge against me. I was tried a second time, and for
the two things was condemned to four thousand strokes, and to the special
section. When I was taken out to receive my punishment in the Green
Street, the captain was at the same time sent away. He had been degraded
from his rank, and was despatched to the Caucasus as a private soldier.
Good-bye, Alexander Petrovitch. Don’t fail to come to our performance.”

CHAPTER XI. THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS

The holidays were approaching. On the eve of the great day the convicts
scarcely ever went to work. Those who had been assigned to the sewing
workshops, and a few others, went to work as usual; but they went back
almost immediately to the convict prison, separately, or in parties. After
dinner no one worked. From the early morning the greater part of the
convicts were occupied with their own affairs, and not with those of the
administration. Some were making arrangements for bringing in spirits,
while others were seeking permission to see their friends, or to collect small
accounts due to them for the work they had already executed. Baklouchin,
and the convicts who were to take part in the performance, were
endeavouring to persuade some of their acquaintances, nearly all officers’
servants, to procure for them the necessary costumes. Some of them came
and went with a business-like air, solely because others were really
occupied. They had no money to receive, and yet seemed to expect a
payment. Every one, in short, seemed to be looking for a change of some
kind. Towards evening the old soldiers, who executed the convicts’
commissions, brought them all kinds of victuals—meat, sucking-pigs, and
geese. Many prisoners, even the most simple and most economical, after
saving up their kopecks throughout the year, thought they ought to spend
some of them that day, so as to celebrate Christmas Eve in a worthy

manner. The day afterwards was for the convicts a still greater festival, one
to which they had a right, as it was recognised by law. The prisoners could
not be sent to work that day. There were not three days like it in all the year.
And, moreover, what recollections must have been agitating the souls of
those reprobates at the approach of such a solemn day! The common people
from their childhood kept the great festival in their memory. They must
have remembered with anguish and torments these days which, work being
laid aside, are passed in the bosom of the family. The respect of the convicts
for that day had something imposing about it. The drunkards were not at all
numerous; nearly every one was serious, and, so to say, preoccupied,
though they had for the most part nothing to do. Even those who feasted
most preserved a serious air. Laughter seemed to be forbidden. A sort of
intolerant susceptibility reigned throughout the prison; and if any one
interfered with the general repose, even involuntarily, he was soon put in
his proper place, with cries and oaths. He was condemned as though he had
been wanting in respect to the festival itself.
This disposition of the convicts was remarkable, and even touching.
Besides the innate veneration they have for this great day, they foresee that
in observing the festival they are in communion with the rest of the world;
that they are not altogether reprobates lost and cast off by society. The usual
rejoicings took place in the convict prison as well as outside. They felt all
that. I saw it, and understood it myself.
Akim Akimitch had made great preparations for the festival. He had no
family recollections, being an orphan, born in a strange house, and put into
the army at the age of fifteen. He could never have experienced any great
joys, having always lived regularly and uniformly in the fear of infringing
the rules imposed upon him, nor was he very religious; for his acquired
formality had stifled in him all human feeling, all passions and likings,
good or bad. He accordingly prepared to keep Christmas without exciting
himself about it. He was saddened by no painful, useless recollection. He
did everything with the punctuality imposed upon him in the execution of
his duties, and in order once for all to get through the ceremony in a
becoming manner. Moreover, he did not care to reflect upon the importance
of the day, had never troubled his brain about it, even while he was
executing his prescribed duties with religious minuteness. If he had been

ordered the day following to do contrary to what he had done the evening
before he would have done it with equal submission. Once in life, once, and
once only, he had wished to act by his own impulse—and he had been sent
to hard labour for it.
This lesson had not been lost upon him, although it was written that he was
never to understand his fault. He had yet become impressed with this
salutary moral principle: never to reason in any matter because his mind
was not equal to the task of judging. Blindly devoted to ceremonies, he
looked with respect at the sucking-pig which he had stuffed with millet-
seed, and which he had roasted himself (for he had some culinary skill), just
as if it had not been an ordinary sucking-pig which could have been bought
and roasted at any time, but a particular kind of animal born specially for
Christmas Day. Perhaps he had been accustomed from his tender infancy to
see that day a sucking-pig on the table, and he may have concluded that a
sucking-pig was indispensable for the proper celebration of the festival. I
am certain that if by ill-luck he had not eaten this particular kind of meat on
that day, he would have been troubled with remorse all his life for not
having done his duty. Until Christmas morning he wore his old vest and his
old trousers, which had long been threadbare. I then learned that he kept
carefully in his box his new clothes which had been given to him four
months before, and that he had not put them on once, in order that he might
wear them for the first time on Christmas Day. He did so. The evening
before he took his new clothes out of his trunk, unfolded, examined them,
cleaned them, blew on them to remove the dust, and when he was
convinced that they were perfect, probably tried them on. The dress became
him perfectly; all the different garments suited one another. The waistcoat
buttoned up to the neck, the collar, straight and stiff like cardboard, kept his
chin in its proper place. There was a military cut about the dress; and Akim
Akimitch, as he wore it, smiled with satisfaction, turning himself round and
round, not without swagger, before a little mirror adorned with a gilt border.
One of the waistcoat-buttons alone seemed out of place; Akim Akimitch
remarked it, and at once set it right. He tried on the vest again and found it
irreproachable. Then he folded up his things as before, and with a satisfied
mind locked them up in his box until the next day. His skull was sufficiently
shaved; but, after careful examination, Akim Akimitch came to the
conclusion that it was not in good condition, his hair had imperceptibly

sprung up. He accordingly went immediately to the “Major” to be properly
shaved according to the rules. In reality no one would have dreamed of
looking at him next day, but he was acting conscientiously in order to fulfil
all his duties. This care lest the smallest button, the least thread of an
epaulette, the slightest string of a tassel should go wrong, was engraved in
his mind as an imperious duty, and in his heart as the image of the most
perfect order that could possibly be attained. As one of the “old hands” in
the barracks, he saw that hay was brought and strewed about on the floor;
the same thing was done in the other barracks. I do not know why, but hay
was always strewed on the ground at Christmas time.
As soon as Akim Akimitch had finished his work he said his prayers,
stretched himself on his bed, and went to sleep, with the sleep of a child, in
order to wake up as early as possible the next day. The other convicts did
the same. It must be added that all of them went to bed, but sooner than
usual. They gave up their ordinary evening work that day. As for playing
cards, no one would have dared even to speak of such a thing; every one
was anxiously expecting the next morning.
At last this morning arrived. At an early hour, even before it was light, the
drum was sounded, and the under officer, whose duty it was to count the
convicts, wished them a happy Christmas. The prisoners answered him in
an affable and amiable tone by expressing a like wish. Akim Akimitch, and
many others, who had their geese and their sucking-pigs, went to the
kitchen, after saying their prayers, in a hurried manner to see where their
victuals were and how they were being cooked.
Through the little windows of our barracks, half hidden by the snow and the
ice, could be seen, flaring in the darkness, the bright fire of the two kitchens
where six stoves had been lighted. In the court-yard, where it was still dark,
the convicts, each with a half pelisse round his shoulders, or perhaps fully
dressed, were hurrying towards the kitchen. Some of them, meanwhile—a
very small number—had already visited the drink-sellers. They were the
impatient ones, but they behaved becomingly, possibly much better than on
ordinary days; neither quarrels nor insults were heard, every one understood
that it was a great day, a great festival. The convicts went even to visit the
other barracks in order to wish the inmates a happy Christmas; that day a
sort of friendship seemed to exist between them all. I will remark in passing

that the convicts have scarcely ever any intimate friendships. It was very
rare to see a man on confidential terms with any other man, as, in the outer
world. We were generally harsh and abrupt in our mutual relations. With
some rare exceptions this was the general tone adopted and maintained.
I went out of the barracks like the others. It was beginning to get late. The
stars were paling, a light, icy mist was rising from the earth, and spirals of
smoke were ascending in curls from the chimneys. Several convicts whom I
met wished me, with affability, a happy Christmas. I thanked them and
returned their wishes. Some of them had never spoken to me before.
Near the kitchen, a convict from the military barracks, with his sheepskin
on his shoulder, came up to me. Recognising me, he called out from the
middle of the court-yard, “Alexander Petrovitch.” He ran towards me. I
waited for him. He was a young fellow, with a round face and soft eyes, and
not at all communicative as a rule. He had not spoken to me since my
arrival, and seemed never to have noticed me. I did not know on my side
what his name was. When he came up, he remained planted before me,
smiling with a vacuous smile, but with a happy expression of countenance.
“What do you want?” I asked, not without astonishment.
He remained standing before me, still smiling and staring, but without
replying to my question.
“Why, it is Christmas Day,” he muttered.
He understood that he had nothing more to say, and now hastened into the
kitchen.
I must add that, after this we scarcely ever met, and that we never spoke to
one another again.
Round the flaming stoves of the kitchen the convicts were rubbing and
pushing against one another. Every one was watching his own property. The
cooks were preparing the dinner, which was to take place a little earlier than
usual. No one began to eat before the time, though a good many wished to
do so; but it was necessary to be well-behaved before the others. We were
waiting for the priest, and the fast preceding Christmas would not be at an
end until his arrival.

It was not yet perfectly light, when the corporal was already heard shouting
out from behind the principal gate of the prison:
“The kitchen; the kitchen.”
These calls were repeated without interruption for about two hours. The
cooks were wanted in order to receive gifts brought from all parts of the
town in enormous numbers; loaves of white bread, scones, rusks, pancakes,
and pastry of various kinds. I do not think there was a shop-keeper in the
whole town who did not send something to the “unfortunates.” Amongst
these gifts there were some magnificent ones, including a good many cakes
of the finest flour. There were also some very poor ones, such as rolls worth
two kopecks a piece, and a couple of brown rolls, covered lightly over with
sour cream. These were the offerings of the poor to the poor, on which a last
kopeck had often been spent.
All these gifts were accepted with equal gratitude, without reference to the
value or the giver. The convicts, on receiving the offerings, took off their
caps and thanked the donors with low bows, wishing them a happy
Christmas, and then carried the things to the kitchen.
When a number of loaves and cakes had been collected, the elders of each
barrack were called, and it was for them to divide the whole in equal
portions among all the sections. The division excited neither protest nor
annoyance. It was made honestly, equitably. Akim Akimitch, helped by
another prisoner, divided between the convicts of our barracks the share
assigned to us, and gave to each of us what came to him. Every one was
satisfied. No objection was made by any one. There was not the least
manifestation of envy, and it occurred to no one to deceive another.
When Akim Akimitch had finished at the kitchen, he proceeded religiously
to dress himself, and did so with a solemn air. He buttoned up his waistcoat
button by button, in the most punctilious manner. Then, when he had got his
new clothes on, he went to pray, which occupied him a considerable time.
Numbers of convicts fulfilled their religious duties, but these were for the
most part old men. The young men scarcely ever prayed. The most they did
was to make the sign of the cross when they rose from table, and that
happened only on festival days.

Akim Akimitch came up to me as soon as he had finished his prayer, to
express to me the usual good wishes. I invited him to have some tea, and he
returned my politeness by offering me some of his sucking-pig. After some
time Petroff came up to address to me the usual compliments. I think he had
been already drinking, and although he seemed to have much to say, he
scarcely spoke. He stood up before me for some seconds, and then went
back to the kitchen. The priest was now expected in the military section of
the barracks. This section was not constructed like the others. The camp-
bedsteads were arranged all along the wall, and not in the middle of the
room as in all the others, so that it was the only one in which the middle
was not obstructed. It had been probably arranged in this manner so that in
case of necessity it might be easier to assemble the convicts. A small table
had been prepared in the middle of the room, and a holy image placed upon
it, before which burned a little lamp.
At last the priest arrived, with the cross and holy water. He prayed and
chanted before the image, and then turned towards the convicts, who one
after the other came and kissed the cross. The priest then walked through all
the barracks, sprinkling them with holy water. When he got to the kitchen
he praised the bread of the convict prison, which had quite a reputation in
town. The convicts at once expressed a desire to send him two loaves of
new bread, still hot, which an old soldier was ordered to take to his house
forthwith. The convicts walked back after the cross with the same respect as
they had received it. Almost immediately afterwards, the Major and the
Commandant arrived. The Commandant was liked, and even respected. He
made the tour of the barracks in company with the Major, wished the
convicts a happy Christmas, went into the kitchen, and tasted the cabbage
soup. It was excellent that day. Each convict was entitled to nearly a pound
of meat, besides which there was millet-seed in it, and certainly the butter
had not been spared. The Major saw the Commandant to the door, and then
ordered the convicts to begin dinner. Each endeavoured not to be under the
Major’s eyes. They did not like his spiteful, inquisitorial look from behind
his spectacles as he wandered from right to left, seeking apparently some
disorder to repress, some crime to punish.
We dined. Akim Akimitch’s sucking-pig was admirably roasted. I could
never understand how, five minutes after the Major left, there was a mass of
drunken prisoners, whereas as long as he remained every one was perfectly

calm. Red, radiant faces were now numerous, and the balalaiki [Russian
banjoes] soon appeared. Then came the little Pole, playing his violin, a
convivial prisoner having engaged him for the whole day to play lively
dance-tunes. The conversation became more animated and more noisy, but
the dinner ended without great disorders. Every one had had enough. Some
of the old men, serious-minded convicts, went immediately to bed. So did
Akim Akimitch, who probably thought it was a duty to go to sleep after
dinner on festival days.
The “old believer” from Starodoub, after having slumbered a little, climbed
up on to the top of the stove, opened his book, and prayed the entire day
until late in the evening without interruption. The spectacle of so shameless
an orgie was painful to him, he said. All the Circassians left the table. They
looked with curiosity, but with a touch of disgust, at this drunken society. I
met Nourra.
“Aman, aman,” he said, with a burst of honest indignation, and shaking his
head. “What an offence to Allah!” Isaiah Fomitch lighted, with an arrogant
and obstinate air, a candle in his favourite corner, and went to work in order
to show that in his eyes this was no holiday. Here and there card parties
were arranged. The convicts did not fear the old soldiers, but men were
placed on the look-out in case the under officer should suddenly come in.
He made a point, however, of seeing nothing. The officer of the guard made
altogether three rounds. The prisoners, if they were drunk, hid themselves at
once. The cards disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. I fancy that he had
made up his mind not to notice any contraventions of an unimportant kind.
Drunkenness was not an offence that day. Little by little every one became
more or less gay. Then there were some quarrels. The greater number of the
prisoners, however, remained calm, amusing themselves with the spectacle
of those who were intoxicated. Some of these drank without limit.
Gazin was triumphant. He walked about with a self-satisfied air, by the side
of his camp bedstead, beneath which he had concealed his spirits,
previously buried beneath the snow behind the barracks, in a secret place.
He smiled knowingly when he saw customers arrive in crowds. He was
perfectly calm. He had drunk nothing at all; for it was his intention to regale
himself the last day of the holidays, after he had emptied the pockets of the
other prisoners. Throughout the barracks the drunkenness was becoming

infernal. Singing was heard, and the songs were giving way to tears. Some
of the prisoners walked about in bands, sheepskin on shoulder, striking with
a haughty air the strings of their balalaiki. A chorus of from eight to ten men
had been formed in the special section. The singing here was excellent, with
its accompaniments of balalaiki and guitars.
Songs of a truly popular kind were rare. I remember one which was
admirably sung:

Yesterday, I, a young girl,
Went to the feast.

A variation was introduced previously unknown to me. At the end of the
song these lines were added:

At my house, the house of a young girl,
Everything is in order.
I have washed the spoons,
I have turned out the cabbage-soup,
I have wiped down the panels of the door,
I have cooked the patties.

What they chiefly sang were prison songs; one of them, called “As it
happened,” was very humorous. It related how a man amused himself, and
lived like a prince until he was sent to the convict prison, where he fared
very differently. Another song, only too popular, set forth how the hero of it
had formerly possessed capital, but had now nothing but captivity. Here is a
true convict’s song:

The day breaks in the heavens,
We are waked up by the drum.
The old man opens the door,
The warder comes and calls us.
No one sees us behind the prison walls,
Nor how we live in this place.
But God, the Heavenly Creator, is with us
He will not let us perish.

Another still more melancholy, but with a superb melody, was sung to tame
and incorrect words. I can remember a few of the verses:

My eyes no more will see the land,
Where I was born;
To suffer torments undeserved,
Will be my punishment.
The owl will shriek upon the roof,
And raise the echoes of the forest.
My heart is broken down with grief.
No, never more shall I return.

This song is often sung; not as a chorus, but always as a solo. When the
work is over, a prisoner goes out of the barracks, sits down on the threshold,
meditates with his chin resting on his hand, and then drawls out his song in
a high falsetto. One listens to him, and the effect is heart-breaking. Some of
our convicts had beautiful voices.
Meanwhile it was getting dusk. Wearisomeness and general depression
were making themselves felt through the drunkenness and the debauchery.
The prisoner, who an hour beforehand was holding his sides with laughter,
now sobbed in a corner, exceedingly drunk; others were fighting, or
wandering in a tottering manner through the barracks, pale, very pale, and
seeking whom to quarrel with. These poor people had wished to pass the
great festival in the most joyous manner, but, gracious heaven, how painful
the day was for all of them! They had passed it in the vague hope of a
happiness that was not to be realised. Petroff came up to me twice. As he
had drunk very little he was calm; but until the last moment he expected
something which he made sure would happen, something extraordinary, and
highly diverting. Although he said nothing about it, this could be seen from
his looks. He ran from barrack to barrack without fatigue. Nothing,
however, happened; nothing except general intoxication, idiotic insults from
drunkards, and general giddiness of heated heads.
Sirotkin wandered about also, dressed in a brand-new red shirt, going from
barrack to barrack, and good-looking as usual. He also was on the watch for
something to happen. The spectacle became insupportably repulsive, indeed
nauseating. There were some laughable things, but I was too sad to be

amused by them. I felt a deep pity for all these men, and felt strangled,
stifled, in the midst of them. Here two convicts were disputing as to which
should treat the other. The dispute lasts a long time; they have almost come
to blows. One of them has, for a long time past, had a grudge against the
other. He complains, stammering as he does so, and tries to prove to his
companion that he acted unjustly when, a year before, he sold a pelisse and
concealed the money. There was more than this too. The complainant is a
tall young fellow, with good muscular development, quiet, by no means
stupid, but who, when he is drunk, wishes to make friends with every one,
and to pour out his grief into their bosom. He insults his adversary with the
intention of becoming reconciled to him later on. The other man, a big,
massive person, with a round face, as cunning as a fox, had perhaps drunk
more than his companion, but appeared only slightly intoxicated. This
convict has character, and passes for a rich man; he has probably no interest
in irritating his companion, and he accordingly leads him to one of the
drink-sellers. The expansive friend declares that his companion owes him
money, and that he is bound to stand him a drink “if he has any pretensions
to be considered an honest man.”
The drink-seller, not without some respect for his customer, and with a
touch of contempt for the expansive friend (for he was drinking at the
expense of another man), took a glass and filled it with vodka.
“No, Stepka, you must pay, because you owe me money.”
“I won’t tire my tongue talking to you any longer,” replied Stepka.
“No, Stepka, you lie,” continues his friend, taking up a glass offered to him
by the drink-seller. “You owe me money, and you must be without
conscience. You have not a thing about you that you have not borrowed,
and I don’t believe your very eyes are your own. In a word, Stepka, you are
a blackguard.”
“What are you whining about? Look, you are spilling your vodka.”
“If you are being treated, why don’t you drink?” cries the drink-seller, to the
expansive friend. “I cannot wait here until to-morrow.”
“I will drink, don’t be frightened. What are you crying out about? My best
wishes for the day. My best wishes for the day, Stepan Doroveitch,” replies

the latter politely, as he bows, glass in hand, towards Stepka, whom the
moment before he had called a blackguard. “Good health to you, and may
you live a hundred years in addition to what you have lived already.” He
drinks, gives a grunt of satisfaction, and wipes his mouth. “What quantities
of brandy I have drunk,” he says, gravely speaking to every one, without
addressing any one in particular, “but I have finished now. Thank me,
Stepka Doroveitch.”
“There is nothing to thank you for.”
“Ah! you won’t thank me. Then I will tell every one how you have treated
me, and, moreover, that you are a blackguard.”
“Then I shall have something to tell you, drunkard that you are,” interrupts
Stepka, who at last loses patience. “Listen and pay attention. Let us divide
the world in two. You shall take one half, I the other. Then I shall have
peace.”
“Then you will not give me back my money?”
“What money do you want, drunkard?”
“My money. It is the sweat of my brow; the labour of my hands. You will be
sorry for it in the other world. You will be roasted for those five kopecks.”
“Go to the devil.”
“What are you driving me for? Am I a horse?”
“Be off, be off.”
“Blackguard!”
“Convict!”
And the insults exchanged were worse than they had been before the visit to
the drink-seller.
Two friends are seated separately on two camp-bedsteads. One is tall,
vigorous, fleshy, with a red face—a regular butcher. He is on the point of
weeping; for he has been much moved. The other is tall, thin, conceited,
with an immense nose, which always seems to have a cold, and little blue

eyes fixed upon the ground. He is a clever, well-bred man, and was
formerly a secretary. He treats his friend with a little disdain, which the
latter cannot stand. They have been drinking together all day.
“You have taken a liberty with me,” cries the stout one, as with his left hand
he shakes the head of his companion. To take a liberty signifies, in convict
language, to strike. This convict, formerly a non-commissioned officer,
envies in secret the elegance of his neighbour, and endeavours to make up
for his material grossness by refined conversation.
“I tell you, you are wrong,” says the secretary, in a dogmatic tone, with his
eyes obstinately fixed on the ground, and without looking at his companion.
“You struck me. Do you hear?” continues the other, still shaking his dear
friend. “You are the only man in the world I care for; but you shall not take
a liberty with me.”
“Confess, my dear fellow,” replies the secretary, “that all this is the result of
too much drink.”
The corpulent friend falls back with a stagger, looks stupidly with his
drunken eyes at the secretary, and suddenly, with all his might, sends his fist
into the secretary’s thin face. Thus terminates the day’s friendship.
The dear friend disappears beneath the camp-bedstead unconscious.
One of my acquaintances enters the barracks. He is a convict of the special
section, very good-natured, and gay, far from stupid, and jocular without
malice. He is the man who, on my arrival at the convict prison, was looking
out for a rich peasant, who spoke so much of his self-respect, and ended by
drinking my tea. He was forty years old, had enormous lips, and a fat,
fleshy, red nose. He held a balalaika, and struck negligently its strings. He
was followed by a little convict, with a large head, whom I knew very little,
and to whom no one paid any attention. Now that he was drunk he had
attached himself to Vermaloff, and followed him like his shadow, at the
same time gesticulating and striking with his fist the wall and the camp-
bedsteads. He was almost in tears. Vermaloff did not notice him any more
than if he had not existed. The most curious point was that these two men in
no way resembled one another, neither by their occupations nor by their

disposition. They belonged to different sections, and lived in separate
barracks. The little convict was named Bulkin.
Vermaloff smiled when he saw me seated by the stove. He stopped at some
distance from me, reflected for a moment, tottered, and then came towards
me with an affected swagger. Then he swept the strings of his instrument,
and sung, or recited, tapping at the same time with his boot on the ground,
the following chant:

My darling!
With her full, fair face,
Sings like a nightingale;
In her satin dress,
With its brilliant trimming,
She is very fair.

This song excited Bulkin in an extraordinary manner. He agitated his arms,
and shrieked out to every one: “He lies, my friends; he lies like a quack
doctor. There is not a shadow of truth in what he sings.”
“My respects to the venerable Alexander Petrovitch,” said Vermaloff,
looking at me with a knowing smile. I fancied even he wished to embrace
me. He was drunk. As for the expression, “My respects to the venerable so-
and-so,” it is employed by the common people throughout Siberia, even
when addressed to a young man of twenty. To call a man old is a sign of
respect, and may amount even to flattery.
“Well, Vermaloff, how are you?” I replied.
“So, so. Nothing to boast of. Those who really enjoy the holiday have been
drinking since early morning.”
Vermaloff did not speak very distinctly.
“He lies; he lies again,” said Bulkin, striking the camp-bedsteads with a sort
of despair.
One might have sworn that Vermaloff had given his word of honour not to
pay any attention to him. That was really the most comic thing about it; for
Bulkin had not quitted him for one moment since the morning. Always with

him, he quarrelled with Vermaloff about every word; wringing his hands,
and striking with his fists against the wall and the camp bedsteads till he
made them bleed, he suffered visibly from his conviction that Vermaloff
“lied like a quack doctor.” If Bulkin had had hair on his head, he would
certainly have torn it in his grief, in his profound mortification. One might
have thought that he had made himself responsible for Vermaloff’s actions,
and that all Vermaloff’s faults troubled his conscience. The amusing part of
it was that Vermaloff continued.
“He lies! He lies! He lies!” cried Bulkin.
“What can it matter to you?” replied the convicts, with a laugh.
“I must tell you, Alexander Petrovitch, that I was very good-looking when I
was a young man, and the young girls were very fond of me,” said
Vermaloff suddenly.
“He lies! He lies!” again interrupted Bulkin, with a groan. The convicts
burst into a laugh.
“And well I got myself up to please them. I had a red shirt, and broad
trousers of cotton velvet. I was happy in those days. I got up when I liked;
did whatever I pleased. In fact——”
“He lies,” declared Bulkin.
“I inherited from my father a stone house, two storeys high. Within two
years I made away with the two storeys; nothing remained to me but the
street door. Well, what of that. Money comes and goes like a bird.”
“He lies!” declared Bulkin, more resolutely than before.
“Then when I had spent all, I sent a letter to my relations, that they might
send me some money. They said that I had set their will at naught, that I
was disrespectful. It is now seven years since I sent off my letter.”
“And any answer?” I asked, with a smile.
“No,” he replied, also laughing, and almost putting his nose in my face.
He then informed me that he had a sweetheart.

“You a sweetheart?”
“Onufriel said to me the other day: ‘My young woman is marked with
small-pox, and as ugly as you like; but she has plenty of dresses, while
yours, though she may be pretty, is a beggar.’”
“Is that true?”
“Certainly, she is a beggar,” he answered.
He burst into a laugh, and the others laughed with him. Every one indeed
knew that he had a liaison with a beggar woman, to whom he gave ten
kopecks every six months.
“Well, what do you want with me?” I said to him, wishing at last to get rid
of him.
He remained silent, and then, looking at me in the most insinuating manner,
said:
“Could not you let me have enough money to buy half-a-pint? I have drunk
nothing but tea the whole day,” he added, as he took from me the money I
offered him; “and tea affects me in such a manner that I am afraid of
becoming asthmatic. It gives me the wind.”
When he took the money I offered him, the despair of Bulkin went beyond
all bounds. He gesticulated like a man possessed.
“Good people all,” he cried, “the man lies. Everything he says—everything
is a lie.”
“What can it matter to you?” cried the convicts, astonished at his goings on.
“You are possessed.”
“I will not allow him to lie,” continued Bulkin, rolling his eyes, and striking
his fist with energy on the boards. “He shall not lie.”
Every one laughed. Vermaloff bowed to me after receiving the money, and
hastened, with many grimaces, to go to the drink-seller. Then only he
noticed Bulkin.

“Come!” he said to him, as if the latter were indispensable for the execution
of some design. “Idiot!” he added, with contempt, as Bulkin passed before
him.
But enough about this tumultuous scene, which, at last, came to an end. The
convicts went to sleep heavily on their camp-bedsteads. They spoke and
raged during their sleep more than on the other nights. Here and there they
still continued to play at cards. The festival looked forward to with such
impatience was now over, and to-morrow the daily work, the hard labour,
will begin again.

CHAPTER XII. THE PERFORMANCE.

On the evening of the third day of the holidays took place our first theatrical
performance. There had been much trouble about organising it. But those
who were to act had taken everything upon themselves, and the other
convicts knew nothing about the representation except that it was to take
place. We did not even know what was to be played. The actors, while they
were at work, were always thinking how they could get together the greatest
number of costumes. Whenever I met Baklouchin he snapped his fingers
with satisfaction, but told me nothing. I think the Major was in a good
humour; but we did not know for certain whether he knew what was going
on or not, whether he had authorised it, or whether he had determined to
shut his eyes and be silent, after assuring himself that everything would take
place quietly. He had heard, I fancy, of the meditated representation, and
said nothing about it, lest he should spoil everything. The soldiers would be
disorderly, or would get drunk, unless they had something to divert them.
Thus I think the Major must have reasoned, for it will be only natural to do
so. I may add that if the convicts had not got up a performance during the
holidays, or done something of the kind, the administration would have
been obliged to organise some sort of amusement; but as our Major was
distinguished by ideas directly opposed to those of other people, I take a
great responsibility on myself in saying that he knew of our project and
authorised it. A man like him must always be crushing and stifling some

one, taking something away, depriving some one of a right—in a word, for
establishing order of this character he was known throughout the town.
It mattered nothing to him that his exactions made the men rebellious. For
such offences there were suitable punishments (there are some people who
reason in this way), and with these rascals of convicts there was nothing to
do but to treat them very severely, deal with them strictly according to law.
These incapable executants of the law did not in the least understand that to
apply the law without understanding its spirit is to provoke resistance. They
are quite astonished that, in addition to the execution of the law, good sense
and a sound head should be expected from them. The last condition would
appear to them quite superfluous; to require such a thing is vexatious,
intolerant.
However this may be, the Sergeant-Major made no objection to the
performance, and that was all the convicts wanted. I may say in all truth
that if throughout the holidays there were no disorders in the convict prison,
no sanguinary quarrels, no robberies, that must be attributed to the convicts
being permitted to organise their performance. I saw with my own eyes how
they got out of the way of those of their companions who had drunk too
much, and how they prevented quarrels on the ground that the
representation would be forbidden. The non-commissioned officer made the
prisoners give their word of honour that they would behave well, and that
all would go off quietly. They gave it with pleasure, and kept their promise
religiously. They were much flattered at finding their word of honour
accepted. Let me add that the representation cost nothing, absolutely
nothing, to the authorities, who were not called upon to spend a farthing.
The theatre could be put up and taken down within a quarter of an hour;
and, in case an order stopping the performance suddenly arrived, the
scenery could have been put away in a second. The costumes were
concealed in the convicts’ boxes; but first of all let me say how our theatre
was constructed, what were the costumes, and what the bill, that is to say,
the pieces that were to be played. To tell the truth, there was no written
playbill, not, at least, for the first representation. It was ready only for the
second and third. Baklouchin composed it for the officers and other
distinguished visitors who might deign to honour the performance with
their presence, including the officer of the guard, the officer of the watch,

and an Engineer officer. It was in honour of these that the playbill was
written out.
It was supposed that the reputation of our theatre would extend to the
fortress, and even to the town, especially as there was no theatre at N——:
a few amateur performances, but nothing more. The convicts delighted in
the smallest success, and boasted of it like children.
“Who knows?” they said to one another; “when our chiefs hear of it they
will perhaps come and see. Then they will know what convicts are worth,
for this is not a performance given by soldiers, but a genuine piece played
by genuine actors; nothing like it could be seen anywhere in the town.
General Abrosimoff had a representation at his house, and it is said he will
have another. Well, they may beat us in the matter of costumes, but as for
the dialogue that is a very different thing. The Governor himself will
perhaps hear of it, and—who knows?—he may come himself.”
They had no theatre in the town. In a word, the imagination of the convicts,
above all after their first success, went so far as to make them think that
rewards would be distributed to them, and that their period of hard labour
would be shortened. A moment afterwards they were the first to laugh at
this fancy. In a word, they were children, true children, when they were
forty years of age. I knew in a general way the subjects of the pieces that
were to be represented, although there was no bill. The title of the first was
Philatka and Miroshka Rivals. Baklouchin boasted to me, at least a week
before the performance, that the part of Philatka, which he had assigned to
himself, would be played in such a manner that nothing like it had ever
been seen, even on the St. Petersburg stage. He walked about in the
barracks puffed up with boundless importance. If now and then he
declaimed a speech from his part in the theatrical style, every one burst out
laughing, whether the speech was amusing or not; they laughed because he
had forgotten himself. It must be admitted that the convicts, as a body, were
self-contained and full of dignity; the only ones who got enthusiastic at
Baklouchin’s tirades were the young ones, who had no false shame, or those
who were much looked up to, and whose authority was so firmly
established that they were not afraid to commit themselves. The others
listened silently, without blaming or contradicting, but they did their best to
show that the performance left them indifferent.

It was not until the very last moment, the very day of the representation,
that every one manifested genuine interest in what our companions had
undertaken. “What,” was the general question, “would the Major say?
Would the performance succeed as well as the one given two years before?”
etc., etc. Baklouchin assured me that all the actors would be quite at home
on the stage, and that there would even be a curtain. Sirotkin was to play a
woman’s part. “You will see how well I look in women’s clothes,” he said.
The Lady Bountiful was to have a dress with skirts and trimmings, besides
a parasol; while her husband, the Lord of the Manor, was to wear an
officer’s uniform, with epaulettes, and a cane in his hand.
The second piece that was to be played was entitled, Kedril, the Glutton.
The title puzzled me much, but it was useless to ask any questions about it.
I could only learn that the piece was not printed; it was a manuscript copy
obtained from a retired non-commissioned officer in the town, who had
doubtless formerly participated in its representation on some military stage.
We have, indeed, in the distant towns and governments, a number of pieces
of this kind, which, I believe, are perfectly unknown and have never been
printed, but which appear to have grown up of themselves, in connection
with the popular theatre, in certain zones of Russia. I have spoken of the
popular theatre. It would be a good thing if our investigators of popular
literature would take the trouble to make careful researches as to this
popular theatre which exists, and which, perhaps, is not so insignificant as
may be thought.
I cannot think that everything I saw on the stage of our convict prison was
the work of our convicts. It must have sprung from old traditions handed
down from generation to generation, and preserved among the soldiers, the
workmen in industrial towns, and even the shopkeepers in some poor, out-
of-the-way places. These traditions have been preserved in some villages
and some Government towns by the servants of the large landed proprietors.
I even believe that copies of many old pieces have been multiplied by these
servants of the nobility.
The old Muscovite proprietors and nobles had their own theatres, in which
their servants used to play. Thence comes our popular theatre, the originals
of which are beyond discussion. As for Kedril, the Glutton, in spite of my
lively curiosity, I could learn nothing about it, except that demons appeared

on the stage and carried Kedril away to hell. What did the name of Kedril
signify? Why was he called Kedril and not Cyril? Was the name Russian or
foreign? I could not resolve this question.
It was announced that the representation would terminate with a musical
pantomime. All this promised to be very curious. The actors were fifteen in
number, all vivacious men. They were very energetic, got up a number of
rehearsals which sometimes took place behind the barracks, kept away from
the others, and gave themselves mysterious airs. They evidently wished to
surprise us with something extraordinary and unexpected.
On work days the barracks were shut very early as night approached, but an
exception was made during the Christmas holidays, when the padlocks were
not put to the gates until the evening retreat—nine o’clock. This favour had
been granted specially in view of the play. During the whole duration of the
holidays a deputation was sent every evening to the officer of the guard
very humbly “to permit the representation and not to shut at the usual hour.”
It was added that there had been previous representations, and that nothing
disorderly had occurred at any of them.
The officer of the guard must have reasoned as follows: There was no
disorder, no infraction of discipline at the previous performance, and the
moment they give their word that to-night’s performance shall take place in
the same manner, they mean to be their own police—the most rigorous
police of all. Moreover, he knew well that if he took it upon himself to
forbid the representation, these fellows (who knows, and with convicts?)
would have committed some offence which would have placed the officer
of the guard in a very difficult position. One final reason insured his
consent: To mount guard is horribly tiresome, and if he authorised the
performance he would see the play acted, not by soldiers, but by convicts, a
curious set of people. It would certainly be interesting, and he had a right to
be present at it.
In case the superior officer arrived and asked for the officer of the guard, he
would be told that the latter had gone to count the convicts and close the
barracks; an answer which could easily be made, and which could not be
disproved. That is why our superintendents authorised the performance; and
throughout the holidays the barracks were kept open each evening until the

retreat. The convicts had known beforehand that they would meet with no
opposition from the officer of the guard. They were quite quiet about him.
Towards six o’clock Petroff came to look for me, and we went together to
the theatre. Nearly all the prisoners of our barracks were there, with the
exception of the “old believer” from Tchernigoff, and the Poles. The latter
did not decide to be present until the last day of the representation, the 4th
of January, after they had been assured that everything would be managed
in a becoming manner. The haughtiness of the Poles irritated our convicts.
Accordingly they were received on the 4th of January with formal
politeness, and conducted to the best places. As for the Circassians and
Isaiah Fomitch, the play was for them a genuine delight. Isaiah Fomitch
gave three kopecks each time, except the last, when he placed ten kopecks
on the plate; and how happy he looked!
The actors had decided that each spectator should give what he thought fit.
The receipts were to cover the expenses, and anything beyond was to go to
the actors. Petroff assured me that I should be allowed to have one of the
best places, however full the theatre might be; first, because being richer
than the others, there was a probability of my giving more; and, secondly,
because I knew more about acting than any one else. What he had foreseen
took place. But let me first describe the theatre.
The barrack of the military section, which had been turned into the theatre,
was fifteen feet long. From the court-yard one entered, first an ante-
chamber, and afterwards the barrack itself. The building was arranged, as I
have already mentioned, in a particular manner, the beds being placed
against the wall, so as to leave an open space in the middle. One half of the
barrack was reserved for the spectators, while the other, which
communicated with the second building, formed the stage. What astonished
me directly I entered, was the curtain, which was about ten feet long, and
divided the barrack into two. It was indeed a marvel, for it was painted in
oil, and represented trees, tunnels, ponds, and stars.
It was made of pieces of linen, old and new, given by the convicts; shirts,
the bandages which our peasants wrap round their feet in lieu of socks, all
sewn together well or ill, and forming together an immense sheet. Where
there was not enough linen, it had been replaced by writing paper, taken

sheet by sheet from the various office bureaus. Our painters (among whom
we had our Bruloff) had painted it all over, and the effect was very
remarkable.
This luxurious curtain delighted the convicts, even the most sombre and
most morose. These, however, like the others, as soon as the play began,
showed themselves mere children. They were all pleased and satisfied with
a certain satisfaction of vanity. The theatre was lighted with candle ends.
Two benches, which had been brought from the kitchen, were placed before
the curtain, together with three or four large chairs, borrowed from the non-
commissioned officers’ room. These chairs were for the officers, should
they think fit to honour the performance. As for the benches, they were for
the non-commissioned officers, engineers, clerks, directors of the works,
and all the immediate superiors of the convicts who had not officer’s rank,
and who had come perhaps to take a look at the representation. In fact, there
was no lack of visitors. According to the days, they came in greater or
smaller numbers, while for the last representation there was not a single
place unoccupied on the benches.
At the back the convicts stood crowded together; standing up out of respect
to the visitors, and dressed in their vests, or in their short pelisses, in spite
of the suffocating heat. As might have been expected, the place was too
small; so all the prisoners stood up, heaped together—above all in the last
rows. The camp-bedsteads were all occupied; and there were some
amateurs who disputed constantly behind the stage in the other barrack, and
who viewed the performance from the back. I was asked to go forward, and
Petroff with me, close to the benches, whence a good view could be
obtained. They looked upon me as a good judge, a connoisseur, who had
seen many other theatres. The convicts remarked that Baklouchin had often
consulted me, and that he had shown deference to my advice. Consequently
they thought that I ought to be treated with honour, and to have one of the
best places. These men are vain and frivolous, but only on the surface. They
laughed at me when I was at work, because I was a poor workman.
Almazoff had a right to despise us gentlemen, and to boast of his superior
skill in pounding the alabaster. His laughter and raillery were directed
against our origin, for we belonged by birth to the caste of his former
masters, of whom he could not preserve a good recollection; but here at the
theatre these same men made way for me; for they knew that about this

matter I knew more than they did. Those, even, who were not at all well
disposed towards me, were glad to hear me praise the performance, and
gave way to me without the least servility. I judged now by my impressions
of that time. I understood that in this new view of theirs there was no
lowering of themselves; rather a sentiment of their own dignity.
The most striking characteristic of our people is its conscientiousness, and
its love of justice; no false vanity, no sly ambition to reach the first rank
without being entitled to do so; such faults are foreign to our people. Take it
from its rough shell, and you will perceive, if you study it without
prejudice, attentively, and close at hand, qualities which you would never
have suspected. Our sages have very little to teach our people. I will even
say more; they might take lessons from it.
Petroff had told me innocently, on taking me into the theatre, that they
would pass me to the front, because they expected more money from me.
There were no fixed prices for the places. Each one gave what he liked, and
what he could. Nearly every one placed a piece of money in the plate when
it was handed round. Even if they had passed me forward in the hope that I
should give more than others, was there not in that a certain feeling of
personal dignity?
“You are richer than I am. Go to the first row. We are all equal here, it is
true; but you pay more, and the actors prefer a spectator like you. Occupy
the first place then, for we are not here with money, and must arrange
ourselves anyhow.”
What noble pride in this mode of action! In final analysis not love of
money, but self-respect. There was little esteem for money among us. I do
not remember that one of us ever lowered himself to obtain money. Some
men used to make up to me, but from love of cunning and of fun rather than
in the hope of obtaining any benefit. I do not know whether I explain
myself clearly. I am, in any case, forgetting the performance. Let me return
to it.
Before the rise of the curtain, the room presented a strange and animated
look. In the first place, the crowd pressed, crushed, jammed together on all
sides, but impatient, full of expectation, every face glowing with delight. In
the last ranks was the grovelling, confused mass of convicts. Many of them

had brought with them logs of wood, which they placed against the wall, on
which they climbed up. In this fatiguing position they paused to rest
themselves by placing both hands on the shoulders of their companions,
who seemed quite at ease. Others stood on their toes, with their heels
against the stove, and thus remained throughout the representation,
supported by those around them. Massed against the camp-bedsteads was
another compact crowd; for here were some of the best places of all. Five
convicts had hoisted themselves up to the top of the stove, whence they had
a commanding view. These fortunate ones were extremely happy.
Elsewhere swarmed the late arrivals, unable to find good places.
Every one conducted himself in a becoming manner, without making any
noise. Each one wished to show advantageously before the distinguished
persons who were visiting us. Simple and natural was the expression of
these red faces, damp with perspiration, as the rise of the curtain was
eagerly expected. What a strange look of infinite delight, of unmixed
pleasure, was painted on these scarred faces, these branded foreheads, so
dark and menacing at ordinary times! They were all without their caps, and
as I looked back at them from my place, it seemed to me that their heads
were entirely shaved.
Suddenly the signal is given, and the orchestra begins to play. This
orchestra deserves a special mention. It consisted of eight musicians: two
violins, one of which was the property of a convict, while the other had
been borrowed from outside; three balalaiki, made by the convicts
themselves; two guitars, and a tambourine. The violins sighed and shrieked,
and the guitars were worthless, but the balalaiki were remarkably good; and
the agile fingering of the artists would have done honour to the cleverest
executant.
They played scarcely anything but dance tunes. At the most exciting
passages they struck with their fingers on the body of their instruments. The
tone, the execution of the motive, were always original and distinctive. One
of the guitarists knew his instrument thoroughly. It was the gentleman who
had killed his father. As for the tambourinist, he really did wonders. Now he
whirled round the disk, balanced on one of his fingers; now he rubbed the
parchment with his thumb, and brought from it a countless multitude of
notes, now dull, now brilliant.

At last two harmonigers join the orchestra. I had no idea until then of all
that could be done with these popular and vulgar instruments. I was
astonished. The harmony, but, above all, the expression, the very
conception of the motive, were admirably rendered. I then understood
perfectly, and for the first time, the remarkable boldness, the striking
abandonment, which are expressed in our popular dance tunes, and our
village songs.
At last the curtain rose. Every one made a movement. Those who were at
the back raised themselves upon the point of their feet; some one fell down
from his log. At once there were looks that enjoined silence. The
performance now began.
I was seated not far from Ali, who was in the midst of the group formed by
his brothers and the other Circassians. They had a passionate love of the
theatre, and did not miss one of our evenings. I have remarked that all the
Mohammedans, Circassians, and so on, are fond of all kinds of
representations. Near them was Isaiah Fomitch, quite in a state of ecstasy.
As soon as the curtain rose he was all ears and eyes; his countenance
expressed an expectation of something marvellous. I should have been
grieved had he been disappointed. The charming face of Ali shone with a
childish joy, so pure that I was quite happy to behold it. Involuntarily,
whenever a general laugh echoed an amusing remark, I turned towards him
to see his countenance. He did not notice it, he had something else to do.
Near him, placed on the left, was a convict, already old, sombre,
discontented, and always grumbling. He also had noticed Ali, and I saw him
cast furtive glances more than once towards him, so charming was the
young Circassian. The prisoners always called him Ali Simeonitch, without
my knowing why.
In the first piece, Philatka and Miroshka, Baklouchin, in the part of
Philatka, was really marvellous. He played his rôle to perfection. It could be
seen that he had weighed each speech, each movement. He managed to give
to each word, each gesture, a meaning which responded perfectly to the
character of the personage. Apart from the conscientious study he had made
of the character, he was gay, simple, natural, irresistible. If you had seen
Baklouchin you would certainly have said that he was a genuine actor, an

actor by vocation, and of great talent. I have seen Philatka several times at
the St. Petersburg and Moscow theatres, and I declare that none of our
celebrated actors was equal to Baklouchin in this part. They were peasants,
from no matter what country, and not true Russian moujiks. Moreover, their
desire to be peasant-like was too apparent. Baklouchin was animated by
emulation; for it was known that the convict Potsiakin was to play the part
of Kedril in the second piece, and it was assumed—I do not know why—
that the latter would show more talent than Baklouchin. The latter was as
vexed by this preference as a child. How many times did he not come to me
during the last days to tell me all he felt! Two hours before the
representation he was attacked by fever. When the audience burst out
laughing, and called out “Bravo, Baklouchin! what a fellow you are!” his
figure shone with joy, and true inspiration could be read in his eyes. The
scene of the kisses between Kiroshka and Philatka, in which the latter calls
out to the daughter, “Wife, your mouth,” and then wipes his own, was
wonderfully comic. Every one burst out laughing.
What interested me was the spectators. They were all at their ease, and gave
themselves up frankly to their mirth. Cries of approbation became more and
more numerous. A convict nudged his companion with his elbow, and
hastily communicated his impressions, without even troubling himself to
know who was by his side. When a comic song began, one man might be
seen agitating his arms violently, as if to engage his companions to laugh;
after which he turned suddenly towards the stage. A third smacked his
tongue against his palate, and could not keep quiet a moment; but as there
was not room for him to change his position, he hopped first on one leg,
then on the other; towards the end of the piece the general gaiety attained its
climax. I exaggerate nothing. Imagine the convict prison, chains, captivity,
long years of confinement, of task-work, of monotonous life, falling away
drop by drop like rain on an autumn day; imagine all this despair in
presence of permission given to the convicts to amuse themselves, to
breathe freely for an hour, to forget their nightmare, and to organise a play
—and what a play! one that excited the envy and admiration of our town.
“Fancy those convicts!” people said: everything interested them, take the
costumes for instance. It seemed very strange, but then to see, Nietsvitaeff,
or Baklouchin, in a different costume from the one they had worn for so
many years.

He is a convict, a genuine convict, whose chains ring when he walks; and
there he is, out on the stage with a frock-coat, and a round hat, and a cloak,
like any ordinary civilian. He has put on hair, moustaches. He takes a red
handkerchief from his pocket and shakes it, like a real nobleman. What
enthusiasm is created! The “good landlord” arrives in an aide-de-camp
uniform, a very old one, it is true, but with epaulettes, and a cocked hat. The
effect produced was indescribable. There had been two candidates for this
costume, and—will it be believed?—they had quarrelled like two little
schoolboys as to which of them should play the part. Both wanted to appear
in military uniform with epaulettes. The other actors separated them, and,
by a majority of voices, the part was entrusted to Nietsvitaeff; not because
he was more suited to it than the other, and that he bore a greater
resemblance to a nobleman, but only because he had assured them all that
he would have a cane, and that he would twirl it and rap it out grand, like a
true nobleman—a dandy of the latest fashion—which was more than Vanka
and Ospiety could do, seeing they have never known any noblemen. In fact,
when Nietsvitaeff went to the stage with his wife, he did nothing but draw
circles on the floor with his light bamboo cane, evidently thinking that this
was the sign of the best breeding, of supreme elegance. Probably in his
childhood, when he was still a barefooted child, he had been attracted by
the skill of some proprietor in twirling his cane, and this impression had
remained in his memory, although thirty years afterwards.
Nietsvitaeff was so occupied with his process that he saw no one, he gave
the replies in his dialogue without even raising his eyes. The most important
thing for him was the end of his cane, and the circles he drew with it. The
Lady Bountiful was also very remarkable; she came on in an old worn-out
muslin dress, which looked like a rag. Her arms and neck were bare. She
had a little calico cap on her head, with strings under her chin, an umbrella
in one hand, and in the other a fan of coloured paper, with which she
constantly fanned herself. This great lady was welcomed with a wild laugh;
she herself, too, was unable to restrain herself, and burst out more than
once. The part was filled by the convict Ivanoff. As for Sirotkin, in his girl’s
dress, he looked exceedingly well. The couplets were all well sung. In a
word, the piece was played to the satisfaction of every one; not the least
hostile criticism was passed—who, indeed, was there to criticise? The air,

“Sieni moi Sieni,” was played again by way of overture, and the curtain
again went up.
Kedril, the Glutton, was now to be played. Kedril is a sort of Don Juan.
This comparison may justly be made, for the master and the servant are
both carried away by devils at the end of the piece; and the piece, as the
convicts had it, was played quite correctly; but the beginning and the end
must have been lost, for it had neither head nor tail. The scene is laid in an
inn somewhere in Russia. The innkeeper introduces into a room a nobleman
wearing a cloak and a battered round hat; the valet, Kedril, follows his
master; he carries a valise, and a fowl rolled up in blue paper; he wears a
short pelisse and a footman’s cap. It is this fellow who is the glutton. The
convict Potsiakin, the rival of Baklouchin, played this part, while the part of
the nobleman was filled by Ivanoff, the same who played the great lady in
the first piece. The innkeeper (Nietsvitaeff) warns the nobleman that the
room is haunted by demons, and goes away; the nobleman is interested and
preoccupied; he murmurs aloud that he has known that for a long time, and
orders Kedril to unpack his things and to get supper ready.
Kedril is a glutton and a coward. When he hears of devils he turns pale and
trembles like a leaf; he would like to run away, but is afraid of his master;
besides, he is hungry, he is voluptuous, he is sensual, stupid, though
cunning in his way, and, as before said, a poltroon; he cheats his master
every moment, though he fears him like fire. This type of servant is a
remarkable one in which may be recognised the principal features of the
character of Leporello, but indistinct and confused. The part was played in
really superior style by Potsiakin, whose talent was beyond discussion,
surpassing as it did in my opinion that of Baklouchin himself. But when the
next day I spoke to Baklouchin I concealed my impression from him,
knowing that it would give him bitter pain.
As for the convict who played the part of the nobleman, it was not bad.
Everything he said was without meaning, incomparable to anything I had
ever heard before; but his enunciation was pure and his gestures becoming.
While Kedril occupies himself with the valise, his master walks up and
down, and announces that from that day forth he means to lead a quiet life.
Kedril listens, makes grimaces, and amuses the spectators by his reflections
“aside.” He has no pity for his master, but he has heard of devils, would like

to know what they are like, and thereupon questions him. The nobleman
replies that some time ago, being in danger of death, he asked succour from
hell. Then the devils aided and delivered him, but the term of his liberty has
expired; and if the devils come that evening, it will be to exact his soul, as
has been agreed in their compact. Kedril begins to tremble in earnest, but
his master does not lose courage, and orders him to prepare the supper.
Hearing of victuals, Kedril revives. Taking out a bottle of wine, he taps it on
his own account. The audience expands with laughter; but the door grates
on its hinges, the winds shakes the shutters, Kedril trembles, and hastily,
almost without knowing what he is doing, puts into his mouth an enormous
piece of fowl, which he is unable to swallow. There is another gust of wind.
“Is it ready?” cries the master, still walking backwards and forwards in his
room.
“Directly, sir. I am preparing it,” says Kedril, who sits down, and, taking
care that his master does not see him, begins to eat the supper himself. The
audience is evidently charmed with the cunning of the servant, who so
cleverly makes game of the nobleman; and it must be admitted that
Poseikin, the representative of the part, deserved high praise. He
pronounced admirably the words: “Directly, sir. I—am—preparing—it.”
Kedril eats gradually, and at each mouthful trembles lest his master shall
see him. Every time that the nobleman turns round Kedril hides under the
table, holding the fowl in his hand. When he has appeased his hunger, he
begins to think of his master.
“Kedril, will it soon be ready?” cries the nobleman.
“It is ready now,” replies Kedril boldly, when all at once he perceives that
there is scarcely anything left. Nothing remains but one leg. The master,
still sombre and pre-occupied, notices nothing, and takes his seat, while
Kedril places himself behind him with a napkin on his arm. Every word,
every gesture, every grimace from the servant, as he turns towards the
audience to laugh at his master’s expense, excites the greatest mirth among
the convicts. Just at the moment when the young nobleman begins to eat,
the devils arrive. They resemble nothing human or terrestrial. The side-door
opens, and the phantom appears dressed entirely in white, with a lighted
lantern in lieu of a head, and with a scythe in its hand. Why the white dress,

scythe, and lantern? No one could tell me, and the matter did not trouble the
convicts. They were sure that this was the way it ought to be done. The
master comes forward courageously to meet the apparitions, and calls out to
them that he is ready, and that they can take him. But Kedril, as timid as a
hare, hides under the table, not forgetting, in spite of his fright, to take a
bottle with him. The devils disappear, Kedril comes out of his hiding-place,
and the master begins to eat his fowl. Three devils enter the room, and seize
him to take him to hell.
“Save me, Kedril,” he cries. But Kedril has something else to think of. He
has now with him in his hiding-place not only the bottle, but also the plate
of fowl and the bread. He is now alone. The demons are far away, and his
master also. Kedril gets from under the table, looks all round, and suddenly
his face beams with joy. He winks, like the rogue he is, sits down in his
master’s place, and whispers to the audience: “I have now no master but
myself.”
Every one laughs at seeing him masterless; and he says, always in an under-
tone and with a confidential air: “The devils have carried him off!”
The enthusiasm of the spectators is now without limits. The last phrase was
uttered with such roguery, with such a triumphant grimace, that it was
impossible not to applaud. But Kedril’s happiness does not last long. Hardly
has he taken up the bottle of wine, and poured himself out a large glass,
which he carries to his lips, than the devils return, slip behind, and seize
him. Kedril howls like one possessed, but he dare not turn round. He wishes
to defend himself, but cannot, for in his hands he holds the bottle and the
glass, from which he will not separate. His eyes starting from his head, his
mouth gaping with horror, he remains for a moment looking at the audience
with a comic expression of cowardice that might have been painted. At last
he is dragged, carried away. His arms and legs are agitated in every
direction, but he still sticks to his bottle. He also shrieks, and his cries are
still heard when he has been carried from the stage.
The curtain falls amid general laughter, and every one is delighted. The
orchestra now attacks the famous dance tune Kamarinskaia. First it is
played softly, pianissimo; but little by little, the motive is developed and
played more lightly. The time is quickened, and the wood, as well as the

strings of the balalaiki, is made to sound. The musicians enter thoroughly
into the spirit of the dance. Glinka [who has arranged the Kamarinskaia in
the most ingenious manner, and with harmonies of his own devising, for
full orchestra] should have heard it as it was executed in our Convict
Prison.
The pantomimic musical accompaniment is begun; and throughout the
Kamarinskaia is played. The stage represents the interior of a hut. A miller
and his wife are sitting down, one mending clothes, the other spinning flax.
Sirotkin plays the part of the wife, and Nietsvitaeff that of the husband. Our
scenery was very poor. In this piece, as in the preceding ones, imagination
had to supply what was wanting in reality. Instead of a wall at the back of
the stage, there was a carpet or a blanket; on the right, shabby screens;
while on the left, where the stage was not closed, the camp-bedsteads could
be seen; but the spectators were not exacting, and were willing to imagine
all that was wanting. It was an easy task for them; all convicts are great
dreamers. Directly they are told “this is a garden,” it is for them a garden.
Informed that “this is a hut,” they accept the definition without difficulty.
To them it is a hut. Sirotkin was charming in a woman’s dress. The miller
finishes his work, takes his cap and his whip, goes up to his wife, and gives
her to understand by signs, that if during his absence she makes the mistake
of receiving any one, she will have to deal with him—and he shows her his
whip. The wife listens, and nods affirmatively her head. The whip is
evidently known to her; the hussey has often deserved it. The husband goes
out. Hardly has he turned upon his heel, than his wife shakes her fist at him.
There is a knock; the door opens, and in comes a neighbour, miller also by
trade. He wears a beard, is in a kuftan, and he brings as a present a red
handkerchief. The woman smiles. Another knock is heard at the door.
Where shall she hide him? She conceals him under the table, and takes up
her distaff again. Another admirer now presents himself—a farrier in the
uniform of a non-commissioned officer.
Until now the pantomime had gone on capitally; the gestures of the actors
being irreproachable. It was astounding to see these improvised players
going through their parts in so correct a manner; and involuntarily one said
to oneself:

“What a deal of talent is lost in our Russia, left without use in our prisons
and places of exile!”
The convict who played the part of the farrier had, doubtless, taken part in a
performance at some provincial theatre, or had played with amateurs. It
seemed to me, in any case, that our actors knew nothing of acting as an art,
and bore themselves in the meanest manner. When it was his turn to appear,
he came on like one of the classical heroes of the old repertory—taking a
long stride with one foot before he raised the other from the ground,
throwing back his head on the upper part of his body and casting proud
looks around him. If such a gait was ridiculous on the part of classical
heroes, still more so was it when the actor was representing a comic
character. But the audience thought it quite natural, and accepted the actor’s
triumphant walk as a necessary fact, without criticising it.
A moment after the entry of the second admirer there is another knock at
the door. The wife loses her head. Where is the farrier to be concealed? In
her big box. It fortunately is open. The farrier disappears within it and the
lid falls upon him.
The new arrival is a Brahmin, in full costume. His entry is hailed by the
spectators with a formidable laugh. This Brahmin is represented by the
convict Cutchin, who plays the part perfectly, thanks, in a great measure, to
a suitable physiognomy. He explains in the pantomime his love of the
miller’s wife, raises his hands to heaven, and then clasps them on his breast.
There is now another knock at the door—a vigorous one this time. There
could be no mistake about it. It is the master of the house. The miller’s wife
loses her head; the Brahmin runs wildly on all sides, begging to be
concealed. She helps him to slip behind the cupboard, and begins to spin,
and goes on spinning without thinking of opening the door. In her fright she
gets the thread twisted, drops the spindle, and, in her agitation, makes the
gesture of turning it when it is lying on the ground. Sirotkin represented
perfectly this state of alarm.
Then the miller kicks open the door and approaches his wife, whip in hand.
He has seen everything, for he was spying outside; and he indicates by
signs to his wife that she has three lovers concealed in the house. Then he
searches them out.

First, he finds the neighbour, whom he drives out with his fist. The
frightened farrier tries to escape. He raises, with his head, the cover of the
chest, and is at once seen. The miller thrashes him with his whip, and for
once this gallant does not march in the classical style.
The only one now remaining is the Brahmin, whom the husband seeks for
some time without finding him. At last he discovers him in his corner
behind the cupboard, bows to him politely, and then draws him by his beard
into the middle of the stage. The Brahmin tries to defend himself, and cries
out, “Accursed, accursed!”—the only words pronounced throughout the
pantomime. But the husband will not listen to him, and, after settling
accounts with him, turns to his wife. Seeing that her turn has come, she
throws away both wheel and spindle, and runs out, causing an earthen pot to
fall as she shakes the room in her fright. The convicts burst into a laugh,
and Ali, without looking at me, takes my hand, and calls out, “See, see the
Brahmin!” He cannot hold himself upright, so overpowering is his laugh.
The curtain falls, and another song begins.
There were two or three more, all broadly humorous and very droll. The
convicts had not composed them themselves, but they had contributed
something to them. Every actor improvised to such purpose that the part
was a different one each evening. The pantomime ended with a ballet, in
which there was a burial. The Brahmin went through various incantations
over the corpse, and with effect. The dead man returns to life, and, in their
joy, all present begin to dance. The Brahmin dances in Brahminical style
with the dead man. This was the final scene. The convicts now separated,
happy, delighted, and full of praise for the actors and gratitude towards the
non-commissioned officers. There was not the least quarrel, and they all
went to bed with peaceful hearts, to sleep with a sleep by no means familiar
to them.
This is no fantasy of my imagination, but the truth, the very truth. These
unhappy men had been permitted to live for some moments in their own
way, to amuse themselves in a human manner, to escape for a brief hour
from their sad position as convicts; and a moral change was effected, at
least for a time.

The night is already quite dark. Something makes me shudder, and I awake.
The “old believer” is still on the top of the high porcelain stove praying, and
he will continue to pray until dawn. Ali is sleeping peacefully by my side. I
remember that when he went to bed he was still laughing and talking about
the theatre with his brothers. Little by little I began to remember everything;
the preceding day, the Christmas holidays, and the whole month. I raised
my head in fright and looked at my companions, who were sleeping by the
trembling light of the candle provided by the authorities. I look at their
unhappy countenances, their miserable beds; I view this nakedness, the
wretchedness, and then convince myself that it is not a frightful night there,
but a simple reality. Yes, it is a reality. I hear a groan. Some one has moved
his arm and made his chains rattle. Another one is agitated in his dreams
and speaks aloud, while the old grandfather is praying for the “Orthodox
Christians.” I listened to his prayer, uttered with regularity, in soft, rather
drawling tones: “Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon us.”
“Well, I am not here for ever, but only for a few years,” I said to myself,
and I again laid my head down on my pillow.

Part II.

CHAPTER I. THE HOSPITAL

Shortly after the Christmas holidays I felt ill, and had to go to our military
hospital, which stood apart at about half a verst (one-third of a mile) from
the fortress. It was a one-storey building, very long, and painted yellow.
Every summer a great quantity of ochre was expended in brightening it up.
In the immense court-yard stood buildings, including those where the chief
physicians lived, while the principal building contained only wards
intended for the patients. There were a good many of them, but as only two
were reserved for the convicts, these latter were nearly always full, above
all in summer, so that it was often necessary to bring the beds closer
together. These wards were occupied by “unfortunates” of all kinds: first by
our own, then by military prisoners, previously incarcerated in the guard-
houses. There were others, again, who had not yet been tried, or who were
passing through. In this hospital, too, were invalids from the Disciplinary
Company, a melancholy institution for bringing together soldiers of bad
conduct, with a view to their correction. At the end of a year or two, they
come back the most thorough-going rascals that the earth can endure.
When a convict felt that he was ill, he told the non-commissioned officer,
who wrote the man’s name down on a card, which he then gave to him and
sent him to the hospital under the escort of a soldier. On his arrival he was
examined by a doctor, who authorised the convict to remain at the hospital
if he was really ill. My name was duly written down, and towards one
o’clock, when all my companions had started for their afternoon work, I
went to the hospital. Every prisoner took with him such money and bread as
he could (for food was not to be expected the first day), a little pipe, and
pouch containing tobacco, with flint, steel, and match-paper. The convicts
concealed these objects in their boots. On entering the hospital I

experienced a feeling of curiosity, for a new aspect of life was now
presented.
The day was hot, cloudy, sad—one of those days when places like a
hospital assume a particularly disagreeable and repulsive look. Myself and
the soldier escorting me went into the entrance room, where there were two
copper baths. There were two convicts waiting there with their warders. An
assistant surgeon came in, looked at us with a careless and patronising air,
and went away still more carelessly to announce our arrival to the physician
on duty. Soon the physician arrived. He examined me, treating me in a very
affable manner, and gave me a paper on which my name was inscribed. The
ordinary physician of the wards reserved for the convicts was to make the
diagnosis of my illness, to prescribe the fitting remedies, together with the
necessary diet. I had already heard the convicts say that their doctors could
not be too much praised. “They are fathers to us,” they would say.
I took my clothes off to put on another costume. Our clothes and linen were
taken away, and we were given hospital linen instead, to which were added
long stockings, slippers, cotton nightcaps, and a dressing-gown of a very
thick brown cloth, which was lined, not with linen, but with filth. The
dressing-gown was indeed very filthy, but I soon understood its utility. We
were afterwards taken to the convict wards, which were at the head of a
long corridor, very high, and very clean. The external cleanliness was quite
satisfactory. Everything that could be seen shone; so, at least, it seemed to
me, after the dirtiness of the convict prison.
The two prisoners, whom I had found in the entrance hall, went to the left
of the corridor, while I entered a room. Before the padlocked door walked a
sentinel, musket on shoulder; and not far off was the soldier who was to
replace him. The sergeant of the hospital guard ordered him to let me pass,
and suddenly I found myself in the middle of a long narrow room, with
beds to the number of twenty-two arranged against the walls. Three or four
of them were still unoccupied. These wooden beds were painted green, and,
as is notoriously the case with all hospital beds in Russia, were doubtless
inhabited by bugs. I went into a corner by the side of the windows. There
were very few prisoners dangerously ill and confined to their beds.

The inmates of the hospital were, for the most part, convalescents, or men
who were slightly indisposed. My new companions were stretched out on
their couches, or walking about up and down between the rows of beds.
There was just space enough for them to come and go. The atmosphere of
the ward was stifling with the odour peculiar to hospitals. It was composed
of various emanations, each more disagreeable than the other, and of the
smell of drugs; though the stove was kept well heated all day long, my bed
was covered with a counterpane, which I took off. The bed itself consisted
of a cloth blanket lined with linen, and coarse sheets of more than doubtful
cleanliness. By the side of the bed was a little table with a pitcher and a
pewter mug, together with a diminutive napkin, which had been given to
me. The table could, moreover, hold a tea-urn for those patients who were
rich enough to drink tea. These men of means, however, were not very
numerous. The pipes and the tobacco pouches—for all the patients smoked,
even the consumptive ones—could be concealed beneath the mattress. The
doctors and the other officials scarcely ever made searches, and when they
surprised a patient with a pipe in his mouth, they pretended not to see. The
patients, however, were very prudent, and smoked always at the back of the
stove. They never smoked in their beds except at night, when no rounds
were made by the officers commanding the hospital.
Until then I had not been in any hospital in the character of patient, so that
everything was quite new to me. I noticed that my entry had mystified some
of the prisoners. They had heard of me, and all the inmates now looked
upon me with that slight shade of superiority which recognised members of
no matter what society show to one newly admitted among them. On my
right was lying down a man committed for trial—an ex-secretary and the
illegitimate son of a retired captain—accused of having made false money.
He had been in the hospital nearly a year. He was not in the least ill, but he
assured the doctors that he had an aneurism, and he so thoroughly
convinced them that he escaped both the hard labour and the corporal
punishment to which he had been sentenced. He was sent a year later to T
——k, where he was attached to an asylum. He was a vigorous young
fellow of eight-and-twenty, cunning, a self-confessed rogue, and something
of a lawyer. He was intelligent, had easy manners, but was very
presumptuous, and suffered from morbid self-esteem. Convinced that there

was no one in the world a bit more honest or more just than himself, he did
not consider himself at all guilty, and never kept this assurance to himself.
This personage was the first to address me, and he questioned me with
much curiosity. He initiated me into the ways of the hospital; and, of
course, began by telling me that he was the son of a captain. He was very
anxious that I should take him for a noble, or at least, for some one
connected with the nobility.
Soon afterwards an invalid from the Disciplinary Company came and told
me that he knew a great many nobles who had been exiled; and, to convince
me, he repeated to me their christian names and their patronymics. It was
only necessary to see the face of this soldier to understand that he was lying
abominably. He was named Tchekounoff, and came to pay court to me,
because he suspected me of having money. When he saw a packet of tea
and sugar, he at once offered me his services to make the water boil and to
get me a tea-urn. M. D. S. K—— had promised to send me my own by one
of the prisoners who worked in the hospital, but Tchekounoff arranged to
get me one forthwith. He got me a tin vessel, in which he made the water
boil; and, in a word, he showed such extraordinary zeal, that it drew down
upon him bitter laughter from one of the patients, a consumptive man,
whose bed was just opposite mine, Usteantseff by name. This was the
soldier condemned to the rods, who, from fear, had swallowed a bottle of
vodka, in which he had infused tobacco, this bringing on lung disease.
I have spoken of him above. He had remained silent until now, stretched out
on his bed, and breathing with difficulty. He looked at me all the time with
a very serious air. He did not take his eyes from Tchekounoff, whose civility
irritated him. His extraordinary gravity rendered his indignation comic. At
last he could stand it no longer.
“Look at this fellow! He has found his master,” he said, stammering out the
words with a voice strangled by weakness, for he had now not long to live.
Tchekounoff, much annoyed, turned round.
“Who is the fellow?” he asked, looking at Usteantseff, with contempt.
“Why, you are a flunkey,” replied Usteantseff, as confidently as if he had
possessed the right of calling Tchekounoff to order.

“I a fellow?”
“Yes, you are a flunkey; a true flunkey. Listen, my good friends. He won’t
believe me. He is quite astonished, the brave fellow.”
“What can that matter to you? You see when they don’t know how to make
use of their hands that they are not accustomed to be without servants. Why
should I not serve him, buffoon with a hairy snout?”
“Who has a hairy snout?”
“You!”
“I have a hairy snout?”
“Yes; certainly you have.”
“You are a nice fellow, you are. If I have a hairy snout, you have a face like
a crow’s egg.”
“Hairy snout! The merciful Lord has settled your account. You would do
much better to keep quiet and die.”
“Why? I would rather prostrate myself before a boot than before a slipper.
My father never prostrated himself, and never made me do so.”
He would have continued, but an attack of coughing convulsed him for
some minutes. He spat blood, and a cold sweat broke out on his low
forehead. If his cough had not prevented him from speaking, he would have
continued to declaim. One could see that from his look; but in his
powerlessness he could only move his hand, the result of which was that
Tchekounoff spoke no more about the matter.
I quite understood that the consumptive patient hated me much more than
Tchekounoff. No one would have thought of being angry with him or of
looking down upon him by reason of the services he was rendering me, and
the few kopecks that he tried to get from me. Every one understood that he
did it all in order to get himself a little money.
The Russian people are not at all susceptible on such points, and know
perfectly well how to take them.

I had displeased Usteantseff, as my tea had also displeased him. What
irritated him was that, in spite of all, I was a gentleman, even with my
chains; that I could not do without a servant, though I neither asked for nor
desired one. In reality I tried to do everything for myself, in order not to
appear a white-handed, effeminate person, and not to play the part which
excited so much envy.
I even felt a little pride on this point; but, in spite of every thing—I do not
know why—I was always surrounded by officious, complaisant people,
who attached themselves to me of their own free will, and who ended by
governing me. It was I rather who was their servant; so that, whether I liked
it or not, I was made to appear to every one a noble, who could not do
without the services of others, and who gave himself airs. This exasperated
me.
Usteantseff was consumptive, and, therefore, irascible. The other patients
only showed me indifference, tinged with a shade of contempt. They were
occupied with a circumstance which now presents itself to my memory.
I learned, as I listened to their conversation, that there was to be brought
into the hospital that evening a convict who, at that moment, was receiving
the rods. The prisoners were looking forward to this new arrival with some
curiosity. They said, however, that his punishment was but slight—only five
hundred strokes.
I looked round. The greater number of genuine patients were, as far as I
could observe, affected by scurvy and diseases of the eyes—both peculiar to
this country. The others suffered from fever, lung disease, and other
illnesses. The different illnesses were not separated; all the patients were
together in the same room.
I have spoken of genuine patients, for certain convicts had come in merely
to get a little rest. The doctors admitted them from pure compassion, above
all, if there were any vacant beds. Life in the guard-house and in the prison
was so hard compared with that of the hospital, that many persons preferred
to remain lying down in spite of the stifling atmosphere and the rules
against leaving the room.

There were even men who took pleasure in this kind of life. They belonged
nearly all to the Disciplinary Company. I examined my new companions
with curiosity. One of them puzzled me very much. He was consumptive,
and was dying. His bed was a little further on than that of Usteantseff, and
was nearly beside mine. He was named Mikhailoff. I had seen him in the
Convict Prison two weeks before, when he was already seriously ill. He
ought to have been under treatment long before, but he bore up against his
malady with surprising courage. He did not go to the hospital until about
the Christmas holidays, to die three weeks afterwards of galloping
consumption. He seemed to have burned out like a candle. What astonished
me most was the terrible change in his countenance. I had noticed him the
very first day of my imprisonment. By his side was lying a soldier of the
Disciplinary Company—an old man with a bad expression on his face,
whose general appearance was disgusting.
But I am not going to enumerate all the patients. I just remember this old
man simply because he made an impression on me, and initiated me at once
into certain peculiarities of the ward. He had a severe cold in the head,
which made him sneeze at every moment, even during his sleep, as if firing
salutes, five or six times running, while each time he called out, “My God,
what torture!”
Seated on his bed he stuffed his nose eagerly with snuff, which he took
from a paper bag, in order to sneeze more strongly, and with greater
regularity. He sneezed into a checked cotton pocket-handkerchief which
belonged to him, and which had lost its colour through perpetual washing.
His little nose then became wrinkled in a most peculiar manner with a
multitude of wrinkles, and his open mouth exhibited broken teeth, decayed
and black, and red gums moist with saliva. When he sneezed into his
handkerchief he unfolded it and wiped it on the lining of his dressing-gown.
His proceedings disgusted me so much that involuntarily I examined the
dressing-gown I had just put on myself. It exhaled a most offensive odour,
which contact with my body helped to bring out. It smelt of plasters and
medicaments of all kinds. It seemed as though it had been worn by patients
from time immemorial. The lining had, perhaps, been washed once, but I
would not swear to it. Certainly, at the time I put it on, it was saturated with
lotions, and stained by contact with poultices and plasters of all imaginable
kinds.

The men condemned to the rods, having undergone their punishment, were
brought straight to the hospital, their backs still bleeding. As compresses
and as poultices were placed on their wounds, the dressing-gown they wore
over their wet shirt received and retained the droppings.
During all the time of my hard labour I had to go to the hospital, which
often happened, I always put on, with mistrust and abhorrence, the
dressing-gown that was delivered to me. As soon as Tchekounoff had given
me my tea (I will say, in parenthesis, that the water brought in in the
morning, and not renewed throughout the day, was soon corrupted, soon
poisoned by the fetid air), the door opened, and the soldier, who had just
received the rods, was brought in under a double escort. I saw, for the first
time, a man who had just been whipped. Later on many were brought in,
and whenever this happened it caused great distress to the patients. These
unfortunate men were received with grave composure, but the nature of the
reception depended nearly always on the enormity of the crime committed,
and, consequently, the number of strokes administered.
The criminals most cruelly whipped, and who were celebrated as brigands
of the first order, enjoyed more respect and attention than a simple deserter,
a recruit, like the one who had just been brought in. But in neither case was
any particular sympathy manifested, nor were any annoying remarks made.
The unhappy man was attended to in silence, above all if he was incapable
of attending to himself. The assistant-surgeons knew that they were
entrusting their patients to skilful and experienced hands. The usual
treatment consisted in applying very often to the back of the man who had
been whipped a shirt or a piece of linen steeped in cold water. It was also
necessary to withdraw skilfully from the wounds the twigs left by the rods
which had been broken on the criminal’s back. This last operation was
particularly painful to the patients. The extraordinary stoicism with which
they supported their sufferings astonished me greatly.
I have seen many convicts who had been whipped, and cruelly, I can tell
you. Well, I do not remember one of them uttering a groan. Only after such
an experience, the countenance becomes pale, decomposed, the eyes glitter,
the look wanders, and the lips tremble so that the patient sometimes bites
them till they bleed.

The soldier who had just come in was twenty-three years of age; he had a
good muscular development, and was rather a fine man, tall, well-made,
with a bronzed skin. His back, uncovered down to the waist, had been
seriously beaten, and his body now trembled with fever beneath the damp
sheet with which his back was covered. For about an hour and a half he did
nothing but walk backwards and forwards in the room. I looked at his face:
he seemed to be thinking of nothing; his eyes had a strange expression, at
once wild and timid; they seemed to fix themselves with difficulty on the
various objects. I fancied I saw him looking attentively at my hot tea; the
steam was rising from the full cup, and the poor devil was shivering and
clattering his teeth. I invited him to have some; he turned towards me
without saying a word, and taking up the cup, swallowed the tea at one
gulp, without putting sugar in it. He tried not to look at me, and when he
had finished he put the cup back in silence without making a sign, and then
began to walk up and down as before. He was in too much pain to think of
speaking to me or thanking me. As for the other prisoners, they abstained
from questioning him; when once they had applied compresses they paid no
more attention to him, thinking probably it would be better to leave him
alone, and not to worry him by their questions and compassion. The soldier
seemed quite satisfied with this view.
Meanwhile, night came on and the lamp was lighted; some of the patients
possessed candlesticks of their own, but these were not numerous. In the
evening the doctor came round, after which a non-commissioned officer on
guard counted the patients and closed the room.
The prisoners could not speak in too high terms of their doctors. They
looked upon them truly as fathers and respected them. These doctors had
always something pleasant to say, a kind word even for reprobates, who
appreciated it all the more because they knew it was said in all sincerity.
Yes, these kind words were really sincere, for no one would have thought of
blaming the doctors had they shown themselves cross and inhuman; they
were kind purely from humanity. They understood perfectly that a convict
who is sick has as much right to breathe pure air as any other person, even
though the latter might be a great personage. The convalescents there had a
right to walk freely through the corridors to take exercise, and to breathe air
less pestilential than that of our infirmary, which was close and saturated

with deleterious emanations. In our ward, when once the doors had been
closed in the evening, they had to remain closed throughout the night, and
under no pretext was one of the inmates allowed to go out.
For many years an inexplicable fact troubled me like an insoluble problem.
I must speak of it before going on with my description. I am thinking of the
chains which every convict is obliged to wear, however ill he may be; even
consumptives have died beneath my eyes with their legs loaded with irons.
Everybody was accustomed to it, and regarded it as an inevitable fact. I do
not think any one, even the doctors, would have thought of demanding the
removal of the irons from convicts who were seriously ill, not even from
the consumptive ones. The chains, it is true, were not exceedingly heavy;
they did not in general weigh more than eight or ten pounds, which is a
supportable burden for a man in good health. I have been told, however,
that after some years the legs of the convicts dry up and waste away. I do
not know whether it is true. I am inclined to think it is; the weight, however
light it may be (say not more than ten pounds), if it is fixed to the leg for
ever, increases the general weight in an abnormal manner, and at the end of
a certain time must have a disastrous effect on its development.
For a convict in good health this is nothing, but the same cannot be said of
one who is sick. For the convicts who were seriously ill, for the
consumptive ones whose arms and legs dry up of themselves, this last straw
is insupportable. Even if the medical authorities claimed alleviation for the
consumptive patients alone, it would be an immense benefit, I assure you. I
shall be told convicts are malefactors, unworthy of compassion; but ought
increased severity to be shown towards him on whom the finger of God
already weighs? No one will believe that the object of this aggravation is to
reform the criminal. The consumptive prisoners are exempted from corporal
punishment by the tribunal.
There must be some mysterious, important reason for all this, but what it is,
it is impossible to understand. No one believes—it is impossible to believe
—that a consumptive man will run away. Who can think of such a thing,
especially if the illness has reached a certain degree of intensity? It is
impossible to deceive the doctors and make them mistake a convict in good
health for one who is in a consumption, for this malady is one that can be

recognised at the first glance. Moreover, can the irons prevent the convict
not in good health from escaping? Not in the least. The irons are a
degradation and shame, a physical and moral burden; but they would not
hinder any one attempting to escape. The most awkward and least
intelligent convict can saw through them, or break the rivets by hammering
at them with a stone. Chains, then, are a useless precaution; and if the
convicts wear them as a punishment, should not this punishment be spared
to dying men?
As I write these lines, a face stands out from my memory: that of a dying
man, a man who died in consumption, this same Mikhailoff, whose bed was
nearly opposite me, and who expired, I think, four days after my arrival at
the hospital. When I spoke above of the consumptive patients, I was only
reproducing involuntarily the sensations and ideas which occurred to me on
the occasion of this death. I knew Mikhailoff very little; he was a young
man of twenty-five at most, not very tall, thin, and with a fine face; he
belonged to the “special section,” and was remarkable for his strange, but
soft and sad taciturnity; he seemed to have “dried up” in the convict prison,
to use an expression employed by the convicts who had a good recollection
of him. I remember he had very fine eyes. I really cannot tell why I think of
that.
He died at three o’clock in the afternoon on a clear, dry day. The sun was
darting its brilliant rays obliquely through the greenish, frozen panes of our
room. A torrent of light inundated the unhappy patient, who had lost all
consciousness, and was several hours dying. From the early morning his
sight became confused; he was unable to recognise those who approached
him. The convicts would gladly have done anything to relieve him, for they
saw he was in great suffering. His respiration was painful, deep, and
irregular; his breast rose and fell violently, as though he were in want of air;
he cast his blanket and his clothes far from him. Then he began to tear up
his shirt, which seemed to him a terrible burden. It was taken off. Then it
was frightful to see this immensely long body, with fleshless arms and legs,
with beating breast, and ribs which were as clearly marked as those of a
skeleton. There was nothing now on this skeleton but a cross and the irons,
from which his dried-up legs might easily have freed themselves. A quarter
of an hour before his death everything was silent in our ward, and the
inmates spoke only in whispers. The convicts walked on the tips of their

toes. From time to time they exchanged remarks on other subjects, and cast
a furtive glance at the dying man. The rattling in his throat grew more and
more painful. At last, with a trembling hand, he felt the cross on his breast
and endeavoured to tear it off; it was also weighing upon him, suffocating
him. It was taken off. Ten minutes afterwards, he died. Some one then
knocked at the door in order to give notice to the sentinel; the warder
entered, looked at the dead man with a vacant air, and went away to get the
assistant-surgeon. The assistant-surgeon was a good fellow enough, but a
little too much occupied with his personal appearance, otherwise very
agreeable; he soon arrived, went up to the corpse with long strides which
made a noise in the silent ward, and felt the dead man’s pulse with an
unconcerned air which seemed to have been put on for the occasion. He
then made a vague gesture with his hand and went out.
Information was given at the guard-house; for the criminal was an
important one (he belonged to the special section), and in order to register
his death it was necessary to go through some formalities. While we were
waiting for the hospital guard to come, one of the prisoners said in a
whisper, “The eyes of the defunct might as well be closed.” Another one
profited by this remark, and approaching Mikhailoff in silence, closed his
eyes; then perceiving on the pillow the cross which had been taken from his
neck, he took it and looked at it, put it down, and crossed himself. The face
of the dead man was becoming ossified; a ray of white light was playing on
the surface and illuminated two rows of white, good teeth which sparkled
between his thin lips, glued to the gums by the mouth.
The non-commissioned officer on guard arrived at last, musket on shoulder,
helmet on head, accompanied by two soldiers; he approached the corpse,
slackening his pace with an air of uncertainty. Then he examined with a side
glance the silent prisoners, who looked at him with a sombre expression. At
one step from the dead man he stopped short, as if suddenly nailed to the
spot; the naked, dried-up body, loaded with irons, had impressed him; he
undid his chin-strap, removed his helmet (which was not at all necessary for
him to do), and made the sign of the cross; he had a gray head, the head of a
soldier who had seen much service. I remember that by his side stood
Tchekounoff, an old man who was also gray. He looked all the time at the
non-commissioned officer, and followed all his movements with strange
attention. They glanced across, and I saw that Tchekounoff also trembled.

He bit and closed his teeth, and said to the non-commissioned officer, as if
involuntarily, at the same time nodding his head in the direction of the dead
man, “He had a mother, too!”
These words went to my heart. Why had he said them? and how did this
idea occur to him? The corpse was raised with the mattress; the straw
creaked, the chains dragged along the ground with a sharp ring; they were
taken up and the body was carried out. Suddenly all spoke once more in a
loud voice. The non-commissioned officer in the corridor could well be
heard crying out to some one to go for the blacksmith. It was necessary to
take the dead man’s irons off. But I have digressed from my subject.

CHAPTER II. THE HOSPITAL (continued).

The doctors used to visit the wards in the morning, towards eleven o’clock;
they appeared all together, forming a procession, which was headed by the
chief physician. An hour and a half before, the ordinary physician had made
his round. He was a quiet young man, always affable and kind, much liked
by the prisoners, and thoroughly versed in his art; they only found one fault
with him, that he was “too soft.” He was, in fact, by no means
communicative, he seemed confused in our presence, blushed sometimes,
and changed the quantity of food at the first representation of the patient. I
think he would have consented to give them any medicine they desired: in
other respects an excellent young man.
A doctor in Russia often enjoys the affection and respect of the people, and
with reason, as far as I have been able to see. I know that my words would
seem a paradox, above all when the mistrust of this same people for foreign
drugs and foreign doctors is taken into account; in fact, they prefer, even
when suffering from a serious illness, to address themselves year after year
to a witch, or employ old women’s remedies (which, however, ought not to
be despised), rather than consult a doctor, or go into the hospital. In truth,
these prejudices may be above all attributed to causes which have nothing
to do with medicine, namely, the mistrust of the people for anything which
bears an official and administrative character; nor must it be forgotten that
the common people are frightened and prejudiced in regard to the hospitals,
by the stories, often absurd, of fantastic horrors said to take place within
them. Perhaps, however, these stories have a basis of truth.
But what repels them above all, is the Germanism of the hospitals, the idea
that during their illness they will be attended to by foreigners, the severity
of the diet, the heartlessness of the surgeons and doctors, the dissection and
autopsy of the bodies, etc. The common people reflect, moreover, that they
will be attended by nobles—for in their view the doctors belong to the
nobility. Once they have made acquaintance with them (there are
exceptions, no doubt, but they are rare), their fears vanish. This success
must be attributed to our doctors, especially the young ones, who, for the
most part, know how to gain the respect and affection of the people. I speak
now of what I myself have seen and experienced in many cases and in

different parts, and I think matters are the same everywhere. In some distant
localities the doctors receive presents, make profit out of their hospitals, and
neglect the patients; sometimes they forget even their art. This happens, no
doubt; but I am speaking of the majority, inspired as it is by that spirit, that
generous tendency which is regenerating the medical art. As for the
apostates, the wolves in the sheep-fold, they may excuse themselves, and
cast the blame on the circumstances amid which they live; but they are
absurd, inexcusable, especially if they are no longer humane; it is precisely
the humanity, affability, and brotherly compassion of the doctor which
prove most efficacious remedies for the patients. It is time to stop these
apathetic lamentations on the circumstances surrounding us. There may be
truth in the lament, but a cunning rogue who knows how to take care of
himself never fails to blame the circumstances around him when he wishes
his faults to be forgiven—above all, if he writes or speaks with eloquence.
I have again departed from my subject; I wish only to say that the common
people mistrust and dislike officialism and the Government doctors, rather
than the doctors themselves; but on personal acquaintance many prejudices
disappear.
Our doctor generally stopped before the bed of each patient, questioned him
seriously and attentively, then prescribed the remedies, potions, etc. He
sometimes noticed that the pretended invalid was not ill at all; he had come
to take rest after his hard work, and to sleep on a mattress in a warm room,
far preferable to the naked planks in a damp guard-house among a mass of
pale, broken-down men, waiting for their trial. In Russia the prisoners in the
House of Detention are almost always broken down, which shows that their
moral and material condition is worse even than those of the convicts.
In cases of feigned sickness our doctor would describe the patient as
suffering from febris catharalis, and sometimes allowed him to remain a
week in the hospital. Every one laughed at this febris catharalis, for it was
known to be a formula agreed upon between the doctor and the patient to
indicate no malady at all. Often the robust invalid who abused the doctor’s
compassion remained in the hospital until he was turned out by force. Our
doctor was worth seeing then. Confused by the prisoner’s obstinacy, he did
not like to tell him plainly that he was cured and offer him his leaving
ticket, although he had the right to send him away without the least

explanation on writing the words, sanat. est. First he would hint to him that
it was time to go, and then would beg him to leave.
“You must go, you know you are cured now, and we have no place for you,
we are very much cramped here, etc.”
At last, ashamed to remain any longer, the patient would consent to go. The
physician-in-chief, although compassionate and just (the patients were
much attached to him), was incomparably more severe and more decided
than our ordinary physician. In certain cases he showed merciless severity
which only gained for him the respect of the convicts. He always came into
the room accompanied by all the doctors of the hospital, when his assistants
visited all the beds and diagnosed on each particular case; he stopped
longest at the beds of those who were seriously ill, and had an encouraging
word for them. He never sent back the convicts who arrived with febris
catharalis; but if one of them was determined to remain in the hospital, he
certified that the man was cured. “Come,” he would say, “you have had
your rest; now go, you must not take liberties.”
Those who insisted upon remaining, were, above all, the convicts who were
worn out by field labour, performed during the great summer heat, or
prisoners who had been sentenced to be whipped. I remember that they
were obliged to be particularly severe, merely in order to get rid of one of
them. He had come to be cured of some disease of the eyes, which were red
all over; he complained of suffering a sharp pain in the eyelids. He was
incurable; plasters, blisters, leeches, nothing did him any good; and the
diseased organ remained in the same condition.
Then it occurred to the doctors that the illness was feigned, for the
inflammation neither became worse nor better; and they soon understood
that a comedy was being played, although the patient would not admit it. He
was a fine young fellow, not ill-looking, though he produced a disagreeable
impression upon all his companions; he was suspicious, sombre, full of
dissimulation, and never looked any one straight in the face; he also kept
himself apart as if he mistrusted us all. I remember that many persons were
afraid that he would do some one harm.
When he was a soldier he had committed some small theft, he had been
arrested and condemned to receive a thousand strokes, and afterwards to

pass into a disciplinary company.
To put off the moment of punishment, the prisoners, as I have already said,
will do incredible things. On the eve of the fatal day, they will stick a knife
into one of their chiefs, or into a comrade, in order that they may be tried
again for this new offence, which will delay their punishment for a month
or two. It matters little to them that their punishment be doubled or tripled,
if they can escape this time. What they desire is to put off temporarily the
terrible minute at whatever cost, so utterly does their heart fail them.
Many of the patients thought the man with the sore eyes ought to be
watched, lest in his despair he should assassinate some one during the night;
but no precaution was taken, not even by those who slept next to him. It
was remarked, however, that he rubbed his eyes with plaster from the wall,
and with something else besides, in order that they might appear red when
the doctor came round; at last the doctor-in-chief threatened to cure him by-
means of a seton.
When the malady resists all ordinary treatment, the doctors determine to try
some heroic, however painful, remedy. But the poor devil did not wish to
get well, he was either too obstinate or too cowardly; for, however painful
the proposed operation may be, it cannot be compared to the punishment of
the rods.
The operation consists in seizing the patient by the nape of the neck, taking
up the skin, drawing it back as much as possible, and making in it a double
incision, through which is passed a skein of cotton about as thick as the
finger. Every day at a fixed hour this skein is pulled backwards and
forwards in order that the wound may continually suppurate and may not
heal; the poor devil endured this torture which caused him horrible
suffering, for several days.
At last he consented to quit the hospital. In less than a day his eyes became
quite well; and, as soon as his neck was healed, he was sent to the guard-
house which he left next day to receive the first thousand strokes.
Painful is the minute which precedes such a punishment; so painful, that
perhaps I am wrong in taxing with cowardice those convicts who fear it.

It must be terrible; for the convicts to risk a double or triple punishment,
merely to postpone it. I have spoken, however, of convicts who have thus
wished to quit the hospital before the wounds caused by the first part of the
flogging were healed, in order to receive the last part and make an end of it.
For life in a guard-room is certainly worse than in a convict prison.
The habit of receiving floggings helps in some cases to give intrepidity and
decision to convicts. Those who have been often flogged, are hardened both
in body and mind, and have at last looked upon such a punishment as
merely a disagreeable incident no longer to be feared.
One of our convicts of the special section was a converted Tartar, who was
named Alexander, or Alexandrina, as they called him in fun at the convict
prison; who told me how he had received 4,000 strokes. He never spoke of
this punishment except with amusement and laughter; but he swore very
seriously that if he had not been brought up in his horde, from his most
tender infancy, on whipping and flogging—and as the scars which covered
his back, and which refused to disappear, were there to testify—he would
never have been able to support those 4,000 strokes. He blessed the
education of sticks that he had received.
“I was beaten for the least thing, Alexander Petrovitch,” he said one
evening, when we were sitting down before the fire. “I was beaten without
reason for fifteen years, as long as I can ever remember, and several times a
day. Any one who liked beat me; so that, at last, it made no impression upon
me.”
I do not know how it was he became a soldier, for perhaps he lied, and had
always been a deserter and vagabond. But I remember his telling me one
day of the fright he was seized with when he was condemned to receive
4,000 strokes for having killed one of his officers.
“I know that they will punish me severely,” he said to himself, “that,
accustomed as I am to be whipped, I shall perhaps die on the spot. The
devil! 4,000 strokes is not a trifle; and then all my officers were in a fearful
temper with me on account of this affair. I knew well that it would not be
‘rose-water.’ I even believed that I should die under the rods. I determined
to get baptized. I said to myself, that perhaps they would not then flog me,
at any rate it was worth trying, my comrades had told me that it would be of

no good. But,’ I said to myself, ‘who knows? perhaps they will pardon me,
they will have more compassion on a Christian than on a Mohammedan.
They baptized me, and give me the name of Alexander; but, in spite of that,
I had to take my flogging; they did not let me off a single stroke; I was,
however, very savage. ‘Wait a bit,’ I said to myself, ‘and I will take you all
in’; and, would you believe it, Alexander? I did take them all in. I knew
how to look like a dead man; not that I appeared altogether without life, but
I looked as if I were on the point of breathing my last. They led me in front
of the battalion to receive my first thousand; my skin was burning, I began
to howl. They gave me my second thousand, and I said to myself, ‘It’s all
over now.’ I had lost my head, my legs seemed broken, so I fell to the
ground, with the eyes of a dead man. My face blue, my mouth full of froth,
I no longer breathed. When the doctor came he said I was on the point of
death. I was carried to the hospital, and at once returned to life. Twice again
they flogged me. What a rage they were in! I took them all in on each
occasion. I received my third thousand, and died again. On my word, when
they gave me the last thousand each stroke ought to have counted for three,
it was like a knife in my heart. Oh, how they did beat me! They were so
severe with me. Oh, that cursed fourth thousand! it was well worth three
firsts put together. If I had pretended to be dead when I had still 200 to
receive, I think they would have finished me; but they did not get the better
of me. I had them again and again, for they always thought it was all over
with me, and how could they have thought otherwise? The doctor was sure
of it. But as for the 200 which I had still to receive, they might have struck
as hard as they liked—they were worth 2,000; I only laughed at them.
Why? Because, when I was a youngster, I had grown up under the whip.
Well, I am well, and alive now; but I have been beaten in the course of my
life,” he repeated, with a passive air, as he brought his story to an end. As he
did so, he seemed to recollect and count anew the blows he had received.
After a brief silence, he said: “I cannot count them, nor can any one else;
there are not figures enough.” He looked at me, and burst into a laugh, so
simple and natural, that I could not help smiling in return.
“Do you know, Alexander Petrovitch, when I dream at night, I always
dream that I am being flogged. I dream of nothing else.” He, in fact, talked
in his sleep, and woke up the other prisoners.

“What are you yelling about, you demon?” they would say to him.
This strong, robust fellow, short in stature, about forty-four years of age,
active, good-looking, lived on good terms with every one, though he was
very fond of taking what did not belong to him, and afterwards got beaten
for it. But each of our convicts who stole got beaten for their thefts.
I will add to these remarks that I was always surprised at the extraordinary
good-nature, the absence of rancour with which these unhappy men spoke
of their punishment, and of the chiefs superintending it. In these stories,
which often gave me palpitation of the heart, not a shadow of hatred or
rancour could be detected; they laughed at what they had suffered like
children.
It was not the same, however, with M—tçki, when he told me of his
punishment. As he was not a noble, he had been sentenced to be flogged.
He had never spoken to me of it, and when I asked him if it were true, he
replied affirmatively in two brief words, but with evident suffering, and
without looking at me. He at the same time turned red, and when he raised
his eyes, I saw flames burning in them, while his lips trembled with
indignation. I felt that he would not forget, that he could never forget this
page of his history. Our companions generally on the other hand (though
theirs might have been exceptions), looked upon their adventures with quite
another eye. It is impossible, I sometimes thought, that they can be
conscious of their guilt, and not acknowledge the justice of their
punishment; above all, when their offences were against their companions
and not against some chief. The greater part of them did not acknowledge
their guilt. I have already said that I never observed in them the least
remorse, even when the crime had been committed against people of their
own station. As for the crimes committed against a chief, they did not even
speak of them. It seems to me that for those cases, they had special views of
their own. They looked upon them as accidents caused by destiny, by
fatality, into which they had fallen unconsciously as the result of some
extraordinary impulse. The convict always justifies the crimes he has
committed against his chief; he does not trouble himself about the matter.
But he admits that the chief cannot share his view, and consequently, that he
must naturally be punished, and then he will be quits with him.

The struggle between the administration and the prisoner is of the severest
character on both sides. What in a great measure justifies the criminal in his
own eyes, is his conviction that the people among whom he has been born
and has lived will acquit him. He is certain that the common people will not
look upon him as a lost man, unless, indeed, his crime has bean committed
against persons of his own class, against his brethren. He is quite calm
about that; supported by his conscience, he will not lose his moral
tranquillity, and that is the principal thing. He feels himself on firm ground,
and has no particular hatred for the knout, when once it has been
administered to him. He knows that it was inevitable, and consoles himself
by thinking that he was neither the first nor the last to receive it. Does the
soldier detest the Turk whom he fights? Not in the least! yet he sabres him,
hacks him to pieces, kills him.
It must not be thought, moreover, that all of these stories were told with
indifference and in cold blood.
When the name of Jerebiatnikof was mentioned, it was always with
indignation. I made the acquaintance of this officer during my first stay in
the hospital—only by the convicts’ stories, it must be understood. I
afterwards saw him one day when he was commanding the guard at the
convict prison; he was about thirty years old, very stout and very strong,
with red cheeks hanging down on each side, white teeth, and a formidable
laugh. One could see in a moment that he was in no way given to reflection.
He took the greatest pleasure in whipping and flogging, when he had to
superintend the punishment. I must hasten to say that the other officers
looked upon Jerebiatnikof as a monster, and the convicts did the same. This
was in the good old time, which is not very very far off, but in which it is
already difficult to believe executioners delighted in their office. But,
generally speaking, the strokes were administered without enthusiasm.
This lieutenant was an exception, and he took a real pleasure and delight in
punishment. He had a passion for it, and liked it for its own sake; he looked
to this art for unnatural delights in order to tickle and excite his base soul. A
prisoner is conducted to the place of punishment. Jerebiatnikof is the officer
superintending the execution. Arranging a long line of soldiers, armed with
heavy rods, he walks along the front with a satisfied air, and encourages
each one to do his duty, conscientiously or otherwise—the soldiers know

before what “otherwise” means. The criminal is brought out. If he does not
yet know Jerebiatnikof, if he is not in the secret of the mystery, the
Lieutenant plays him the following trick—one of the inventions of
Jerebiatnikof, very ingenious in this style of thing. The prisoner, whose
back has been bared, and whom the non-commissioned officers have
fastened to the butt end of a musket in order to drag him afterwards through
the whole length of the “Green Street.” He begs the officer in charge, with a
plaintive and tearful voice, not to have him struck too hard, not to double
the punishment by any undue severity.
“Your nobility!” cries the unhappy wretch, “have pity on me, treat me
fraternally, so that I may pray God throughout my life for you. Do not
destroy me, show mercy!”
Jerebiatnikof had waited for this. He now suspended the execution, and
engaged the prisoner in conversation, speaking to him in a sentimental,
compassionate tone.
“But, my good fellow,” he would say, “what am I to do? It is the law that
punishes you—it is the law.”
“Your nobility! You can make it everything; have pity upon me.”
“Do you really think that I have no pity on you? Do you think it is any
pleasure to me to see you whipped? I am a man, am I not? Answer me, am I
not a man?”
“Certainly, your nobility. We know that the officers are our fathers and we
their children. Be to me a venerable father,” the prisoner would cry, seeing
some possibility of escaping punishment.
“Then, my friend, judge for yourself. You have a brain to think with, you
know I am human, I ought to take compassion on you, sinner though you
be.”
“Your nobility says the absolute truth.”
“Yes, I ought to be merciful to you however guilty you may be. But it is not
I who punish you, it is the law. I serve God and my country, and

consequently I commit a grave sin if I mitigate the punishment fixed by the
law. Only think of that!”
“Your nobility!”
“Well, what am I to do? Only think, I know that I am doing wrong, but it
shall be as you wish; I will have mercy upon you, you shall be punished
lightly. But if I really do this on one occasion, if I show mercy, if I punish
you lightly, you will think that at another time I shall be merciful, and you
will recommence your follies. What do you say to that?”
“Your nobility, preserve me! Before the throne of the heavenly Creator, I
——”
“No, no; you swear that you will behave yourself.”
“May the Lord cause me to die this moment and in the next world.”
“Do not swear in that way, it is a sin; I shall believe you if you will give me
your word.”
“Your nobility.”
“Well, listen, I will have mercy on you on account of your tears, your
orphan’s tears, for you are an orphan, are you not?”
“Orphan on both sides, your nobility, I am alone in the world.”
“Well, on account of your orphan’s tears I have pity on you,” he added, in a
voice so full of emotion, that the prisoner could not sufficiently thank God
for having sent him so good an officer.
The procession went out, the drum rolled, the soldiers brandished their
arms. “Flog him,” Jerebiatnikof would roar from the bottom of his lungs,
“flog him! burn him! skin him alive! Harder! harder! Give it harder to this
orphan! Give it him, the rogue.”
The soldiers lay on the strokes with all their might on the back of the
unhappy wretch, whose eyes dart fire, and who howls while Jerebiatnikof
runs after him in front of the line, holding his sides with laughter—he puffs
and blows so that he can scarcely hold himself upright. He is happy. He

thinks it droll. From time to time his formidable resonant laugh is heard, as
he keeps on repeating, “Flog him! thrash him! this brigand! this orphan!”
He had composed variation on this motive. The prisoner has been brought
to undergo his punishment. He begs the lieutenant to have pity on him. This
time Jerebiatnikof does not play the hypocrite; he is frank with the prisoner.
“Look, my dear fellow, I will punish you as you deserve, but I can show
you one act of mercy. I will not attach you to the butt end of the musket,
you shall go along in a new style, you have only to run as hard as you can
along the front, each rod will strike you as a matter of course, but it will be
over sooner. What do you say to that, will you try?”
The prisoner, who has listened, full of mistrust and doubt, says to himself:
Perhaps this way will not be so bad as the other. If I run with all my might,
it will not last quite so long, and perhaps all the rods will not touch me.
“Well, your nobility, I consent.”
“I also consent. Come, mind your business,” cries the lieutenant to the
soldiers. He knew beforehand that not one rod would spare the back of the
unfortunate wretch; the soldier who failed to hit him would know what to
expect.
The convict tries to run along the “Green Street,” but he does not go beyond
fifteen men before the rods rain upon his poor spine like hail; so that the
unfortunate man shrieks out, and falls as if he had been struck by a bullet.
“No, your nobility, I prefer to be flogged in the ordinary way,” he says,
managing to get up, pale and frightened. While Jerebiatnikof, who knew
beforehand how this affair would end, held his sides and burst into a laugh.
But I cannot relate all the diversions invented by him, and all that was told
about him.
My companions also spoke of a Lieutenant Smekaloff, who fulfilled the
functions of Commandant before the arrival of our present Major. They
spoke of Jerebiatnikof with indifference, without hatred, but also without
exalting his high achievements. They did not praise him, they simply
despised him, whilst at the name of Smekaloff the whole prison burst into a

chorus of laudation. The Lieutenant was by no means fond of administering
the rods; there was nothing in him of Jerebiatnikof’s disposition. How did it
happen that the convicts remembered his punishments, severe as they were,
with sweet satisfaction. How did he manage to please them. How did he
gain the popularity he certainly enjoyed?
Our companions, like Russian people in general, were ready to forget their
tortures if a kind word was said to them; I speak of the effect itself without
analysing or examining it. It is not difficult, then, to gain the affections of
such a people and become popular. Lieutenant Smekaloff had gained such
popularity, and when the punishments he had directed were spoken of, they
were always mentioned with a certain sympathy.
“He was as kind as a father,” the convicts would sometimes say, as, with a
sigh, they compared him with their present chief, the Major who had
replaced him.
He was a simple-minded man, and kind in a manner. There are chiefs who
are naturally kind and merciful, but who are not at all liked and are laughed
at; whereas, Smekaloff had so managed that all the prisoners had a special
regard for him; this was due to innate qualities, which those who possess
them do not understand. Strange thing! There are men who are far from
being kind, and who have yet the talent of making themselves popular; they
do not despise the people who are beneath their rule. That, I think, is the
cause of this popularity. They do not give themselves lordly airs; they have
no feeling of “caste;” they have a certain odour of the people; they are men
of birth, and the people at once sniff it. They will do anything for such men;
they will gladly change the mildest and most humane man for a very severe
chief, if the latter possesses this sort of odour, and especially if the man is
also genial in his way. Oh! then he is beyond price.
Lieutenant Smekaloff, as I have said, ordered sometimes very severe
punishments. But he seemed to inflict them in such a way, that the prisoners
felt no rancour against him. On the contrary, they recalled his whipping
affairs with laughter; he did not punish frequently, for he had no artistic
imagination. He had invented only one practical joke, a single one which
amused him for nearly a year in our convict prison. This joke was dear to
him, probably, because it was his only one, and it was not without humour.

Smekaloff assisted himself at the executions, joking all the time, and
laughing at the prisoner as he questioned him about the most out-of-the-way
things, such, for instance, as his private affairs. He did this without any bad
motive, and simply because he really wished to know something about the
man’s affairs. A chair was brought to him, together with the rods which
were to be used for chastising the prisoner. The Lieutenant sat down and
lighted his long pipe; the prisoner implored him.
“No, comrade, lie down. What is the matter with you?”
The convict stretched himself on the ground with a sigh.
“Can you read fluently?”
“Of course, your nobility; I am baptized, and I was taught to read when I
was a child.”
“Then read this.”
The convict knows beforehand what he is to read, and knows how the
reading will end, because this joke has been repeated more than thirty
times; but Smekaloff knows also that the convict is not his dupe any more
than the soldier who now holds the rods suspended over the back of the
unhappy victim. The convict begins to read; the soldiers armed with the
rods await motionless. Smekaloff ceases even to smoke, raises his hand, and
waits for a word fixed upon beforehand. At the word, which from some
double meaning might be interpreted as the order to start, the Lieutenant
raises his hand, and the flogging begins. The officer bursts into a laugh, and
the soldiers around him also laugh; the man who is whipping laughs, and
the man who is being whipped also.

CHAPTER III. THE HOSPITAL[4] (continued).

I have spoken here of punishments and of those who have administered
them, because I got a very clear idea on the subject during my stay in the
hospital. Until then I knew of them only by general report. In our room

were confined all the prisoners from the battalion who were to receive the
spitzruten [rods], as well as those from the military establishment in our
town and in the district surrounding it.
During my first few days I looked at all that surrounded me with such
greedy eyes that these strange manners, these men who had just been
flogged or were about to be flogged, left upon me a terrible impression. I
was agitated, frightened.
As I listened to the conversation or narratives of the other prisoners on this
subject, I put to myself questions which I endeavoured in vain to solve. I
wished to know all the degrees of the sentences; the punishments, and their
shades; and to learn the opinion of the convicts themselves. I tried to
represent to myself the psychological condition of the men flogged.
It rarely happened, as I have already said, that the prisoner approached the
fatal moment in cold blood, even if he had been beaten several times before.
The condemned man experiences a fear which is very terrible, but purely
physical—an unconscious fear which upsets his moral nature.
During my several years’ stay in the convict prison I was able to study at
leisure the prisoners who wished to leave the hospital, where they had
remained some time to have their damaged backs cured before receiving the
second half of their punishment. This interruption in the punishment is
always called for by the doctor who assists at the execution.
If the number of strokes to be received is too great for them to be
administered all at once, it is divided according to advice given by the
doctor on the spot. It is for him to see if the prisoner is in a condition to
undergo the whole of his punishment, or if his life is in danger.
Five hundred, one thousand, and even one thousand five hundred strokes
with the stick are administered at once. But if it is two or three thousand the
punishment is divided into two or three doses.
Those whose back had been cured after the first administration, and who are
to undergo a second, were sad, sombre and silent the day they went out, and
the evening before. They were almost in a state of torpor. They engaged in
no conversation, and remained perfectly silent.

It is worthy of remark that the prisoners avoid addressing those who are
about to be punished, and, above all, never make any allusion to the subject,
neither in consolation nor in superfluous words. No attention whatever is
paid to them, which is certainly the best thing for the prisoner.
There are exceptions, however.
The convict Orloff, of whom I have already spoken, was sorry that his back
did not get more quickly cured, for he was anxious to get his leave-ticket in
order that he might take the rest of his flogging, and then be assigned to a
convoy of prisoners, when he meant to escape during the journey. He had a
passionate, ardent nature, and with only that object in view.
A cunning rascal, he seemed very pleased when he first came; but he was in
a state of abnormal excitement, though he endeavoured to conceal it. He
had been afraid of being left on the ground, and dying before half of his
punishment had been undergone. He had heard steps taken in his case, by
the authorities, when he was still being tried, and he thought he could not
survive the punishment. But when he had received his first dose he
recovered his courage.
When he came to the hospital I had never seen such wounds as his; but he
was in the best spirits. He now hoped to be able to live. The stories which
had reached him were untrue, or the execution would not have been
interrupted.
He now began to think of a long Siberian journey, possibly of escaping to
liberty, fields, and forests.
Two days after he had left the hospital he came back to die—on the very
couch which he had occupied during my stay there.
He had been unable to support the second half of his punishment; but I have
already spoken of this man.
All the prisoners without exception, even the most pusillanimous, even
those who were beforehand tormented night and day, supported it
courageously when it came. I scarcely ever heard groans during the night
following the execution; our people, as a rule, knew how to endure pain.

I questioned my companion often in reference to this pain, that I might
know to what kind of suffering it might be compared. It was no idle
curiosity which urged me. I repeat that I was moved and frightened; but it
was in vain, I could get no satisfactory reply.
“It burns like fire!” was the general answer; they all said the same thing.
First I tried to question M—tski. “It burns like fire! like hell! It seems as if
one’s back were in a furnace.”
I made one day a strange observation, which may or may not have been
well founded, although the opinion of the convicts themselves confirms my
views; namely, that the rods are the most terrible punishment in use among
us.
At first it seems absurd, impossible, yet five hundred strokes of the rods,
four hundred even, are enough to kill a man. Beyond five hundred death is
almost certain; the most robust man will be unable to support a thousand
rods, whereas five hundred sticks are endured without much inconvenience,
and without the least risk in the world of losing one’s life. A man of
ordinary build supports a thousand sticks without danger; even two
thousand sticks will not kill a man of ordinary strength and constitution. All
the convicts declared that rods were worse than sticks or ramrods.
“Rods hurt more and torture more!” they said.
They must torture more than sticks, that is certain, that is evident; for they
irritate much more forcibly the nervous system, which they excite beyond
measure. I do not know whether any person still exists, but such did a short
time ago, to whom the whipping of a victim procured a delight which
recalls the Marquis de Sade and the Marchioness Brinvilliers. I think this
delight must consist in the sinking of the heart, and that these nobles must
have experienced pain and delight at the same time.
There are people who, like tigers, are greedy for blood. Those who have
possessed unlimited power over the flesh, blood, and soul of their fellow-
creatures, of their brethren according to the law of Christ, those who have
possessed this power and who have been able to degrade with a supreme
degradation, another being made in the image of God; these men are
incapable of resisting their desires and their thirst for sensations. Tyranny is

a habit capable of being developed, and at last becomes a disease. I declare
that the best man in the world can become hardened and brutified to such a
point, that nothing will distinguish him from a wild beast. Blood and power
intoxicate; they aid the development of callousness and debauchery; the
mind then becomes capable of the most abnormal cruelty in the form of
pleasure; the man and the citizen disappear for ever in the tyrant; and then a
return to human dignity, repentance, moral resurrection, becomes almost
impossible.
That the possibility of such license has a contagious effect on the whole of
society there is no doubt. A society which looks upon such things with an
indifferent eye, is already infected to the marrow. In a word, the right
granted to a man to inflict corporal punishment on his fellow-men, is one of
the plague-spots of our society. It is the means of annihilating all civic
spirit. Such a right contains in germ the elements of inevitable, imminent
decomposition.
Society despises an executioner by trade, but not a lordly executioner.
Every manufacturer, every master of works, must feel an irritating pleasure
when he reflects that the workman he has beneath his orders is dependent
upon him with the whole of his family. A generation does not, I am sure,
extirpate so quickly what is hereditary in it. A man cannot renounce what is
in his blood, what has been transmitted to him with his mother’s milk; these
revolutions are not accomplished so quickly. It is not enough to confess
one’s fault. That is very little! Very little indeed! It must be rooted out, and
that is not done so quickly.
I have spoken of the executioners. The instincts of an executioner are in
germ in nearly every one of our contemporaries; but the animal instincts of
the man have not developed themselves in a uniform manner. When they
stifle all other faculties, the man becomes a hideous monster.
There are two kinds of executioners, those who of their own will are
executioners and those who are executioners by duty, by reason of office.
He who, by his own will, is an executioner, is in all respects below the
salaried executioner, whom, however, the people look upon with
repugnance, and who inspires them with disgust, with instinctive mystical

fear. Whence comes this almost superstitious horror for the latter, when one
is only indifferent and indulgent to the former?
I know strange examples of honourable men, kind, esteemed by all their
friends, who found it necessary that a culprit should be whipped until he
would implore and beg for mercy; it seemed to them a natural thing, a thing
recognised as indispensable. If the victim did not choose to cry out, his
executioner, whom in other respects I should consider a good man, looked
upon it as a personal offence; he meant, in the first instance, to inflict only a
light punishment, but directly he failed to hear the habitual supplications,
“Your nobility!” “Have mercy!” “Be a father to me!” “Let me thank God all
my life!” he became furious, and ordered that fifty more blows should be
administered, hoping thus, at last, to obtain the necessary cries and
supplications; and at last they came.
“Impossible! he is too insolent,” cried the man in question, very seriously.
As for the executioner by office, he is a convict who has been chosen for
this function. He passes an apprenticeship with an old hand, and as soon as
he knows his trade remains in the convict prison, where he lives by himself.
He has a room, which he shares with no one. Sometimes, indeed, he has a
separate establishment, but he is always under guard. A man is not a
machine. Although he whips by virtue of his office, he sometimes becomes
furious, and beats with a certain pleasure. Notwithstanding he has no hatred
for his victim, a desire to show his skill in the art of whipping may sharpen
his vanity. He works as an artist; he knows well that he is a reprobate, and
that he excites everywhere superstitious dread. It is impossible that this
should exercise no influence upon him, and not irritate his brutal instincts.
Even little children say that this man has neither father nor mother. Strange
thing!
All the executioners I have known were intelligent men, possessing a
certain degree of conceit. This conceit became developed in them through
the contempt which they everywhere met with, and was strengthened,
perhaps, by the consciousness of the fear with which they inspired their
victims, and of the power over unfortunate wretches.

The theatrical paraphernalia surrounding them developed, perhaps, in them
a certain arrogance. I had for some time an opportunity of meeting and
observing at close quarters an ordinary executioner. He was a man about
forty, muscular, dry, with an agreeable, intelligent face, surrounded by long
curly hair. His manners were quiet and grave, his general demeanour
becoming. He replied clearly and sensibly to all questions put to him, but
with a sort of condescension as if he were in some way my superior. The
officers of the guard spoke to him with a certain respect, which he fully
appreciated, for which reason, in presence of his chiefs, he became polite,
and more dignified than ever.
He never departed from the most refined politeness. I am sure that, when I
was speaking to him, he felt incomparably superior to the man who was
addressing him. I could read that in his countenance. Sometimes he was
sent under escort, in summer, when it was very hot, to kill the dogs of the
town with a long, very thin spear. These wandering dogs increased in
numbers with such prodigious rapidity, and became so dangerous during the
dog days, that, by the decision of the authorities, the executioner was
ordered to destroy them. This degrading duty did not in any way humiliate
him. It should have been seen with what gravity he walked through the
streets of the town, accompanied by a soldier escorting him; how, with a
single glance, he frightened the women and children; and how, from the
height of his grandeur, he looked down upon the passers-by generally.
Executioners live at their ease. They have money to travel comfortably, and
drink vodka. They derive most of their income from presents which the
prisoners condemned to be flogged slip into their hands before the
execution. When they have to do with convicts who are rich, they then fix a
sum to be paid in proportion to the means of the victim. They will exact
thirty roubles, sometimes more. The executioner has no right to spare his
victim; and he does so at the risk of his own back. But for a suitable present
he agrees not to strike too hard. People almost always give what he asks;
should they in any case refuse, he would strike like a savage; and it is in his
power to do so. He sometimes exacts a heavy sum from a man who is very
poor. Then all the relations of the victim are put in movement. They
bargain, try and beat him down, supplicate him; but it will not be well if
they do not succeed in satisfying him. In such a case the superstitious fear

inspired by the executioner stands them in good part. I had been told the
most wonderful things—that at one blow the executioner can kill his man.
“Is this your experience?” I asked.
Perhaps so. Who knows? Their tone seemed to decide, if there could be any
doubt about it. They also told me that he can strike a criminal in such a way
that he will not feel the least pain, and without leaving a scar.
Even when the executioner receives a present not to whip too severely, he
gives the first blow with all his strength. It is the custom! Then he
administers the other blows with less severity, above all if he has been well
paid.
I do not know why this is done. Is it to prepare the victim for the succeeding
blows, which will appear less painful after the first cruel one; or do they
want to frighten the criminal, so that he may know with whom he has to
deal; or do they simply wish to display their vigour from vanity? In any
case the executioner is slightly excited before the execution, and he is
conscious of his strength and of his power. He is acting at the time; the
public admires him, and is filled with terror. Accordingly, it is not without
satisfaction that he cries out to his victim, “Look out! you are going to have
it!”—customary and fatal words which precede the first blow.
It is difficult to imagine a human being degraded to such a point.
The first day of my stay at the hospital I listened attentively to the stories of
the convicts, which broke the monotony of the long days.
In the morning, the doctor’s visit was the first diversion. Then came dinner,
which it will be believed was the most important affair of our daily life. The
portions were different according to the nature of the illness: some of the
prisoners received nothing but broth with groats in it; others nothing but
gruel; others a kind of semolina, which was much liked. The convicts ended
by becoming effeminate and fastidious. The convalescents received a piece
of boiled beef. The best food, which was reserved for the scorbutic patients,
consisted of roast beef with onions, horseradish, and sometimes a small
glass of spirits. The bread was, according to the illness, black or brown; the
precision preserved in distributing the rations would make the patients
laugh.

There were some who took absolutely nothing; the portions were
exchanged in such a way that the food intended for one patient was eaten by
another: those who were being kept on low diet, who received only small
rations, bought those of the scorbutic patients; others would give any price
for meat. There were some who ate two entire portions; it cost them a good
deal, for they were generally sold at five kopecks each. If one had no meat
to sell in our room the warder was sent to another section, and if he could
not find any there he was asked to get some from the military “infirmary”—
the free infirmary, as we called it.
There were always patients ready to sell their rations; poverty was general,
and those who possessed a few kopecks used to send out to buy cakes and
white bread, or other delicacies, at the market. Warders executed these
commissions in a disinterested manner. The most painful moment was that
which followed the dinner; some went to sleep, if they had no other way of
passing their time; others either wrangled or told stories in a loud voice.
When no new patients were brought in, everything became very dull. The
arrival of a new patient caused always a certain excitement, above all, if no
one knew anything about him; he was questioned about his past life.
The most interesting ones were the birds of passage: they had always
something to tell.
Of course they never spoke of their own little faults. If the prisoner did not
enter upon this subject himself, no one questioned him about it.
The only thing he was asked was, what quarter he came from? who were
with him on the road? what state the road was in? where he was being taken
to? etc. Stimulated by the stories of the new comers, our comrades in their
turn began to tell what they had seen and done; what was most talked about
was the convoys, those in command of them, the men who carried the
sentences into execution.
About this time, too, towards evening, the convicts who had been scourged
came up; they always made a rather strong impression, as I have said; but it
was not every day that any of these were brought to us, and everybody was
bored to extinction, when nothing happened to give a fillip to the general
relaxed and indolent state of feeling. It seemed, then, as though the sick

themselves were exasperated at the very sight of those near them.
Sometimes they squabbled violently.
Our convicts were in high glee when a madman was taken off for medical
examination; sometimes those who were sentenced to be scourged, feigned
insanity that they might get off. The trick was found out, or it would
sometimes be that they voluntarily gave up the pretence. Prisoners, who
during two or three days had done all sorts of wild things, suddenly became
steady and sensible people, quieted down, and, with a gloomy smile, asked
to be taken out of the hospital. Neither the other convicts nor the doctors
said a word of remonstrance to them about the deceit, or brought up the
subject of their mad pranks. Their names were put down on a list without a
word being said, and they were simply taken elsewhere; after the lapse of
some days they came back to us with their backs all wounds and blood.
On the other hand, the arrival of a genuine lunatic was a miserable thing to
see all through the place. Those of the mentally unsound who were gay,
lively, who uttered cries, danced, sang, were greeted at first with enthusiasm
by the convicts.
“Here’s fun!” said they, as they looked on the grins and contortions of the
unfortunates. But the sight was horribly painful and sad. I have never been
able to look upon the mad calmly or with indifference. There was one who
was kept three weeks in our room: we would have hidden ourselves, had
there been any place to do it. When things were at the worst they brought in
another. This one affected me very powerfully.
In the first year, or, to be more exact, during the first month of my exile, I
went to work with a gang of kiln men to the tileries situate at two versts
from our prison. We were set to repairing the kiln in which the bricks were
baked in summer. That morning, in which M—tski and B. made me
acquainted with the non-commissioned officer, superintendent of the works.
This was a Pole already well on in life, sixty years old at least, of high
stature, lean, of decent and even somewhat imposing exterior. He had been
a long time in service in Siberia, and although he belonged to the lower
orders he had been a soldier, and in the rising of 1830—M—tski and B.
loved and esteemed him. He was always reading the Vulgate. I spoke to
him; his talk was agreeable and intelligent; he told a story in a most

interesting way; he was straightforward and of excellent temper. For two
years I never saw him again, all I heard was that he had become a “case,”
and that they were inquiring into it; and then one fine day they brought him
into our room; he had gone quite mad.
He came in yelling, uttering shouts of laughter, and began to dance in the
middle of the room with indecent gestures which recalled the dance known
as Kamarinskaïa.
The convicts were wild with enthusiasm; but, for my part, account for it as
you will, I felt utterly miserable. Three days after, we were all of us upset
with it; he got into violent disputes with everybody, fought, groaned, sang
in the dead of the night; his aberrations were so inordinate and disgusting as
to bring our very stomachs up.
He feared nobody. They put the strait-waistcoat on him; but we were no
whit better off for it, for he went on quarreling and fighting all round. At the
end of three weeks, the room put up an unanimous entreaty to the head
doctor that he might be removed to the other apartment reserved for the
convicts. But after two days, at the request of the sick people in that other
room, they brought him back to our infirmary. As we had two madmen
there at once, both rooms kept sending them back and forward, and ended
by taking one or the other of the two lunatics, turn and turn about.
Everybody breathed more freely when they took them away from us, a good
way off, somewhere or other.
There was another lunatic whom I remember—a very remarkable creature.
They had brought in, during the summer, a man under sentence, who looked
like a solid and vigorous fellow enough, of about forty-five years. His face
was sombre and sad, pitted with small-pox, with little red and swollen eyes.
He sat down by my side. He was extremely quiet; spoke to nobody, and
seemed utterly absorbed in his own deep reflections.
Night fell; then he addressed me, and, without a word of preface, told me in
a hurried and excited way—as if it were a mighty secret he were confiding
—that he was to have two thousand strokes with the rod; but that he had
nothing to fear, as the daughter of Colonel G—— was taking steps on his
behalf.

I looked at him with surprise, and observed that, as I saw the affair, the
daughter of a Colonel could be of little use in such a case. I had not yet
guessed what sort of person I had to do with, for they had brought him to
the hospital as a bodily sick person, not mentally. I then asked him what
illness he was suffering from.
He answered that he knew nothing about it; that he had been sent among us
for something or other; but that he was in good health, and that the
Colonel’s daughter had fallen in love with him. Two weeks before she had
passed in a carriage before the guard-house, where he was looking through
the barred window, and she had gone head over ears in love at the mere
sight of him.
After that important moment she had come three times to the guard-house
on different pretexts. The first time with her father, ostensibly to visit her
brother, who was the officer on service; the second with her mother, to
distribute alms to the prisoners. As she passed in front of him she had
muttered that she loved him and would get him out of prison.
He told me all this nonsense with minute and exact details; all of it pure
figment of his poor disordered head. He believed devoutly and implicitly
that his punishment would be graciously remitted. He spoke very calmly,
and with all assurance of the passionate love he had inspired in this young
lady.
This odd and romantic delusion about the love of quite a young girl of good
breeding, for a man nearly fifty years and afflicted with a face so disfigured
and gloomy, simply showed the fearful effect produced by the fear of the
punishment he was to have, upon the poor, timid creature.
It may be that he had really seen some one through the bars of the window,
and the insanity, germinating under excess of fear, had found shape and
form in the delusion in question.
This unfortunate soldier, who, it may be warranted, had never given a
thought to young ladies, had got this romance into his diseased fancy, and
clung convulsively to this wild hope. I heard him in silence, and then told
the story to the other convicts. When these questioned him in their natural
curiosity, he preserved a chastely discreet silence.

Next day the doctor examined him. As the madman averred that he was not
ill, he was put down on the list as qualified to be sent out. We learned that
the physician had scribbled “Sanat. est” on the page, when it was quite too
late to give him warning. Besides, we were ourselves not by any means sure
what was really the matter with the man.
The error was with the authorities who had sent him to us, without
specifying for what reason it was thought necessary to have him come into
the hospital—which was unpardonable negligence.
However, two days later the unhappy creature was taken out to be scourged.
We understood that he was dumbfounded by finding, contrary to his fixed
expectation, that he really was to have the punishment. To the last moment
he thought he would be pardoned, and when conducted to the front of the
battalion, he began to cry for help.
As there was no room or bedding-place now in our apartment they sent him
to the infirmary. I heard that for eight entire days he did not utter a single
word, and remained in stupid and misery-stricken mental confusion. When
his back was cured they took him off. I never heard a single further word
about him.
As to the treatment of the sick and the remedies prescribed, those who were
but slightly indisposed paid no attention whatever to the directions of the
doctors, and never took their medicines; while, speaking generally, those
really ill were very careful in following the doctor’s orders; they took their
mixtures and powders; they took all the possible care they could of
themselves; but they preferred external to internal remedies.
Cupping-glasses, leeches, cataplasms, blood-lettings—in all which things
the populace has so blind a confidence—were held in high honour in our
hospital. Inflictions of that sort were regarded with satisfaction.
There was one thing quite strange, and to me interesting. Fellows, who
stood without a murmur the frightful tortures caused by the rods and
scourges, howled, and grinned, and moaned for the least little ailment.
Whether it was all pretence or not, I really cannot say.
We had cuppings of a quite peculiar kind. The machine with which
instantaneous incisions in the skin are produced, was all out of order, so

they had to use the lancet.
For a cupping, twelve incisions are necessary; with a machine these are not
painful at all, for it makes them instantaneously; with the lancet it is a
different affair altogether—that cuts slowly, and makes the patient suffer. If
you have to make ten openings there will be about one hundred and twenty
pricks, and these very painful. I had to undergo it myself; besides the pain
itself, it caused great nervous irritation; but the suffering was not so great
that one could not contain himself from groaning if he tried.
It was laughable to see great, hulking fellows wriggling and howling. One
couldn’t help comparing them to some men, firm and calm enough in really
serious circumstances, but all ill-temper or caprice in the bosom of their
families for nothing at all; if dinner is late or the like, then they’ll scold and
swear; everything puts them out; they go wrong with everybody; the more
comfortable they really are, the more troublesome are they to other people.
Characters of this sort, common enough among the lower orders, were but
too numerous in our prison, by reason of our company being forced on one
another.
Sometimes the prisoners chaffed or insulted the thin-skins I speak of, and
then they would leave off complaining directly; as if they only wanted to be
insulted to make them hold their tongues.
Oustiantsef was no friend of grimacings of this kind, and never let slip an
opportunity of bringing that sort of delinquent to his bearings. Besides, he
was fond of scolding; it was a sort of necessity with him, engendered by
illness and also his stupidity. He would first fix his gaze upon you for some
time, and then treat you to a long speech of threatening and warning, and a
tone of calm and impartial conviction. It looked as though he thought his
function in this world was to watch over order and morality in general.
“He must poke his nose into everything,” the prisoners with a laugh used to
say; for they pitied, and did what they could to avoid conflicts with him.
“Has he chattered enough? Three waggons wouldn’t be too much to carry
away all his talk.”
“Why need you put your oar in? One is not going to put himself about for a
mere idiot. What’s there to cry out about at a mere touch of a lancet?”

“What harm in the world do you fancy that is going to do you?”
“No, comrades,” a prisoner strikes in, “the cuppings are a mere nothing. I
know the taste of them. But the most horrid thing is when they pull your
ears for a long time together. That just shuts you up.”
All the prisoners burst out laughing.
“Have you had them pulled?”
“By Jove, yes, I should think he had.”
“That’s why they stick upright, like hop-poles.”
This convict, Chapkin by name, really had long and quite erect ears. He had
long led a vagabond life, was still quite young, intelligent, and quiet, and
used to talk with a dry sort of humour with much seriousness on the surface,
which made his stories very comical.
“How in the world was I to know you had had your ears pulled and
lengthened, brainless idiot?” began Oustiantsef, once more wrathfully
addressing Chapkin, who, however, vouchsafed no attention to his
companion’s obliging apostrophe.
“Well, who did pull your ears for you?” some one asked.
“Why, the police superintendent, by Jove, comrades! Our offence was
wandering about without fixed place of abode. We had just got into K——,
I and another tramp, Eptinie; he had no family name, that fellow. On the
way we had fixed ourselves up a little in the hamlet of Tolmina; yes, there is
a hamlet that’s got just that name—Tolmina. Well, we get to the town, and
are just looking about us a little to see if there’s a good stroke of tramp-
business to do, after which we mean to flit. You know, out in the open
country you’re as free as air; but it’s not exactly the same thing in the town.
First thing, we go into a public-house; as we open the door we give a sharp
look all round. What’s there? A sunburnt fellow in a German coat all out at
elbows, walks right up to us. One thing and another comes up, when he says
to us:
“‘Pray excuse me for asking if you have any papers [passport] with you?’

“‘No, we haven’t.’
“‘Nor have we either. I have two comrades besides these with me who are
in the service of General Cuckoo [forest tramps, i.e., who hear the birds
sing]. We have been seeing life a bit, and just now haven’t a penny to bless
ourselves with. May I take the liberty of requesting you to be so obliging as
to order a quart of brandy?’
“‘With the greatest pleasure,’ that’s what we say to him. So we drink
together. Then they tell us of a place where there’s a real good stroke of
business to be done—a house at the end of the town belonging to a wealthy
merchant fellow; lots of good things there, so we make up our minds to try
the job during the night; five of us, and the very moment we are going at it
they pounce on us, take us to the station-house, and then before the head of
the police. He says, ‘I shall examine them myself.’ Out he goes with his
pipe, and they bring in for him a cup of tea; a sturdy fellow it was, with
whiskers. Besides us five, there were three other tramps, just brought in.
You know, comrades, that there’s nothing in this world more funny than a
tramp, because he always forgets everything he’s done. You may thump his
head till you’re tired with a cudgel; all the same, you’ll get but one answer,
that he has forgotten all about everything.
“The police superintendent then turns to me and asks me squarely,
“‘Who may you be?’
“I answer just like all the rest of them:
“‘I’ve forgotten all about it, your worship.’
“‘Just you wait; I’ve a word or two more to say to you. I know your phiz.’
“Then he gives me a good long stare. But I hadn’t seen him anywhere
before, that’s a fact.
“Then he asks another of them, ‘Who are you?’
“‘Mizzle-and-scud, your worship.’
“‘They call you Mizzle-and-scud?’

“‘Precisely that, your worship.’
“‘Well and good, you’re Mizzle-and-scud! And you?’ to a third.
“‘Along-of-him, your worship.’
“‘But what’s your name—your name?’
“‘Me? I’m called Along-of-him, your worship.’
“‘Who gave you that name, hound?’
“‘Very worthy people, your worship. There are lots of worthy people about;
nobody knows that better than your worship.’
“‘And who may these “worthy people” be?’
“‘Oh, Lord, it has slipped my memory, your worship. Do be so kind and
gracious as to overlook it.’
“‘So you’ve forgotten them, all of them, these “worthy people”?’
“‘Every mother’s son of them, your worship.’
“‘But you must have had relations—a father, a mother. Do you remember
them?’
“‘I suppose I must have had, your worship; but I’ve forgotten about ’em,
my memory is so bad. Now I come to think about it, I’m sure I had some,
your worship.’
“‘But where have you been living till now?’
“‘In the woods, your worship.’
“‘Always in the woods?’
“‘Always in the woods!’
“‘Winter too?’
“‘Never saw any winter, your worship.’
“‘Get along with you! And you—what’s your name?’

“‘Hatchets-and-axes, your worship.’
“‘And yours?’
“‘Sharp-and-mum, your worship.’
“‘And you?’
“‘Keen-and-spry, your worship.’
“‘And not a soul of you remembers anything that ever happened to you.’
“‘Not a mother’s son of us anything whatever.’
“He couldn’t help it; he laughed out loud. All the rest began to laugh at
seeing him laugh! But the thing does not always go off like that. Sometimes
they lay about them, these police, with their fists, till you get every tooth in
your jaw smashed. Devilish big and strong these fellows, I can tell you.
“‘Take them off to the lock-up,’ said he. ‘I’ll see to them in a bit. As for
you, stop here!’
“That’s me.
“‘Just you go and sit down there.’
“Where he pointed to there was paper, a pen, and ink; so thinks I, ‘What’s
he up to now?’
“‘Sit down,’ he says again; ‘take the pen and write.’
“And then he goes and clutches at my ear and gives it a good pull. I looked
at him in the sort of way the devil may look at a priest.
“‘I can’t write, your worship.’
“‘Write, write!’
“‘Have mercy on me, your worship!’
“‘Write your best; write, write!’

“And all the while he keeps pulling my ear, pulling and twisting. Pals, I’d
rather have had three hundred strokes of the cat; I tell you it was hell.
“‘Write, write!’ that was all he said.”
“Had the fellow gone mad? What the mischief was it?
“Bless us, no! A little while before, a secretary had done a stroke of
business at Tobolsk: he had robbed the local treasury and gone off with the
money; he had very big ears, just as I have. They had sent the fact all over
the country. I answered to that description; that’s why he tormented me with
his ‘Write, write!’ He wanted to find out if I could write, and to see my
hand.
“‘A regular sharp chap that! Did it hurt?’
“‘Oh, Lord, don’t say a word about it, I beg.’
“Everybody burst out laughing.
“‘Well, you did write?’
“‘What the deuce was there to write? I set my pen going over the paper, and
did it to such good account that he left off torturing me. He just gave me a
dozen thumps, regulation allowance, and then let me go about my business:
to prison, that is.’
“‘Do you really know how to write?’
“‘Of course I did. What d’ye mean? Used to very well; forgotten the whole
blessed thing, though, ever since they began to use pens for it.’”
Thanks to the gossip talk of the convicts who filled the hospital, time was
somewhat quickened for us. But still, Almighty God, how wearied and
bored we were! Long, long were the days, suffocating in their monotony,
one absolutely the same as another. If only I had had a single book.
For all that I went often to the infirmary, especially in the early days of my
banishment, either because I was ill or because I needed rest, just to get out
of the worse parts of the prison. In those life was indeed made a burden to
us, worse even than in the hospital, especially as regards the effect upon

moral sentiment and good feeling. We of the nobility were the never-
ceasing objects of envious dislike, quarrels picked with us all the time,
something done every moment to put us in the wrong, looks filled with
menacing hatred unceasingly directed on us! Here, in the sick-rooms, one
lived on a sort of footing of equality, there was something of comradeship.
The most melancholy moment of the twenty-four hours was evening, when
night set in. We went to bed very early. A smoky lamp just gave us one
point of light at the very end of the room, near the door. In our corner we
were almost in complete darkness. The air was pestilential, stifling. Some of
the sick people could not get to sleep, would rise up, and remain sitting for
an hour together on their beds, with their heads bent, as though they were in
deep reflection. These I would look at steadily, trying to guess what they
might be thinking of; thus I tried to kill time. Then I became lost in my own
reveries; the past came up to me again, showing itself to my imagination in
large powerful outlines filled with high lights and massive shadows, details
that at any other time would have remained in oblivion, presented
themselves in vivid force, making on me an impression impossible under
any other circumstances.
Then I would begin to muse dreamily on the future. When shall I leave this
place of restraint, this dreadful prison? Whither betake myself? What will
then befall me? Shall I return to the place of my birth? So I brood, and
brood, until hope lives once again in my soul.
Another time I would begin to count, one, two, three, etc., to see if sleep
could be won that way. I would set sometimes as far as three thousand, and
was as wakeful as ever. Then somebody would turn in his bed.
Then there’s Oustiantsef coughing, that cough of the hopelessly-gone
consumptive, and then he would groan feebly, and stammer, “My God, I’ve
sinned, I’ve sinned!”
How frightful it was, that voice of the sick man, that broken, dying voice, in
the midst of that silence so dead and complete! In a corner there are some
sick people not yet asleep, talking in a low voice, stretched on their pallets.
One of them is telling the story of his life, all about things infinitely far off;
things that have fled for ever; he is talking of his trampings through the
world, of his children, his wife, the old ways of his life. And the very accent

of the man’s voice tells you that all those things are for ever over for him,
that he is as a limb cut off from the world of men, cut off, thrown aside;
there is another, listening intently to what he is saying. A weak, feeble sort
of muttering and murmuring comes to one’s ear from far-off in the dreary
room, a sound as of far-off water flowing somewhere.... I remember that
one time, during a winter night that seemed as if it would never end, I heard
a story which at first seemed as if it were the stammerings of a creature in
nightmare, or the delirium of fever. Here it is:

FOOTNOTES:

[4] What I relate about corporal punishment took place during my time. Now, as
I am told, everything is changed, and is changing still.

CHAPTER IV. THE HUSBAND OF AKOULKA

It was late at night, about eleven o’clock. I had been sleeping some time
and woke up with a start. The wan and weak light of the distant lamp barely
lit the room. Nearly everybody was fast asleep, even Oustiantsef; in the
quiet of the night I heard his difficult breathing, and the rattlings in his
throat with every respiration. In the ante-chamber sounded the heavy and
distant footsteps of the patrol as the men came up. The butt of a gun struck
the floor with its low and heavy sound.
The door of the room was opened, and the corporal counted the sick,
stepping softly about the place. After a minute or so he closed the door
again, leaving a fresh sentinel there; the patrol went off, silence reigned
again. It was only then that I observed two prisoners, not far from me, who
were not sleeping, and who seemed to be holding a muttered conversation.
Sometimes, in fact, it would happen that a couple of sick people, whose
beds adjoined and who had not exchanged a word for weeks, would all of a
sudden break out into conversation with one another, in the middle of the
night, and one of them would tell the other his history.

Probably they had been speaking for some considerable time. I did not hear
the beginning of it, and could not at first seize upon their words, but little by
little I got familiar with the muttered sounds, and understood all that was
going on. I had not the least desire for sleep on me, so what could I do but
listen.
One of them was telling his story with some warmth, half-lying on his bed,
with his head lifted and stretched towards his companion. He was plainly
excited to no little degree; the necessity of speech was on him.
The man listening was sitting up on his pallet, with a gloomy and
indifferent air, his legs stretched out flat on the mattress, and now and again
murmured some words in reply, more out of politeness than interest, and
kept stuffing his nose with snuff from a horn box. This was the soldier
Techérévin, one of the company of discipline; a morose, cold-reasoning
pedant, an idiot full of amour propre; while the narrator was Chichkof,
about thirty years old; this was a civilian convict, whom up to that time I
had not at all observed; and during the whole time I was at the prison I
never could get up the smallest interest in him, for he was a conceited,
heady fellow.
Sometimes he would hold his tongue for weeks together, and look sulky
and brutal enough for anything; then all of a sudden he would strike into
anything that was going on, behave insufferably, go into a white heat about
nothing at all, and tell you long stories with nothing in them whatever about
one barrack or another, blowing abuse on all the world, and acting like a
man beside himself. Then some one would give him a hiding, and he would
have another fit of silence. He was a mean and cowardly fellow, and the
object of general contempt. His stature was low, he had little flesh on him,
he had wandering eyes, though they sometimes got mixed and seemed filled
with a stupid sort of thinking. When he told you anything he worked
himself into a fever, gesticulated wildly, suddenly broke off and went to
another subject, lost himself in fresh details, and at last forgot altogether
what he was talking about. He often got into squabbles, this Chichkof, and
when he poured insult on his adversary, he spoke with a sentimental whine
and was affected nearly to tears. He was not a bad hand at playing the
balalaika, and had a weakness for it; on fête days he would show you his
dancing powers when others set him at it, and he danced by no means

badly. You could easily enough make him do what you wanted ... not that he
was of a complying turn, but he liked to please and to get intimate with
fellows.
For some considerable time I couldn’t understand the story Chichkoff was
telling; that night I mean. It seemed to me as though he were constantly
rambling from the point to talk of something else. Perhaps he had observed
that Tchérévine was paying little attention to the narrative, but I fancy that
he was minded to overlook this indifference, so as not to take offence.
“When he went out on business,” he continued, “every one saluted him
politely, paid him every respect ... a fellow with money that.”
“You say that he was in some trade or other.”
“Yes; trade indeed! The trading class in my country is wretchedly ill-off;
just poverty-stricken. The women go to the river and fetch water from ever
such a distance to water their gardens. They wear themselves to the very
bone, and, for all that, when winter comes, they haven’t got enough to make
a mere cabbage soup. I tell you it’s starvation. But that fellow had a good
lump of land, which his labourers cultivated; he had three. Then he had
hives, and sold his honey; he was a cattle-dealer too; a much respected man
in our parts. He was very old and quite gray, his seventy years lay heavy on
his old bones. When he came to the market-place with his fox-skin pelisse,
everybody saluted him.
“‘Good-day, daddy Aukoudim Trophimtych!’
“‘Good-day,’ he’d return.
“‘How are you getting along;’ he never looked down on any one.
“‘God keep you, Aukoudim Trophimtych!’
“‘How goes business with you?’
“‘Business is as good as tallow’s white with me; and how’s yours, daddy?’
“‘We’ve just got enough of a livelihood to pay the price of sin; always
sweating over our bit of land.’

“‘Lord preserve you, Aukoudim Trophimtych!’
“He never looked down on anybody. All his advice was always worth
having; every one of his words was worth a rouble. A great reader he was,
quite a man of learning; but he stuck to religious books. He would call his
old wife and say to her, ‘Listen, woman, take well in what I say;’ then he
would explain things. His old Marie Stépanovna was not exactly an old
woman, if you please; it was his second wife; he had married her to have
children, his first wife had not brought him any. He had two boys still quite
young, for the second of them was born when his father was close on sixty;
Akoulka, his daughter, was eighteen years old, she was the eldest.”
“Your wife? Isn’t it so?”
“Wait a bit, wait. Then Philka Marosof begins to kick up a row. Says he to
Aukoudim: ‘Let’s split the difference. Give me back my four hundred
roubles. I’m not your beast of burden; I don’t want to do any more business
with you, and I don’t want to marry your Akoulka. I want to have my fling
now that my parents are dead. I’ll liquor away my money, then I’ll engage
myself, ’list for a soldier; and in ten years I’ll come back here a field-
marshal!’ Aukoudim gave him back his money—all he had of his. You see
he and Philka’s father had both put in money and done business together.
“‘You’re a lost man,’ that’s what he said to Philka.
“‘Whether I’m a lost man or not, old gray-beard, you’re the biggest cheat I
know. You’d try to screw a fortune out of four farthings, and pick up all the
dirt about to do it with. I spit upon it. There you are piling up here, digging
deep there, the devil only knows why. I’ve got a will of my own, I tell you.
All the same I won’t take your Akoulka; I’ve slept with her already.’
“‘How dare you insult a respectable father—a respectable girl? When did
you sleep with her, you spawn of the sucker, you dog, you hound, you
——?’ said Aukoudim shaking with passion. (Philka told us all this later).
“‘I’ll not only not marry your daughter, but I’ll take good care that nobody
marries her, not even Mikita Grigoritch, for she’s a disreputable girl. We
had a fine time together, she and I, all last autumn. I don’t want her at any
price. All the money in the world wouldn’t make me take her.’

“Then the fellow went and had high jinks for a while. All the town was as
one man in sending up a cry against him. He got a lot of other fellows round
him, for he had a heap of money. Three months he had of it. Such
recklessness as you never heard of. Every penny went.
“‘I want to see the end of this money. I’ll sell the house; everything; then
I’ll ’list or go on the tramp.’
“He was drunk from morning to evening, and went about with a carriage
and pair.
“The girls liked him well, I tell you, for he played the guitar very nicely.”
“Then it is true that he had been too well with this Akoulka?”
“Wait, wait, can’t you? I had just buried my father. My mother lived by
baking gingerbread. We got our livelihood by working for Aukoudim;
barely enough to eat, a precious hard life it was. We had a bit of land the
other side of the woods, and grew corn there; but when my father died I
went on a spree. I made my mother give me money; but I had to give her a
good hiding first.”
“You were very wrong to beat her; a great sin that?”
“Sometimes I was drunk the whole blessed day. We had a house that was
just tumbling to pieces with dry rot, still it was our own; we were as near
famished as could be; for weeks together we had nothing but rags to chew.
Mother nearly killed me with one stupid trick or another, but I didn’t care a
curse. Philka Marosof and I were always together day and night. ‘Play the
guitar to me,’ he’d say, ‘and I’ll lie in bed the while. I’ll throw money to
you, for I’m the richest chap in the world!’ The fellow could not speak
without lying. There was only one thing. He wouldn’t touch a thing if it had
been stolen. ‘I’m no thief, I’m an honest man. Let’s go and daub Akoulka’s
door with pitch,[5] for I won’t have her marry Mikita Grigoritch, I’ll stick to
that.’
“The old man had long meant to give his daughter to this Mikita Grigoritch.
He was a man well on in life, in trade too, and wore spectacles. When he
heard the story of Akoulka’s bad conduct, he said to the old father, ‘That

would be a terrible disgrace for me, Aukoudim Trophimtych; on the whole,
I’ve made up my mind not to marry; it’s to late.’
“So we went and daubed Akoulka’s door all over with pitch. When we’d
done that her folks beat her so that they nearly killed her.
“Her mother, Marie Stépanovna, cried, ‘I shall die of it,’ while the old man
said, ‘If we were in the days of the patriarchs, I’d have hacked her to pieces
on a block. But now everything is rottenness and corruption in this world.’
Sometimes the neighbours from one end of the street to the other heard
Akoulka’s screams. She was whipped from morning to evening, and Philka
would cry out in the market-place before everybody:
“Akoulka’s a jolly girl to get drunk with. I’ve given it those people between
the eyes, they won’t forget me in a hurry.’
“Well, one day, I met Akoulka, she was going for water with her bucket, so
I cried out to her: ‘A fine morning, pet Akoulka Koudimovna! you’re the
girl who knows how to please fellows. Who’s living with you now, and
where do you get your money for your finery?’ That’s just what I said to
her; she opened her eyes as wide as you please. No more flesh on her than
on a log of wood. She had only just given me a look, but her mother
thought she was larking with me, and cried from her door-step, ‘Impudent
hussy, what do you mean by talking with that fellow?’ And from that
moment they began to beat her again. Sometimes they hided her for an hour
together. The mother said, ‘I give her the whip because she isn’t my
daughter any more.’”
“She was then as bad as they said?”
“Now you just listen to my story, nunky, will you? Well, we used to get
drunk all the time with Philka. One day when I was abed, mother comes
and says:
“‘What d’ye mean by lying in bed, you hound, you thief!’ She abused me
for some time, then she said, ‘Marry Akoulka. They’ll be glad to give her to
you, and they’ll give three hundred roubles with her.’
“‘But,’ says I, ‘all the world knows that she’s a bad girl——’

“‘Hist, the marriage ceremony cures all that; besides, she’ll always be in
fear of her life from you, so you’ll be in clover together. Their money would
make us comfortable; I’ve spoken about the marriage already to Marie
Stépanovna, we’re of one mind about it.’
“So I say, ‘Let’s have twenty roubles down on the spot, and I’ll have her.’
“Well, you needn’t believe it unless you please, but I was drunk right up to
the wedding-day. Then Philka Marosof kept threatening me all the time.
“‘I’ll break every bone in your body, a nice fellow you to be engaged, and
to Akoulka; if I like I’ll sleep every blessed night with her when she’s your
wife.’
“‘You’re a hound, and a liar,’ that’s what I said to him. But he insulted me
so in the street, before everybody, that I ran to Aukoudim’s and said, ‘I
won’t marry her unless I have fifty roubles down this moment.’”
“And they really did give her to you in marriage?”
“Me? Why not, I should like to know? We were respectable people enough.
Father had been ruined by a fire a little before he died; he had been a richer
man than Aukoudim Trophimtych.
“‘A fellow without a shirt to his back like you ought to be only too happy to
marry my daughter;’ that’s what old Aukoudim said.
“‘Just you think of your door, and the pitch that went on it,’ I said to him.
“‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said he, ‘there’s no proof whatever that the girl’s
gone wrong.’
“‘Please yourself. There’s the door, and you can go about your business; but
give back the money you’ve had!’
“Then Philka Marosof and I settled it together to send Mitri Bykoff to
Father Aukoudim to tell him that we’d insult him to his face before
everybody. Well, I had my skin as full as it could hold right up to the
wedding-day. I wasn’t sober till I got into the church. When they took us
home after church the girl’s uncle, Mitrophone Stépanytch, said:

“‘This isn’t a nice business; but it’s over and done now.’
“Old Aukoudim was sitting there crying, the tears rolled down on his gray
beard. Comrade, I’ll tell you what I had done: I had put a whip into my
pocket before we went to church, and I’d made up my mind to have it out of
her with that, so that all the world might know how I’d been swindled into
the marriage, and not think me a bigger fool than I am.”
“I see, and you wanted her to know what was in store for her. Ah, was
——?”
“Quiet, nunky, quiet! Among our people I’ll tell you how it is; directly after
the marriage ceremony they take the couple to a room apart, and the others
remain drinking till they return. So I’m left alone with Akoulka; she was
pale, not a bit of colour on her cheeks; frightened out of her wits. She had
fine hair, supple and bright as flax, and great big eyes. She scarcely ever
was known to speak; you might have thought she was dumb; an odd
creature, Akoulka, if ever there was one. Well, you can just imagine the
scene. My whip was ready on the bed. Well, she was as pure a girl as ever
was, not a word of it all was true.”
“Impossible!”
“True, I swear; as good a girl as any good family might wish.”
“Then, brother, why—why—why had she had to undergo all that torture?
Why had Philka Marosof slandered her so?”
“Yes, why, indeed?”
“Well, I got down from the bed, and went on my knees before her, and put
my hands together as if I were praying, and just said to her, ‘Little mother,
pet, Akoulka Koudimovna, forgive me for having been such an idiot as to
believe all that slander; forgive me. I’m a hound!’
“She was seated on the bed, and gazed at me fixedly. She put her two hands
on my shoulders and began to laugh; but the tears were running all down
her cheeks. She sobbed and laughed all at once.
“Then I went out and said to the people in the other room, ‘Let Philka
Marosof look to himself. If I come across him he won’t be long for this

world.’
“The old people were beside themselves with delight. Akoulka’s mother
was ready to throw herself at her daughter’s feet, and sobbed.
“Then the old man said, ‘If we had known really how it was, my dearest
child, we wouldn’t have given you a husband of that sort.’
“You ought to have seen how we were dressed the first Sunday after our
marriage—when we left church! I’d got a long coat of fine cloth, a fur cap,
with plush breeches. She had a pelisse of hareskin, quite new, and a silk
kerchief on her head. One was as fine as the other. Everybody admired us. I
must say I looked well, and pet Akoulka did too. One oughtn’t to boast, but
one oughtn’t to sing small. I tell you people like us are not turned out by the
dozen.”
“Not a doubt about it.”
“Just you listen, I tell you. The day after my marriage I ran off from my
guests, drunk as I was, and went about the streets crying, ‘Where’s that
scoundrel of a Philka Marosof? Just let him come near me, the hound, that’s
all!’ I went all over the market-place yelling that out. I was as drunk as a
man could be, and stand.
“They went after me and caught me close to Vlassof’s place. It took three
men to get me back again to the house.
“Well, nothing else was spoken about all over the village. The girls said,
when they met in the market-place, ‘Well, you’ve heard the news—Akoulka
was all right!’
“A little while after I do come across Philka Marosof, who said to me
before everybody, strangers to the place, too, ‘Sell your wife, and spend the
money on drink. Jackka the soldier only married for that; he didn’t sleep
one night with his wife; but he got enough to keep his skin full for three
years.’
“I answered him, ‘Hound!’
“‘But,’ says he, ‘you’re an idiot! You didn’t know what you were about
when you married—you were drunk. How could you tell all about it?’

“So off I went to the house, and cried out to them ‘You married me when I
was drunk.’
“Akoulka’s mother tried to fasten herself on me; but I cried, ‘Mother, you
don’t know about anything but money. You bring me Akoulka!’
“And didn’t I beat her! I tell you I beat her for two hours running, till I
rolled on the floor myself with fatigue. She couldn’t leave her bed for three
weeks.”
“It’s a dead sure thing,” said Tchérévine phlegmatically; “if you don’t beat
them they—— Did you find her with her lover?”
“No; to tell the truth, I never actually caught her,” said Chichkoff after a
pause, speaking with effort; “but I was hurt, a good deal hurt, for every one
made fun of me. The cause of it all was Philka. ‘Your wife is just made for
everybody to look at,’ said he.
“One day he invited us to see him, and then he went at it. ‘Do just look
what a good little wife he has! Isn’t she tender, fine, nicely brought up,
affectionate, full of kindness for all the world? I say, my lad, have you
forgotten how we daubed their door with pitch?’ I was full at that moment,
drunk as may be; then he seized me by the hair and had me down upon the
ground before I knew where I was. ‘Come along—dance; aren’t you
Akoulka’s husband? I’ll hold your hair for you, and you shall dance; it will
be good fun.’ ‘Dog!’ said I to him. ‘I’ll bring some jolly fellows to your
house,’ said he, ‘and I’ll whip your Akoulka before your very eyes just as
long as I please.’ Would you believe it? For a whole month I daren’t go out
of the house, I was so afraid he’d come to us and drag my wife through the
dirt. And how I did beat her for it!”
“What was the use of beating her? You can tie a woman’s hands, but not her
tongue. You oughtn’t to give them a hiding too often. Beat ’em a bit, then
scold ’em well, then fondle ’em; that’s what a woman is made for.”
Chichkoff remained quite silent for a few moments.
“I was very much hurt,” he went on; “I began it again just as before. I beat
her from morning till night for nothing; because she didn’t get up from her
seat the way I liked; because she didn’t walk to suit me. When I wasn’t

hiding her, time hung heavy on my hands. Sometimes she sat by the
window crying silently—it hurt my feelings sometimes to see her cry, but I
beat her all the same. Sometimes her mother abused me for it: ‘You’re a
scoundrel, a gallows-bird!’ ‘Don’t say a word or I’ll kill you; you made me
marry her when I was drunk, you swindled me.’ Old Aukoudim wanted at
first to have his finger in the pie. Said he to me one day: ‘Look here, you’re
not such a tremendous fellow that one can’t put you down;’ but he didn’t
get far on that track. Marie Stépanovna had become as sweet as milk. One
day she came to me crying her eyes out and said: ‘My heart is almost
broken, Ivan Semionytch; what I’m going to ask of you is a little thing for
you, but it is a good deal to me; let her go, let her leave you, daddy Ivan.’
Then she throws herself at my feet. ‘Do give up being so angry! Wicked
people slander her; you know quite well she was good when you married
her.’ Then she threw herself at my feet again and cried. But I was as hard as
nails. ‘I won’t hear a word you have to say; what I choose to do, I do, to
you or anybody, for I’m crazed with it all. As to Philka Marosof, he’s my
best and dearest friend.’”
“You’d begun to play your pranks together again, you and he?”
“No, by Jove! He was out of the way by this time; he was killing himself
with drink, nothing less. He had spent all he had on drink, and had ’listed
for a soldier, as substitute for a citizen body in the town. In our parts, when
a lad makes up his mind to be substitute for another, he is master of that
house and everybody there till he’s called to the ranks. He gets the sum
agreed on the day he goes off, but up to then he lives in the house of the
man who buys him, sometimes six whole months, and there isn’t a horror in
the whole world those fellows are not guilty of. It’s enough to make folks
take the holy images out of the house. From the moment he consents to be
substitute for the son of the family then he considers himself their patron
and benefactor, and makes them dance as he pipes, or else he goes off the
bargain.
“So Philka Marosof played the very mischief at the home of this townsman.
He slept with the daughter, pulled the master of the house by the beard after
dinner, did anything that came into his head. They had to heat the bath for
him every day, and, what’s more, give him brandy fumes with the steam of

the bath: and he would have the women lead him by the arms to the bath
room.[6]
“When he came back to the man’s house after a revel elsewhere, he would
stop right in the middle of the road and cry out:
“‘I won’t go in by the door; pull down the fence!’
“And they actually had to pull down the fence, though there was the door
right at it to let him in. That all came to an end though, the day they took
him to the regiment. That day he was sobered sufficiently. The crowd
gathered all through the street.
“‘They’re taking off Philka Marosof!’
“He made a salute on all sides, right and left. Just at that moment Akoulka
was returning from the kitchen-garden. Directly Philka saw her he cried out
to her:
“‘Stop!’ and down he jumped from the cart and threw himself down at her
feet.
“‘My soul, my sweet little strawberry, I’ve loved you two years long. Now
they’re taking me off to the regiment with the band playing. Forgive me,
good honest girl of a good honest father, for I’m nothing but a hound, and
all you’ve gone through is my fault.’
“Then he flings himself down before her a second time. At first Akoulka
was exceedingly frightened; but she made him a great bow, which nearly
bent her double.
“‘Forgive me, too, my good lad; but I am really not at all angry with you.’
“As she went into the house I was at her heels.
“‘What did you say to him, you she-devil, you?’
“Now you may believe it or not as you like, but she looked at me as bold as
you please, and answered:
“‘I love him better than anything or anybody in this world.’

“‘I say!’
“That day I didn’t utter one single word. Only towards evening I said to her:
‘Akoulka, I’m going to kill you now.’ I didn’t close an eye the whole night.
I went into the little room leading to ours and drank kwass. At daybreak I
went into the house again. ‘Akoulka, get ready and come into the fields.’ I
had arranged to go there before; my wife knew it.
“‘You are right,’ said she. ‘It’s quite time to begin reaping. I’ve heard that
our labourer is ill and doesn’t work a bit.’
“I put to the cart without saying a word. As you go out of the town there’s a
forest fifteen versts in length. At the end of it is our field. When we had
gone about three versts through the wood I stopped the horse.
“‘Come, get up, Akoulka; your end is come.’
“She looked at me all in a fright, and got up without a word.
“‘You’ve tormented me enough. Say your prayers.’
“I seized her by the hair—she had long, thick tresses—I rolled them round
my arm. I held her between my knees; took out my knife; threw her head
back, and cut her throat. She screamed; the blood spurted out. Then I threw
away my knife. I pressed her with all my might in my arms. I put her on the
ground and embraced her, yelling with all my might. She screamed; I
yelled; she struggled and struggled. The blood—her blood—splashed my
face, my hands. It was stronger than I was—stronger. Then I took fright. I
left her—left my horse and began to run; ran back to the house.
“I went in the back way, and hid myself in the old ramshackle bath-house,
which we never used now. I lay myself down under the seat, and remained
hid till the dead of the night.”
“And Akoulka?”
“She got up to come back to the house; they found her later, a hundred steps
from the place.”
“So you hadn’t finished her?”

“No.” Chichkoff stopped a while.
“Yes,” said Tchérévine, “there’s a vein; if you don’t cut it at the first the
man will go on struggling; the blood may flow fast enough, but he won’t
die.”
“But she was dead all the same. They found her in the evening, and she was
cold. They told the police, and hunted me up. They found me in the night in
the old bath.
“And there you have it. I’ve been four years here already,” added he, after a
pause.
“Yes, if you don’t beat ’em you make no way at all,” said Tchérévine
sententiously, taking out his snuff-box once more. He took his pinches very
slowly, with long pauses. “For all that, my lad, you behaved like a fool.
Why, I myself—I came upon my wife with a lover. I made her come into
the shed, and then I doubled up a halter and said to her:
“‘To whom did you swear to be faithful?—to whom did you swear it in
church? Tell me that?’
“And then I gave it her with my halter—beat her and beat her for an hour
and a half; till at last she was quite spent, and cried out:
“‘I’ll wash your feet and drink the water afterwards.’
“Her name was Crodotia.”

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Daubing the door of a house, where a young girl lives, is done to show that
she is dishonoured.
[6] A mark of respect paid in Russia formerly, now disused.

CHAPTER V. THE SUMMER SEASON

April is come; Holy Week is not far off. We set about our summer tasks.
The sun becomes hotter and more brilliant every day; the atmosphere has
the spring in it, and acts upon our nervous system powerfully. The convict,
in his chains, feels the trembling influence of the lovely days like any other
creature; they rouse desires in him, inexpressible longings for his home, and
many other things. I think that he misses his liberty, yearns for freedom
more when the day is filled with sunlight than during the rainy and
melancholy days of autumn and winter. You may observe this positively
among convicts; if they do feel a little joy on a beautiful clear day, they
have a reaction into greater impatience and irritability.
I noticed that in spring there was much more squabbling in our prison; there
was more noise, the yelling was greater, there were more fights; during the
working hours we would see a man sometimes fixed in a meditative gaze,
which seemed lost in the blue distance somewhere, the other side of the
Irtych, where stretched the boundless plain, with its flight of hundreds of
versts, the free Kirghiz Steppe. Long-drawn sighs came to one’s ear, sighs
breathed from the depths of the chest; it might seem that the air of those
wide and free regions, haunted by their thought, forced the convicts to draw
deep respirations, and was a sort of solace to their crushed and fettered
souls.
“Ah!” cries at last the poor prisoner all at once, with a long, sighing cry;
then he seizes his pick furiously, or picks up the bricks, which he has to
carry from one place to another. But after a brief minute he seems to forget
the passing impression, and begins laughing, or insulting people near, so
fitful is his humour; then he attacks the work he has to do with unusual fire,
labours with might and main, as if trying to stifle by fatigue the grief that
has him by the throat. You see they are fellows of unimpaired vigour, all in
the very flower of life, with all their physical and other strength about them.
How heavy the irons are during this season! All this is not sentimentality, it
is the report of rigorous observation. During the hot season, under a fiery
sun, when all one’s being, all one’s soul, is vividly conscious of, and
intimately feels, the unspeakably strong resurrection of nature going on
everywhere, it is more difficult to support the confinement, the perpetual
surveillance, the tyranny of a will other than one’s own.

Besides this, it is in spring with the first song of the lark that throughout all
Siberia and Russia men set out on the tramp; God’s creatures, if they can,
break their prison and escape into the woods. After the stifling ditch where
they work, after the boats, the irons, the rods and whips, they go
vagabondizing where they please, wherever they can make it out best; they
eat and drink what they can get, ’tis all the time pot-luck with them; and by
night they sleep undisturbed in the woods or in a field, without a care,
without the agony of knowing themselves in prison, as if they were God’s
own birds; their “good-night” is said to the stars, and the eye that watches
them is the eye of God. Not altogether a rosy life, by any means; sometimes
hunger and fatigue are heavy on them “in the service of General Cuckoo.”
Often enough the wanderers have not a morsel of bread to keep their teeth
going for days and days. They have to hide from everybody, run to earth
like marmots; sometimes they are driven to robbery, pillage—nay, even
murder.
“Send a man there and he becomes a child, and just throws himself on all he
sees”; that is what people say of those transported to Siberia. This saying
may be applied even more fitly to the tramps. They are almost all brigands
and thieves, by necessity rather than inclination. Many of them are
hardened to the life, irreclaimable; there are convicts who go off after
having served their time, even after they have been put on some land as
their own. They ought to be happy in their new state, with their daily bread
assured them. Well, it is not so; an irresistible impulse sends them
wandering off.
This life in the woods, wretched and fearful as it is, but still free and
adventurous, has a mysterious seduction for those who have experienced it;
among these fugitives you may find to your surprise, people of good habit
of mind, peaceable temper, who had shown every promise of becoming
settled creatures—good tillers of the land. A convict will marry, have
children, live for five years in the same place, then all of a sudden he will
disappear one fine morning, abandoning wife and children, to the
stupefaction of his family and the whole neighbourhood.
One day, I was shown at the convict establishment one of these deserters of
the family hearthstone. He had committed no crime—at least, he was under
suspicion of none—but all through his life he had been a deserter, a deserter

from every post. He had been to the southern frontier of the empire, the
other side of the Danube, in the Kirghiz Steppe, in Eastern Siberia, the
Caucasus, in a word, everywhere. Who knows? under other conditions this
man might have been a Robinson Crusoe, with the passion of travel so on
him. These details I have from other convicts, for he did not like talk, and
never opened his mouth except when absolutely necessary. He was a
peasant, of quite small size, of some fifty years, very quiet in demeanour,
with a face so still as to seem quite without any sort of meaning, impassive
almost to idiotcy. His delight was to sit for hours in the sun humming a sort
of song between his teeth so softly, that five steps off he was inaudible. His
features were, so to speak, petrified; he ate little, principally black bread; he
never bought white bread or spirits; my belief is, he never had had any
money, and that he couldn’t have counted it if he had. He was indifferent to
everything. Sometimes he fed the prison dogs with his own hand, a thing no
one else was known to do; (speaking generally, Russians don’t like giving
dogs things to eat from the hand). People said that he had been married,
twice even, and that he had children somewhere. Why he had been sent as a
convict, I have not the least idea. We fellows were always fancying that he
would escape; but his hour did not come, or perhaps had come and gone;
anyhow, he went through with his punishment without resistance. He
seemed an element quite foreign to the medium wherein he had his being,
an alien, self-concentrated creature. Still, there was nothing in this deep
surface calm which could be trusted; yet, after all, what good would it have
been to him to escape from the place?
Compared with life at the convict prison, the vagabond age of the forests is
as the joys of Paradise. The tramp’s lot is wretched enough, but at least free.
So it is that every prisoner all over the soil of Russia, becomes restless with
the first rays of the smiling spring.
Comparatively few form any settled plan for flight, they fear the hindrances
in the way and the punishment that may ensue; only one in a hundred, not
more, make up his mind to it, but how to do it is a thought that never ceases
to haunt the minds of the ninety-nine others. Filled as they are with this
longing, anything that looks like giving a chance of success is a comfort to
them; then they set about comparing the facts with cases of successful
escape. I speak only of prisoners after and under sentence, for prisoners not
yet tried and condemned, are much more ready to try at an escape. And

those who have been sentenced, rarely get away unless they attempt it in
early days. When they have spent two or three years of their time, they put
them to a sort of credit-account in their minds, and conclude that it is better
to finish with the law and be put on land as a free man, rather than forfeit
that time if they fail in escaping, which is always a possibility. Certainly not
more than one convict in ten succeeds in changing his lot. Those who do,
are nearly always men sentenced to an extremely long punishment, or for
life. Fifteen, twenty years seem like an eternity to them. Then there is the
branding, which is a great difficulty in the way of complete escape.
Changing your lot is a technical expression. When a convict is caught
trying to escape, he is subjected to formal interrogatory, and will say he
wanted to change his lot. This somewhat literary formula exactly represents
the act in question. No escaped prisoner ever hopes to become a perfectly
free man, for he knows that it is nearly impossible; what he looks for is to
be sent to some other convict establishment, or to be put on the land, or to
be tried again for some offence committed when on the tramp; in a word, to
be sent anywhere else, it matters not where, so that he get out of his present
prison which has become insufferable to him. All these fugitives, unless
they find some unexpected shelter for the winter, unless they meet some one
interested in concealing them, or if—last resort—they cannot procure—and
sometimes a murder does it—the legal document, which enables them to go
about unmolested everywhere; all these fugitives present themselves in
crowds, during the autumn, in the towns and at the prisons; they confess
themselves to be escaped tramps, pass the winter in jail, and live in the
secret hope of getting away the following summer.
On me, as well as others, the spring exercised its influence. Well do I
remember the avidity with which my gaze fed upon the horizon through the
gaps in the palisades; long, long did I stand with my head glued to the
pickets, obstinately and insatiably gazing on the grass greening in the ditch
surrounding the fortress, and at the blue of the distant sky as it grew denser
and denser. My anguish, my melancholy, were heavier on me; as each day
wore away the jail became odious, detestable. Hatred for me, as a man of
the nobility, filled the hearts of the convicts during these first years, and this
feeling of theirs simply poisoned my life for me. Often did I ask to be sent
to the hospital, when there was no need of it, merely to be out of the

punishment part of the place, to feel myself out of the range of this
unrelenting and implacable hostility.
“You nobles have beaks of iron, and you tore us to pieces with your beaks
when we were serfs,” is what the convicts used to say to us. How I envied
the people of the lower class who came into the place as prisoners! It was
different with them, they were in comradeship with all there from the very
first moment. So was it that in the spring, Freedom showing herself as a sort
of phantom of the season, the joy diffused throughout all Nature, translated
themselves within my soul into a more than doubled melancholy and
nervous irritability.
As the sixth week of Lent came I had to go through my religious exercises,
for the convicts were divided by the sub-superintendent into seven sections
—answering to the weeks in Lent—and these had to attend to their
devotions according to this roster. Each section was composed of about
thirty men. This week was a great solace to me; we went two or three times
a day to the church, which was close to the prison. I had not been in church
for a long time. The Lenten services, familiar to me from early childhood in
my father’s house, the solemn prayers, the prostrations—all stirred in me
the fibres of the memory of things long, long past, and woke my earliest
impressions to fresh life. Well do I remember how happy I was when at
morn we went into God’s house, treading the ground which had frozen in
the night, under the escort of soldiers with loaded guns; the escort remained
outside the church.
Once within we were massed close to the door so that we could scarcely
hear anything except the deep voice of the ministering deacon; now and
again we caught a glimpse of a black chasuble or the bare head of the priest.
Then it came into my mind how, when a child, I used to look at the
common people who formed a compact mass at the door, and how they
would step back in a servile way before some important epauletted fellow,
or some nobleman with a big paunch, some lady splendidly dressed and of
high devotion who, in a hurry to get at the front benches, and ready for a
row if there was any difficulty as to their being honoured with the best of
places. As it seemed to me then, it was only there, near the church door, not
far from the entry, that prayer was put up with genuine fervour and