“Rollicky little cow,” he said, as if to himself. “Fattened up on our clean prison bread.* He’ll drop a dozen sucking pigs by Christmas, if we’re lucky.”
The fat man finally got angry.
“And what kind of bird are you!” he suddenly shouted, turning all red.
“The bird kind!”
“What kind?”
“That kind.”
“What’s that kind?”
“Like I said, that kind.”
“But what kind?”
The two fastened their eyes on each other. The fat man was waiting for an answer and clenched his fists as if he wanted to throw himself into a fight at once. I really thought there would be a fight. This was all new to me, and I watched with curiosity. Later on I learned that all such scenes were perfectly innocent and were played out, as in a comedy, for the general amusement. They almost never led to a fight. This was all quite characteristic and represented the custom of the prison.
The tall prisoner stood there calm and majestic. He felt they were looking at him and waiting to see whether or not he would shame himself with his reply; he had to hold up his end, to prove that he was indeed a bird, and to show precisely what kind of bird. With inexpressible contempt, he cast a sidelong glance at his adversary, trying, for greater offense, to look somehow over his shoulder, from above, as if he were examining him like a bug, and uttered slowly and distinctly:
“Kagan!…”
Meaning that he was the bird Kagan.3 A loud burst of laughter greeted the prisoner’s resourcefulness.
“You’re no Kagan, you’re a scoundrel!” bellowed the fat man, sensing that he had flunked on all points, and verging on a blind rage.
But once the quarrel turned serious, the fellows were immediately pulled up short.
“What’s this racket!” the whole barrack shouted at them.
“Better to fight it out than split your gullets,” someone hollered from the corner.
“Fight, yeah, just wait!” came the answer. “Our lads are feisty, uppity; when it’s seven against one, they’re fearless …”
“They’re good ones, the both of them! One got to prison for a pound of bread, and the other’s a pantry whore, ate some old woman’s curds and was whipped for it.”4
“Well, well, enough of that!” cried the invalid soldier who lived in the barrack to keep order and therefore slept on a special cot in the corner.
“Water, lads! Ninvalid Petrovich is awake! Greetings, Ninvalid Petrovich, our dear brother!”
“Brother … What kind of brother am I to you? We never drank up a rouble together, and now it’s ‘brother’!” grumbled the invalid, putting his arms through the sleeves of his overcoat …
They were preparing for roll call; dawn was breaking; a dense, impenetrable crowd of people gathered in the kitchen. The prisoners in their sheepskin jackets and two-colored hats crowded around the bread, which one of the cooks was cutting. The cooks were elected by the whole group, two for each kitchen. They also had charge of the kitchen knife for cutting bread and meat, one for the whole kitchen.
The prisoners placed themselves in all the corners and around the tables, hats and jackets on, belts tied, ready to go straight out to work. Before some of them stood wooden bowls of kvass.5 They crumbled bread into the kvass and sipped it. The noise and din were unbearable; but some talked sensibly and quietly in the corners.
“Greetings and welcome to you, dear old Antonych!” said a young prisoner, sitting down beside a scowling and toothless prisoner.
“Well, greetings to you, if you mean it,” the man said, not raising his eyes and trying to chew his bread with his toothless gums.
“And here I thought you was dead, Antonych, I really did.”
“No, you die first, and me after …”
I sat down beside them. On my right two grave prisoners were talking, obviously trying to maintain their dignity before each other.
“No fear they’ll steal from me,” said one. “The fear, brother, is that I’ll do the stealing.”
“Well, don’t go touching me with your bare hand: I’ll burn you.”
“As if you’ll burn me! You’re a mucker same as us; there’s no other name for it … She’ll fleece you without so much as a thank-you. I dunked my last little kopeck here, too. The other day she came herself. Where was I to go with her? I began asking to go to Fedka the hangman’s: he had a house on the outskirts, bought it from mangy Solomon, the Yid, the one who strung himself up later …”
“I know. He used to smuggle vodka for us three years ago. We called him Dark Pothouse Grishka. I know.”
“No, you don’t. Dark Pothouse was somebody else.”
“The hell he was somebody else! A fat lot you know! I’ll bring you as many witnessaries as you …”
“You will, will you! You’re what, and I’m who?”
“Who? I don’t want to brag, but I used to beat you—that’s who!”
“You beat me? The man who could beat me hasn’t been born yet, and whoever tried is eating dirt.”
“You Moldavian plague!”
“The Siberian pest on you!”
“Go talk to a Turkish saber!”
And the abuse took off.
“All right, all right, enough racket!” people around them shouted. “They didn’t know how to live in freedom; here they’re glad to get clean bread …”
Things quieted down at once. Verbal abuse, “tongue lashing,” was allowed. It was partly an amusement for everybody. But it usually did not lead to fighting, and only rarely, in exceptional cases, did enemies come to blows. A fight would be reported to the major; there would be inquiries, he would come himself—in short, it would be bad for everybody, and therefore fights were not allowed. And the enemies themselves abused each other more for diversion, as an exercise of style. Often they deceived themselves, they began in a terrible fever, frenziedly. You think: they’re going to fall on each other. Nothing of the sort: they reach a certain point and break it off at once. In the beginning all this was extremely surprising to me. I have purposely given examples here of the most ordinary prison conversations. I could not imagine at first how it was possible to curse for the pleasure of it, to find amusement in it, a nice exercise, gratification. However, we also must not forget vanity. A cursing dialectician was respected. He was all but applauded, like an actor.
Just the evening before I had noticed them looking askance at me.
I had already caught several dark looks. Other prisoners, on the contrary, circled around me, suspecting I had brought money with me. They immediately started to fawn on me, began teaching me how to wear my new fetters, got me—for money, of course—a little chest with a lock for putting away the prison things I had already received and some of the linen I had brought to prison with me. The very next day they stole it and drank up the money. One of them later became very devoted to me, though he never stopped stealing from me on every suitable occasion. He did it without any embarrassment, almost unconsciously, as if out of duty, and it was impossible to be angry with him.
Among other things, they taught me that I should have my own tea, that it would not be bad if I acquired a teapot for myself, and meanwhile they borrowed someone else’s for me and recommended me a cook, saying that for thirty kopecks a month he would cook whatever I liked, if I wished to eat separately and buy my own provisions … Naturally, they borrowed money from me, and on the first day alone they each came to borrow three times.
In prison they generally took a dark and unfavorable view of former noblemen.
Even though they were already stripped of all their property rights and were completely equal to all the other prisoners—the prisoners would never recognize them as their comrades. This happened not even from conscious prejudice, but just so, quite sincerely, unconsciously. They sincerely considered us noblemen, even though they themselves liked to taunt us with our fall.
“No, enough now! Knock it off! Through Moscow Pyotr used to strut, now Pyotr’s stuck here on his b
utt”—and suchlike pleasantries.
They loved to watch our sufferings, which we tried not to let them see. In the beginning it was especially hard for us at work, because we were not as strong as they were, and we could not do our full share. There is nothing more difficult than entering into the simple people’s confidence (especially such people) and earning their love.
There were several noblemen in the prison. First of all, there were five Poles. I will speak of them sometime separately. The convicts disliked the Poles terribly, even more than the noble Russian prisoners. The Poles (I am speaking only of the political criminals) treated them with a sort of refined, offensive politeness, were extremely uncommunicative, and were quite unable to conceal their loathing for them, and the latter realized it very well and paid them back in kind.
It took me almost two years of living in the prison before I gained the sympathy of some of the convicts. But the greater part of them finally came to like me and recognized me as a “good” man.
Of Russian noblemen, besides myself, there were four. One was a mean and scoundrelly little creature, terribly depraved, a spy and informer by profession. I had heard about him even before I got to prison and from the first days broke off all relations with him. Another was that same parricide I have already spoken of in my notes. The third was Akim Akimych; rarely have I seen such an odd bird as this Akim Akimych. He is sharply imprinted in my memory. He was tall, lean, weak-witted, terribly illiterate, extremely pedantic, and punctilious as a German. The convicts laughed at him; but some were even afraid to have anything to do with him, because of his carping, demanding, and cantankerous character. From the first step he chummed them up, swore at them, even fought. He was phenomenally honest. He would notice some injustice and immediately mix into it, though it was none of his business. He was naïve in the extreme; for instance, he sometimes scolded the prisoners, reproaching them for being thieves, and earnestly entreated them not to steal. He had been a sublieutenant in the Caucasus. He and I fell in with each other from the first day, and he told me his case at once. He had started in the Caucasus as a junker6 in an infantry regiment, ground away for a long time, was finally made an officer, and was sent to some fortress as a senior commander. One allied princeling in the neighborhood set fire to his fortress and attacked it by night, but the attack failed. Akim Akimych played it clever and did not give any sign that he knew who the malefactor was. The affair was blamed on hostile princes, and a month later Akim Akimych invited the princeling for a friendly visit. The man came, suspecting nothing. Akim Akimych drew up his detachment, exposed and rebuked the prince publicly, proved to him that setting fire to fortresses was shameful. Then he read him a most detailed exhortation on how allied princelings should behave in the future, and in conclusion he had him shot, which he immediately reported to the authorities in full detail. For all that he was tried and sentenced to death, but the sentence was mitigated and he was sent to Siberia, to hard labor of the second degree, to twelve years in prison. He was fully aware that he had acted wrongly, told me that he knew it even before he had the princeling shot, knew that an ally should be tried according to the law; but, though he knew it, he seemed quite unable to understand the real nature of his guilt:
“For pity’s sake! He set fire to my fortress! What should I do, bow down to him for it?” he said in response to my objections.
But, though the prisoners made fun of Akim Akimych’s lunacy, they still respected him for his precision and skill.
There was no craft that Akim Akimych did not know. He was a joiner, a bootmaker, a shoemaker, a house painter, a gilder, a locksmith—and he had learned all that in prison. He was self-taught in everything: one glance and he did it. He also made various boxes, baskets, lanterns, children’s toys, and sold them in town. In that way he picked up a little money, and he immediately spent it on extra linen, on a softer pillow, installed a folding mattress. He lived in the same barrack with me and did me many good turns during my first days at hard labor.
Coming out of the prison to go to work, the prisoners formed two rows in front of the guardhouse; before and behind the prisoners, convoy soldiers lined up with loaded muskets. An officer of the engineers appeared, a sergeant, and several lower-ranking engineers attached to the works. The sergeant counted the prisoners and sent them off in parties where they were needed for work.
I was sent along with others to the engineering workshop. It was a low stone building that stood in a large yard heaped with various materials. Here was the smithy, the locksmith’s shop, the joiner’s, the painter’s, and so on. Akim Akimych used to come there and work in the painter’s shop, boiled linseed oil, mixed paints, and finished tables and furniture in imitation walnut.
While waiting for my fetters to be changed, I got to talking with Akim Akimych about my first impressions of prison.
“Yes, sir, they don’t like noblemen,” he observed, “especially political criminals, they devour them gladly, and no wonder, sir. First, you and the people are different, not like them at all, and, second, they’re all former serfs or from the ranks. Judge for yourself, how could they like you? Life is hard here, I can tell you. But in Russian penal companies it’s harder still, sir. We have some from there. They can’t praise our prison highly enough, as if they’d gone from hell to paradise. The trouble isn’t the work, sir. They say there, in the first category, the authorities aren’t entirely military, or at least they act differently from ours. There, they say, convicts can live in their own little houses. I’ve never been there, but that’s what they say, sir. They don’t get their heads shaved; they don’t wear uniforms; though, by the way, it’s good that we dress in uniforms here and get shaved; in any case there’s greater order, and it’s more pleasing to the eye. Only they don’t like it. And then just look what rabble they are, sir! One’s a cantonist, another a Circassian, the third a schismatic,7 the fourth an Orthodox peasant, his family and dear children left behind, the fifth a Jew, the sixth a Gypsy, the seventh who knows what, and they all have to live together anyhow, to get along, to eat from the same bowl, to sleep on the same bunk. And here’s your freedom: you can eat an extra bit only on the sly, every penny has to be hidden in your boot, and there’s nothing but prison and more prison … Like it or not, you get foolish in the head.”
But that I already knew. I especially wanted to ask about our major. Akim Akimych kept no secrets, and, I recall, my impression was not entirely pleasant.
But I was doomed to live for two years under his command. Everything Akim Akimych told me about him turned out to be perfectly correct, with the difference that the impression of reality is always stronger than the impression from a mere account. He was a dreadful man, precisely because such a man had almost unlimited power over two hundred souls. In himself he was only disorderly and malicious, nothing more. He looked upon the prisoners as his natural enemies, and that was his first and greatest mistake. He actually had some abilities; but everything, even what was good, came out in some distorted form. Unrestrained, malicious, he would burst into the prison sometimes even at night, and if he noticed that a prisoner was sleeping on his left side or on his back, he would punish him in the morning: “Sleep on your right side, as I ordered.” In the prison he was hated and feared like the plague. He had a purple, spiteful face. Everyone knew that he was entirely in the hands of his orderly, Fedka. Most of all he loved his poodle, Tresorka, and he nearly lost his mind from grief when Tresorka fell ill. They say he sobbed over him as over his own son; he drove one veterinarian out and, as his habit was, nearly gave him a beating, and, hearing from Fedka that there was a convict in the prison who was a self-taught veterinarian whose treatments were very successful, he immediately sent for him.
“Save us! I’ll shower you with gold if you cure Tresorka!” he shouted at the prisoner.
This was a Siberian muzhik, actually a very able veterinarian, but cunning, shrewd, a perfect little muzhik.
“I take a look at Tresorka,” he told the prisoners later
, though it was a long while after his visit to the major, when the whole thing had been forgotten. “I look: the dog’s lying on a sofa, on a white pillow; and I can see he’s got an inflammation, that he needs a bloodletting, and he’ll recover, by gorry, I say to myself! Then I think, ‘But what if I don’t cure him, what if he croaks?’ ‘No, Your Honor,’ I say, ‘you called me too late. If it was at this same time yesterday or the day before, your dog would be cured; but now I can’t cure him …’ ”
So Tresorka died.
I was told in detail how someone had wanted to kill our major. There was a certain inmate in the prison. He had been living with us for several years already and was distinguished by his meek behavior. It was also noticed that he almost never spoke to anyone. So he was considered something of a holy fool.8 He was literate and for the whole last year constantly read the Bible, read it day and night. When everyone had fallen asleep, he would get up at midnight, light a wax church candle, climb onto the stove,9 open the book, and read till morning. One day he went and announced to the sergeant that he did not want to go to work. This was reported to the major; the man boiled over and immediately came galloping himself. The prisoner rushed at him with a previously prepared brick, but he missed. He was seized, tried, and punished. It all happened very quickly. Three days later he died in the hospital. As he lay dying, he said that he held no evil against anyone, but only wanted to suffer. By the way, he did not belong to any schismatic sect. He was remembered with respect in the prison.
They finally changed my fetters. Meanwhile several kalach girls had come to the workshop one after another. Some were quite little girls. They usually came with kalachi until they were of age; their mothers baked them, and they sold them. Once they were grown up, they kept coming, but now without kalachi; that is how it almost always happened. There were some who were no longer girls. A kalach cost half a kopeck, and almost all the prisoners bought them.
I noticed one prisoner, a joiner, already gray-haired, but ruddy-faced and smilingly flirtatious with the kalach girls. Before they came, he wrapped a red calico scarf around his neck. One fat and completely pockmarked wench set her tray down on his workbench. A conversation began.
Notes from a Dead House Page 5