Notes from a Dead House

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  That is why prison could not present itself to me in its true light at first glance, as it did later on. And that is why I said that, even if I did look at everything with such greedy, heightened attention, I still did not perceive many things that were right under my nose. Naturally, I was struck in the beginning by the big, sharply distinguished features, but I may have perceived them wrongly as well, so that they left only an oppressive, hopelessly sad impression in my soul. My meeting with A—v contributed a great deal to that. He was also a prisoner, who had come to hard labor not long before me, and who made an especially painful impression on me during my first days in prison. However, I knew even before I came to prison that I would meet A—v there. He poisoned that first difficult time for me, making my inner torment more intense. I cannot pass him over in silence.

  He was the most repulsive example of the baseness and vileness a man can sink to, and how far he can go in killing all moral feeling in himself, with no effort and with no regret. A—v was that young man of the nobility whom I have already mentioned briefly, saying that he reported everything that happened in the prison to our major and was friends with his orderly Fedka. Here is his history in brief: without finishing his studies anywhere, and having quarreled with his family in Moscow, who were appalled by his dissolute behavior, he arrived in Petersburg, and, to get money, decided on a vile denunciation, that is, decided to sell the blood of ten people for the immediate satisfaction of his unquenchable thirst for the most coarse and dissolute pleasures, for which, seduced by Petersburg, its pastry shops and lowlife he had become so greedy that, while being no fool, he risked a mindless and senseless act. He was soon exposed; he had involved innocent people in his denunciation, had deceived others, and for that he had been sent to Siberia, to our prison, for ten years. He was still quite young, life was only just beginning for him. It would seem that such a terrible change in his fate should have shocked him, should have called up some resistance, some change in his nature. But he accepted his new fate without the least embarrassment, even without the least revulsion, was not morally outraged at it, was not frightened of anything in it, except perhaps the necessity of working and of parting with the pastry shops and lowlife. He even fancied that the status of prisoner only gave him a freer hand for still greater meanness and vileness. “A convict is a convict; if you’re a convict, you can act meanly and not be ashamed of it.” That was literally his opinion. I recall this nasty creature as a phenomenon. I lived for several years among murderers, profligates, and inveterate villains, but I can say positively, never in my life have I met such total moral degradation, such decisive depravity, and such insolent baseness as in A—v. With us there was a parricide from the nobility; I have already mentioned him; but I was convinced by many details and facts that even he was incomparably more honorable and humane than A—v. Before my eyes, during my life in prison, A—v turned into and remained a piece of meat with teeth and a stomach, and with an unquenchable thirst for the coarsest, most brutish carnal pleasures, and to satisfy the least and most whimsical of these pleasures, he was capable of cold-blooded murder, cutting throats, anything so long as it left no traces. I am not exaggerating; I got to know A—v well. He was an example of what the carnal side of man can come to, unrestrained by any inner norm, any lawfulness. And how revolting it was for me to look at his eternally mocking smile! He was a monster, a moral Quasimodo.1 Add to that the fact that he was cunning and intelligent, good-looking, even somewhat educated, and not without abilities. No, better fire, better plague and famine, than such a man in society! I have already said that everything in prison was so corrupt that spying and informing flourished and the prisoners were not at all angry about it. On the contrary, they were all very friendly with A—v and treated him much more amicably than they did us. Our drunken major’s favor towards him lent him importance and weight in their eyes. Among other things, he persuaded the major that he could paint portraits (he also persuaded the prisoners that he had been a lieutenant in the guards), and the major demanded that A—v be sent to work in his house—to paint his portrait, of course. There he became close with the orderly Fedka, who had great influence over his master, and consequently on everybody and everything in the prison. A—v spied on us at the request of that same major, who, when drunk, slapped his face and called him a spy and an informer. It happened, even quite often, that right after slapping him, the major would sit down and order A—v to go on with the portrait. It seems our major really believed that A—v was a remarkable artist, all but a Briullov,2 whom he had heard of, but even so he considered he had the right to slap his face, because, say, you may be an artist now, but you’re also a convict, and even if you were Briullov three times over, I’d still be your superior, and therefore I’ll do whatever I like to you. Among other things, he made A—v take his boots off and empty the chamber pots, and even so for a long time he could not give up the thought that A—v was a great artist. The portrait dragged on endlessly, for almost a year. Finally, the major realized that he was being hoodwinked, and once he became fully convinced that the portrait, instead of getting finished, looked less and less like him every day, he got angry, thrashed the artist, and sent him to do dirty work in the barracks. A—v obviously regretted it, and it was hard for him to give up his idle days, the handouts from the major’s table, his friend Fedka, and all the pleasures the two of them had concocted for themselves in the major’s kitchen. Once A—v was sent away, the major at least stopped persecuting M., a prisoner whom A—v was constantly denouncing to him, and this is why. At the time of A—v’s arrival in prison, M. was alone. He was in great anguish; he had nothing in common with the other prisoners, looked at them with horror and loathing, did not notice and failed to see in them all that might have had a reconciling effect on him, and did not approach them. They repaid him with the same hatred. Generally, the position of people like M. in prison was terrible. M. did not know the reason why A—v had landed in prison. On the other hand, A—v, having realized who he was dealing with, at once convinced him that he had been exiled for something quite the opposite of informing, for almost the same thing as M. M. was terribly glad to find a comrade, a friend. He looked after him, comforted him during his first days in prison, supposing that he must be suffering very much, gave him his last money, fed him, and shared the most necessary things with him. But A—v at once conceived a hatred for him, precisely because the man was noble and looked upon any baseness with horror, precisely because he was totally unlike him, and he hastened at the first opportunity to inform the major of everything M. had told him about the prison and the major in their conversations. The major hated M. terribly for that and persecuted him, and, had it not been for the commandant’s influence, would have brought him to grief. A—v not only was not embarrassed when M. later learned of his baseness, but even liked to meet him and look at him mockingly. This obviously gave him pleasure. M. pointed this out to me himself several times. The vile creature later escaped with another prisoner and a guard, but I will speak of their flight in what follows. He fawned upon me very much in the beginning, thinking I had not heard his story. I repeat, he poisoned my first days in prison with a still greater anguish. I was horrified at the terrible vileness and meanness I had been thrown into and found all around me. I thought everything here was just as vile and mean. But I was wrong: I was judging everything by A—v.

  During those three days I loitered about the prison in anguish, lay on my bunk, asked a trustworthy prisoner, pointed out to me by Akim Akimych, to sew some shirts out of the government linen issued to me, for payment of course (a few kopecks a shirt); acquired for myself, on Akim Akimych’s insistent advice, a folding mattress (of felt with a linen cover), flat as a pancake, and a pillow stuffed with wool, terribly hard when you’re not used to it. Akim Akimych got into a great flutter arranging all these things for me and took part in it himself, sewing a quilt for me with his own hands, put together from scraps of old prison broadcloth trousers and jackets, which I bought from
other prisoners. Government things that had outlived their time became the prisoners’ property; they were sold at once right there in prison, and no matter how worn-out a thing was, there was still hope of getting it off your hands at some sort of price. In the beginning I was very surprised by it all. Generally, this was my first encounter with simple people. I myself suddenly became just as simple, just as much of a convict as they were. It was as if their habits, their notions, opinions, customs also became mine, at least formally, by the rules, though I did not share them in essence. I was astonished and embarrassed, as if I had never suspected any of it before and had never heard of it, though I had known and heard. But reality makes quite a different impression than knowledge and hearsay. For instance, could I ever have suspected before that such things, such old castoffs, could also be considered belongings? Yet I did have a quilt sewn for me from these old castoffs. It is hard to imagine the sort of cloth prison clothes were made of. It looked as if it was indeed thick army broadcloth; but once you wore it a bit, it turned into some sort of fishnet and tore outrageously. Anyhow, broadcloth clothes were issued yearly, but it was hard to get them to last even that long. A prisoner works, carries heavy loads; his clothes wear and tear quickly. Sheepskin coats were issued every three years, and usually served during that time as clothing, blanket, and bedding. But sheepskin coats are strong, though it was no rarity to see somebody at the end of the third year, that is, of the wearing period, in a sheepskin coat patched with plain canvas. Despite that, even very worn-out sheepskins, at the end of the appointed period, were sold for around forty silver kopecks. And some better preserved ones sold for sixty or even seventy, which was big money in prison.

  Money—I have already spoken of this—was of terribly great importance and power in prison. I can say positively that a convict who had at least some money in hard labor suffered ten times less than one who did not have any, though the latter was also provided with everything by the prison, and what on earth should he have money for?—so our authorities reasoned. Again I repeat, if the prisoners had been deprived of all possibility of having their own money, they would either have gone crazy, or dropped dead like flies (despite their being provided with everything), or, finally, gotten themselves into unheard-of villainies, some from anguish, others the sooner to be somehow executed and annihilated, or to somehow “change their fate” (a technical expression). If a prisoner who has all but sweated blood to earn his kopeck, or ventured upon unheard-of ruses to obtain it, sometimes involving theft and swindling, then spends it so unreasonably, with such childish senselessness, that by no means proves that he does not value it, though it may seem so at first sight. A prisoner is greedy for money to the point of convulsions, to a darkening of the mind, and if he does indeed throw it away like wood chips when he carouses, he does it for something he considers on a higher level than money. What is higher than money for a prisoner? Freedom, or at least the dream of freedom. And prisoners are great dreamers. I will say something about that later, but while I’m at it, believe me, I have seen men exiled for twenty years who would quite calmly say to me such phrases as “Just wait, God grant I’ll finish my term, and then …” The whole meaning of the word “prisoner” is a man with no will; but in wasting money, he is acting by his own will. In spite of any brands, fetters, and the hateful palings of the prison that screen him off from God’s world and close him in like a beast in a cage—he can get hold of some vodka, which is a fearfully forbidden pleasure, treat himself to a bit of philandering, sometimes (though not always) bribe his immediate overseers, the invalid soldier and even the sergeant, to look the other way while he violates law and discipline; to top it all off, he can even display his bravado before them, and a prisoner loves terribly to display his bravado, that is, to show off before his comrades, and even persuade himself, at least for a time, that he has much more freedom and power than it may seem—in short, he can carouse, brawl, reduce somebody to dust, and prove to him that he can do all this, that it is all “in our own hands,” that is, persuade himself of something the poor fellow cannot even dream of. Incidentally, that may be why one notices among prisoners, even in a sober state, a general inclination to bravado, to boasting, a comical and very naïve aggrandizing of themselves, illusory though it be. Finally, this carousing involves some risk—meaning there is at least some illusion of life in it, at least a remote illusion of freedom. And what will one not give for freedom? What millionaire, his throat squeezed by a noose, would not give all his millions for one breath of air?

  The authorities are sometimes surprised that some prisoner who for several years has been so quiet, so well-behaved, has even been made an overseer on account of his praiseworthy behavior, suddenly, out of the blue—as if some devil has gotten into him—turns mischievous, carouses, makes a row, and sometimes even risks some criminal offense: shows disrespect for his superiors, kills or rapes someone, and so on. They look at him in amazement. And yet maybe the whole reason for this sudden outburst in a man from whom it could be least expected is the anguished, convulsive display of his personality, an instinctive longing for his own self, a desire to declare himself, his humiliated self, which appears suddenly and reaches the point of anger, rage, a darkening of the mind, fits, convulsions. So, perhaps, a man buried alive wakes up in his coffin, bangs on the lid and tries to throw it off, though of course reason could convince him that all his efforts will be in vain. But the point is that he is no longer reasoning: it’s convulsions. Let us also take into account that almost any self-willed display of personality in a prisoner is considered a crime; and in that case it is naturally all the same to him whether it is a big or a small display. If it’s carousing, let it be carousing; if it’s a risk, let it be an all-out risk—even murder. It’s enough just to begin: once a man is drunk, there’s no holding him back! And therefore it would be better in every way not to drive him that far. It would be more peaceful for everyone.

  Yes, but how to do it?

  VI

  The First Month

  When I entered prison, I had some money; I carried very little on me, for fear it would be confiscated, but just in case I had several roubles hidden away, that is, glued under the cover of a Gospel, which could be brought to prison. This book with money glued into it had been given to me back in Tobolsk, by those who also suffered in exile and already counted their time in decades, and who had long been accustomed to seeing a brother in every unfortunate.1 There are in Siberia, and they have almost never been lacking, a number of persons who seem to have made their purpose in life a brotherly care for the “unfortunate,” a totally disinterested, saintly compassion and commiseration for them as for their own children. I cannot help briefly recalling here one such encounter. In the town where our prison was there lived a certain lady, Nastasya Ivanovna, a widow.2 Naturally, none of us, while in prison, could have made her acquaintance personally. It seems she had chosen it as the purpose of her life to help the exiles, but most of all she took care of us. Whether there had been a similar misfortune in her family, or someone especially near and dear to her heart had suffered for such a crime, in any case she seemed to consider it a special happiness to do all she could for us. Of course, she could not do much; she was very poor. But we, sitting in prison, felt that there outside we had a very devoted friend. Among other things, she often brought us news, which we had great need of. When I left prison and was on my way to another town, I managed to call on her and make her personal acquaintance. She lived somewhere on the outskirts with one of her close relations. She was neither old nor young, neither good- nor bad-looking; it was even impossible to tell if she was intelligent or educated. The one thing noticeable in her at every step was an infinite kindness, an overwhelming desire to please, to make things easier, to be sure to do something nice for you. All this could be seen in her gentle, kind eyes. Together with one of my comrades from prison, I spent almost a whole evening with her. She tried to read our eyes, laughed when we laughed, hastened to agree with everything we
said; she fussed over treating us to whatever she could. She served us tea, snacks, some sweets, and if she had had thousands, it seems she would have been glad, if only because she could please us better and make things easier for our comrades left behind in prison. As we were saying good-bye, she gave us cigarette cases as mementos. She had glued them together for us out of cardboard (they were glued up God knows how) and stuck some colored paper on them, the way they bind arithmetic books for children in schools (and maybe some arithmetic book had actually been used for the covering). The edges were decorated with a thin border of gilt paper, for which she had probably gone on purpose to a shop. “You do smoke cigarettes, so maybe you’ll find it useful,” she said timidly, as if apologizing for her gift … Some people say (I’ve heard and read it) that the loftiest love of one’s neighbor is at the same time the greatest egoism.3 Where the egoism was in all this, I fail to understand.

  Though I did not have a lot of money when I came to prison, I somehow could not be seriously annoyed by those prisoners who, almost in the first hours of my prison life, having already deceived me once, came quite naïvely a second, a third, and even a fifth time to borrow from me. But I will confess one thing frankly: I found it very annoying that all these people with their naïve ruses certainly must, as it seemed to me, have considered me a simpleton and a fool and been laughing at me precisely because I gave them money a fifth time. It certainly must have seemed to them that I was falling for their tricks and ruses, and if, on the contrary, I had refused them and chased them away, I’m sure they would have had much greater respect for me. But, annoyed as I was, I still could not refuse. I was annoyed because in those first days I was seriously preoccupied with how and on what footing I was going to establish myself in prison, or, better, on what footing I ought to stand with them. I felt and understood that this whole milieu was completely new to me, that I was completely in the dark, and that it was impossible to live in the dark for so many years. I had to prepare myself. Of course, I decided that above all I had to act directly, as inner feeling and conscience dictated. But I also knew that this was only an aphorism, and the most unexpected experience still lay before me.