Notes from a Dead House

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  Petrov naïvely told me, when we were still just getting ready for the theater, that they would let me go to the front because I would also give more money. There was no fixed price: each gave what he could or what he wished. Almost everyone put in something, if only a half kopeck, when they passed the plate around. But if they let me go to the front partly for the sake of money, supposing I would give more than the others, again how much dignity there was in it! “You’re richer than I am, so go to the front, and though we’re all equal here, you’ll put in more: consequently, a visitor like you is more welcome for the actors—you get the first place, because we’re all here not for the money, but for respect, and consequently it’s up to us to sort ourselves out.” How much genuine, noble pride there is in that! It’s not respect for money, it’s respect for oneself. Generally, there was no particular respect for money, for wealth, in the prison, particularly if you looked at the prisoners without distinction, in the mass, as a group. I don’t remember even one of them seriously demeaning himself for the sake of money, even if we consider each of them separately. There were cadgers, who also tried to get money out of me. But in this cadging there was more prankishness, more mischief, than real business; there was more humor and naïveté. I don’t know if I’m making myself clear … But I’ve forgotten about the theater. To business.

  Before the raising of the curtain, the whole room presented a strange and animated picture. First of all there was the crowd of spectators, pressed, squashed, squeezed on all sides, waiting patiently and with blissful faces for the performance to begin. In the back rows people were piled on top of each other. Many of them brought firewood from the kitchen: leaning a thick piece of firewood against the wall somehow, a man climbed up on it, propped himself on the shoulders of the one in front of him, and stood like that for two hours without changing his position, perfectly pleased with himself and his place. Others planted their feet on the lower step of the stove and stood it out the whole time in the same way, leaning on those in front of them. That was in the back rows, by the wall. On the sides, clambering onto the bunks, another packed crowd stood over the musicians. Those were good places. Some five men clambered up onto the stove itself and lay on it, looking down. That was sheer bliss! The windowsills along the opposite wall also swarmed with whole crowds of latecomers or those who had not found good places. Everyone behaved quietly and decorously. Everyone wanted to show himself from his best side before the gentry and visitors. On every face there was a look of the most naïve expectation. Every face was red and moist with sweat from the heat and the stuffiness. What a strange gleam of childlike joy, of sweet, pure pleasure, shone on those furrowed, branded brows and cheeks, in the gazes of these people, until then gloomy and sullen, in those eyes which sometimes shone with a terrible fire! They were all hatless, and their heads were all shaven on the right side. But now noise and bustle are heard on the stage. The curtain is about to rise. Now the orchestra starts to play … This orchestra is worth mentioning. To one side, on the bunks, some eight musicians had placed themselves: two violins (one found in the prison, the other borrowed from someone in the fortress, but the player was one of ours), three balalaikas, all homemade, two guitars, and a tambourine instead of a bass. The violins just screeched and squawked, the guitars were trash, but the balalaikas were superb. The swiftness of the fingers running over the strings certainly rivaled the cleverest sleight of hand. They kept playing dance tunes. In the most dancing passages the players rapped their knuckles on the soundboard of the balalaika; the tone, the taste, the execution, the handling of the instrument, the character given to the tune—all was their own, original, prisoner style. One of the guitarists also knew his instrument splendidly. This was that same gentleman who had killed his father. As for the tambourine player, he simply performed miracles: he would spin it on his finger, then pass his thumb over the skin, then we would hear rapid, resounding, and uniform taps, then suddenly it was as if this strong, distinct sound scattered into a countless number of jingling and rustling little sounds. Finally, two accordions also appeared. To tell the truth, until then I had no idea of what could be done with simple folk instruments; the harmony of sounds, the teamwork, and above all the spirit, the character of understanding and conveying the very essence of the tune, were simply amazing. For the first time then I fully understood precisely what was so endlessly exuberant and rollicking in these exuberant and rollicking Russian dance songs. Finally the curtain rose. Everybody stirred, shifted from one foot to the other, those in the back stood on tiptoe; someone fell off his log; one and all gaped their mouths and fixed their eyes, and total silence reigned … The performance began.

  Beside me stood Alei in the group of his brothers and the other Circassians. They all became passionately attached to the theater and after that came every evening. Muslims, Tatars, and the like, as I’ve noticed more than once, are always passionate lovers of various spectacles. Beside them huddled Isai Fomich, who seemed to turn all ears and eyes as the curtain went up, in the most naïve, greedy expectation of wonders and delights. It would even have been a pity if his expectations had been disappointed. Alei’s sweet face shone with such childlike, beautiful joy that, I confess, I found it terribly delightful to look at him, and I remember how, each time an actor pulled some funny and clever stunt, and there was a general burst of laughter, I involuntarily turned at once to Alei and tried to see his face. He didn’t see me; what was I to him! Not far from me, on the left side, stood an older prisoner, eternally frowning, eternally displeased and grumbling. He, too, noticed Alei, and I saw him turn to look at him several times with a half smile: so sweet he was! He called him “Alei Semyonych,” I don’t know why. They began with Filatka and Miroshka. Filatka (Baklushin) was indeed magnificent. He played his role with astonishing precision. You could see that he had thought over each phrase, each movement. To each empty word, to each of his gestures, he was able to give a sense and significance that corresponded perfectly to the character of his role. Add to this diligence, to this study, an astonishing, unfeigned gaiety, simplicity, artlessness, and you would certainly agree, if you had seen Baklushin, that he was a natural-born actor of great talent. I had seen Filatka more than once in Moscow and Petersburg theaters, and I can say positively that the actors who played Filatka in the capitals played worse than Baklushin. Compared to him they were paysans, and not real muzhiks. They tried too hard to represent muzhiks. Above all Baklushin was moved by rivalry: everybody knew that in the second play the role of Kedril would be played by the prisoner Potseikin, an actor whom they all regarded for some reason as more gifted, as better than Baklushin, and Baklushin suffered from that like a child. How many times did he come to me in those last few days and pour out his feelings! Two hours before the performance, he was shaking as in a fever. When the crowd laughed and shouted: “Great, Baklushin! Fine fellow!”—his whole face lit up with happiness, genuine inspiration shone in his eyes. The scene of the kissing of Miroshka, when Filatka shouts beforehand “Wipe your mouth!” and then wipes his own, came out killingly funny. Everybody simply rolled with laughter. But most entertaining of all for me were the spectators; here everybody was unbuttoned. They gave themselves wholeheartedly to their pleasure. Shouts of encouragement rang out more and more often. Here a man nudges his neighbor and hastily tells him his impressions, not caring, and perhaps not even seeing, who is standing next to him; another, during some funny scene, suddenly turns rapturously to the crowd, quickly passes his gaze over them all, as if inviting them to laugh, waves his hand, and at once turns eagerly to the stage again. A third simply clucks his tongue and snaps his fingers, and, unable to stand quietly where he is, and since he cannot budge, keeps shifting from one foot to the other. By the end of the play the general merriment had reached the highest pitch. I am not exaggerating anything. Imagine prison, fetters, unfreedom, long sad years ahead, a life as monotonous as drizzling rain on a dreary autumn day—and suddenly all these downtrodden and confined men are allowed for one littl
e hour to let go, to have fun, to forget the oppressive dream, to set up a whole theater, and what a theater: to the pride and astonishment of the whole town, as if to say, see what kind of prisoners we are! They were interested in everything, of course—the costumes, for instance. They were terribly curious, for instance, to see someone like Vanka Otpety, or Netsvetaev, or Baklushin in completely different clothes from what they had seen them in every day for so many years. “Why, he’s a prisoner, that same prisoner, with the same clanking fetters, and here he comes out in a frock coat, a round hat, a cloak—a perfect civilian! Mustaches and hair stuck on. Look at him pulling a red handkerchief out of his pocket, fanning himself, acting the gentleman—a real gentleman, no more or less.” And everybody is in ecstasy. The “benevolent squire” came out in an adjutant’s uniform, a very old one, true, with epaulettes, a peaked cap with a little cockade, and made an extraordinary effect. There were two eager candidates for this role, and—would you believe it?—they quarreled terribly with each other, like little children, over who was going to play it: they both wanted to appear in an officer’s uniform with aiguillettes! The other actors separated them and decided by a majority of votes to give the role to Netsvetaev, not because he was more handsome and presentable than the other, and therefore looked more like a gentleman, but because Netsvetaev persuaded them all that he would come out with a cane and swing it and trace on the ground with it like a real gentleman and the foremost dandy, which Vanka Otpety couldn’t do, because he had never seen any real gentlemen. And indeed, when Netsvetaev came out before the public with his lady, all he did was trace quickly and nimbly on the ground with a thin rattan cane he had obtained somewhere, probably considering it a sign of the most lofty gentlemanliness, the utmost in foppishness and fashion. Probably sometime in his childhood, as a barefoot boy, a house serf, he had happened to see a well-dressed gentleman with a cane and to be captivated by his skill in twirling it, and the impression had remained forever indelible in his soul, so that now, at the age of thirty, he remembered it all as it had been, for the full captivation and fascination of the entire prison. Netsvetaev was so absorbed in what he was doing that he did not look anywhere or at anyone, even spoke without raising his eyes, and did nothing but follow his cane and its tip. The benevolent lady was also quite remarkable in her way: she appeared in an old, worn-out muslin dress that looked like a real rag, with bared arms and neck, a face terribly powdered and rouged, a calico nightcap tied under her chin, a parasol in one hand, and in the other a fan made of painted paper with which she ceaselessly fanned herself. The lady was met by a loud burst of laughter, and she herself could not help laughing several times. She was played by the prisoner Ivanov. Sirotkin, dressed up as a young girl, was very sweet. The couplets also came off well. In short, the play ended to the fullest and most general satisfaction. Of criticism there was none, nor could there be any.

  The overture, “Hallway, My Hallway,” was played once more, and the curtain rose again. This was Kedril. Kedril is something like Don Juan; at least at the end of the play devils carry both master and servant off to hell. A whole act was presented, but it was obviously a fragment; the beginning and end had been lost. Not the slightest sense or meaning. The action takes place somewhere in Russia, at an inn. The innkeeper shows a gentleman in an overcoat and a crumpled round hat to his room. They are followed by his servant Kedril with a suitcase and a chicken wrapped in blue paper. Kedril is wearing a sheepskin jacket and a lackey’s visored cap. It’s he who is the glutton. He is played by the prisoner Potseikin, Baklushin’s rival; the master is played by the same Ivanov who played the benevolent lady in the first play. The innkeeper, Netsvetaev, warns them that there may be devils in the room, and disappears. The master, gloomy and preoccupied, mutters to himself that he’s known that for a long time, and orders Kedril to unpack and prepare supper. Kedril is a coward and a glutton. Hearing about the devils, he turns pale and trembles like a leaf. He would run away, but he is afraid of his master. And, above all, he wants to eat. He is a sensualist, stupid, cunning in his own way, a coward, cheats his master at every step and at the same time is afraid of him. This is a remarkable type of servant, in whom the features of Leporello tell in some vague and remote way,3 and he is indeed remarkably portrayed. Potseikin is decidedly talented, and, in my view, a still better actor than Baklushin. Naturally, when I met Baklushin the next day, I did not express my full opinion to him: I would have upset him too much. The prisoner who played the master also played rather well. He poured out some awful drivel, not resembling anything; but his diction was proper, glib, his gestures appropriate. While Kedril fusses about with the suitcases, the master pensively paces the stage and announces for all to hear that that evening marks the end of his wanderings. Kedril listens curiously, grimaces, speaks a parte, and makes the spectators laugh with every word. He’s not sorry for his master; but he has heard about the devils; he wants to find out what’s up, and so he starts talking and questioning. The master finally tells him that once, in some sort of trouble, he had asked Hell for help, and the devils had helped him, had rescued him; but that today was the end of the term, and maybe even today, as agreed, they would come for his soul. Kedril is badly frightened. But the master does not lose heart and tells him to make supper. On hearing about supper, Kedril revives, takes out the chicken, takes out the wine—and every now and then picks a piece off the chicken and tastes it. The public laughs. Then the door creaks, the wind beats at the shutters; Kedril trembles and hurriedly, almost unconsciously, stuffs into his mouth an enormous piece of chicken that he can’t even swallow. Again laughter. “Is it ready?” shouts the master, pacing the room. “One moment, sir … I’m … getting it ready for you,” says Kedril, and he sits down at the table himself and starts packing away his master’s food. The public obviously loves the servant’s quickness and cunning, and that the master is being made a fool of. It must be admitted that Potseikin really deserved praise. He pronounced the words “One moment, sir, I’m getting it ready for you” perfectly. Sitting at the table, he begins to eat greedily and flinches at the master’s every step, hoping he won’t notice his pranks; as soon as he turns around, Kedril ducks under the table and drags the chicken after him. He finally satisfies his initial hunger; it’s time to think about the master. “Soon now, Kedril?” shouts the master. “Ready, sir!” Kedril responds pertly, suddenly realizing that there is almost nothing left for the master. In fact, there is only one drumstick on the plate. The master, gloomy and preoccupied, notices nothing and sits down at the table, and Kedril stations himself behind his chair with a napkin. Every word, every gesture, every grimace of Kedril’s, when, turning to the public, he nods towards his nincompoop of a master, is met with irrepressible laughter from the spectators. But now, just as the master gets down to eating, the devils appear. Here it’s impossible to understand anything, and the devils’ entrance is somehow much too outlandish; a door opens in the wings and something in white appears, and in place of a head it has a lantern with a candle; another phantom, also with a lantern on its head, holds a scythe in its hands. Why the lanterns, why the scythe, why devils in white?—nobody can explain. However, nobody thinks about it. That’s probably how it should be. The master addresses the devils quite bravely, shouting that he is ready to be taken. But Kedril is as scared as a rabbit; he crawls under the table, but, despite all his fears, doesn’t forget to snatch the bottle from the table. The devils disappear for a moment; Kedril crawls out from under the table; but just as the master gets down to his chicken again, three devils burst into the room, pick him up from behind, and carry him off to Hell. “Kedril! Save me!” shouts the master. But Kedril’s not about to do that. This time he takes the bottle, the plate, and even the bread under the table. Now he’s alone—no devils, no master. Kedril creeps out, looks around, and a smile lights up his face. He squints slyly, sits down in his master’s place, and, nodding to the public, says in a half whisper: