HOW ONE FOUND HIMSELF IN HADES
This brief record deals with human emotions rather than with a too
realistic detail of all the facts which excited them. Yet, since
every deliberate act in life is fruit or flower of seedling thought,
the planting and growth of these is worthy of observance. It is the
sum of the small that makes the large, and a single word may plant
the seed which, in its time, blossoms into fragrant action, and
alters the courses of lives, and rounds life itself at last into its
fullest beauty.
We exercise our privilege, then--more fortunately than those chiefly
concerned--and skip twelve dreary months, and pick up the threads
once more inside one of the Imperial sheepfolds--the great stockade
of the Tomsk convict-forwarding prison, three thousand miles from St.
Petersburg, on the banks of muddy Tom.
And if you had happened to be sitting on the ground with your back
against one of the wooden houses inside the great stockade that day,
this is what you would have seen, just as Paul Pavlof saw it.
Up above, a blue, rain-washed sky, with a clear sun struggling
blessedly to warmth; all round, whichever way you looked, the sharp
teeth of the high wooden stockade, set in a savage snarl at the world
in general, and biting viciously into the soft blue of the sky; many
long, rough log houses with grated windows and heavily padlocked
doors; a wooden church with pointed spire; black and white sentry
boxes every here and there, each with its Imperial watch-dog in the
person of a green-coated Cossack, who leaned stolidly on his
bayoneted rifle, and in his dull, uninterested regard of his charges,
showed plainly that he considered them of a lower breed even than
himself.
The ground was churned into mud with the restless tramping to and fro
of droves of shaggy, unkempt prisoners in long grey overcoats and
flat grey caps. They walked for the most part in silence--a silence
that was fretted with the discordant jingling of leg fetters. The
sound of chains in connection with one's fellows produces a natural
repulsion in most minds, but Pavlof had grown used to it.
He sat on the dryest spot he had been able to find, with his back
against the rough logs of the house, and watched his companions with
interest, almost with enjoyment. To a starving dog even a sour crust
is treasure-trove. When one has been hermetically sealed in a stone
cell for many months, the generous freedom of the prison enclosure,
its wonderful height from mud to sky, the great stretch that lay
between its rows of grinning teeth--why, it was resurrection. And
contact with humanity and freedom of intercourse are things to be
grateful for. For humanity, even in the dregs, debased, dirty,
disgusting in its details at times, is still preferable to the
automatic machinery in human form which attends to one's more
pressing outward needs, but is deaf and blind and dumb to all else,
in the sepulchral silence of the stone bags of Schlusselburg.
A year of close confinement had wrought some changes in Pavlof,
though not so great as might have been apparent in a softer-bred man.
He was always lean and eager of face, and spare and tall. He looked
taller and thinner, and perhaps a trifle leaner of face and more
cavernous about the deep-set eyes, and the careless sprawl of his
limbs as he sat betokened a certain listlessness even in his novel
enjoyment of observation.
He lay watching all that went on around him with the quiet alertness
of one deeply interested in his fellows and rejoicing once more in
the exercise of faculties long barred. There was a thoughtful
keenness in his scrutiny, as though he were endeavouring to weigh
each man in his mind and to classify him according to his past. His
aspect was that of the student come suddenly into possession of a
library bearing specially on his own chosen study.
Not far from him a group of his fellow prisoners was intently wasting
its meagre substance by means of a couple of dice, which, for want of
a box, they shook in their balled hands. One of them had chains on
his wrists as well as on his feet. When his turn came the rhythmic
jingle of his fetters was like a ghostly chorus to his play. Their
stakes were scraps of food and morsels of brick tea.
A cheerful-looking little man pushing a barrow came along and stood
near Pavlof to watch the gaming. He was past middle age and very
uncouth and shaggy, but his face was the most cheerful Pavlof had yet
seen. When he took off his flat cap Pavlof saw that his head was
shaved bare on one side, by which he knew that he was a penal
colonist, and the odd little fellow took off his cap and ran his hand
over his head every few minutes as though he had not yet got used to
that style of hair-cutting. Whenever he moved the barrow, to which
he was attached with an iron chain, the wheel squeaked monotonously.
"Ey, ey!" he said, with a knowing shake of the head at Pavlof. "It
passes the time, but it's foolishness all the same, for if you lose
you starve."
"Yes," nodded Pavlof. "The stakes are bigger than they look. Can't
you stop that wheel of yours from squeaking so?"
"No, barin, I can't," said the odd little fellow, with an evident
desire to be obliging if he could. "I've given it all the fat I can
spare, but it squeaks all the same. The dust and the mud have got
into its throat, I expect. So now I eat the fat and let it squeak.
You get used to it in time. It's rather a pleasant squeak, don't you
think?"
"I've not got used to it yet. How far have you brought it?"
"Over fifteen hundred miles, barin. From down Orenburg way," and the
little old man sat down on his barrow quite ready for a chat.
"You must be pretty tired of it by this time."
"Yes, and no, barin. You can get used to any thing in time, and I do
believe I'd miss it now if they took it away. It's a bit in the way
at nights sometimes, when I forget it's there, but I talk to it as we
go along and it always says 'Yes! Yes! Yes!' to everything I say,
and that's a change for the better anyway."
"How's that?" asked Pavlof, amused at the old fellow's simple chatter
and manner.
"Well, you see, barin, my wife, she used to say 'No! No! No!' to
everything I said, and she didn't always stop at that either. No,
bless my soul, that she didn't! Now the little barrow never says
'No! No! No!' to me, and it never ups and knocks me down and sits
on me."
Here a small girl hugging a little slate-blue cat came up, and leaned
on the barrow, and looked up at the little old man and lisped, "Won't
you give us a ride, little father?"
"Ey ey! a ride, little Dushenka? Well, well, get in and I'll give
you a ride. How's pussy to-day?"
"She doesn't like the mud, little father," and she climbed in, and
the old fellow trudged away to an accompaniment of cheery squeaks
from the barrow, jingling fetters, and jerky prattle from the little
maid.
Presently he was back, panting and more cheerful than ever, and the
small girl climbed down, still hugging her cat, and said, "Thank you,
little father!" and ran off to a gloomy-faced man who stood waiting
for her.
"Ey, ey!" said the little old man, as he and Pavlof watched her grip
the gloomy one's hand and go off with him. "His wife died two days
ago, and that's all he's got left. Best off here those who have no
wives."
"But you are married yourself, from what you were saying," said
Pavlof.
"I was, barin. The little barrow is my wife now," and he patted the
barrow with genuine affection.
"And why did you marry the barrow?"
"Well, it was this way. My wife--my other wife, you understand--she
carried on with another man, and one day I hit him--and so I wear the
barrow."
"That seems pretty hard lines--just for hitting a man."
"Oh, well, I don't know--you see, he died, barin."
"And your wife?--your other wife, I mean?"
"She is at rest, barin, God be thanked!--and so am I," and he crossed
himself devoutly. "We did not get on very well together, you see,
because she always would have her own way, and she was bigger than
me. Still, she was my wife, and I could not let another man have
her. And so--well, she died too. And on the whole I get on better
with the barrow than I did with her. It does what I please and says
'Yes! Yes! Yes!' to all I say, and my wife she used to say 'No!
No! No!' and do as she pleased. And besides, I can sit on the
barrow. It used to be the other way with my wife."
"And how much farther have you got to take her?"
"Another two thousand miles, barin--all the way to Kara."
"And then? Why, you'll be quite sorry to part with her."
"Oh, we don't part, barin. I keep her as long as I live, they say.
I hope she won't get laid up or crippled in any way. I'd never get
to like another one as I do this one. Bless my soul! I never
thought of that before. Whatever should I do?" and his cheerful
little face grew overcast at the bare thought of it.
"You're a very plucky fellow to bear your troubles so lightly," said
Pavlof, distinctly cheered by contact with so brave a little soul in
so odd a little body and circumstances.
"Oh, I don't know, barin. It's no good grumbling when you can't
alter things. Besides, she's useful at times--like this, to sit on.
And she carries my pack, and sometimes one of the children, and now
and again my neighbour's little dog. Now my other wife would never
have done that, you know. She didn't like dogs or children either."
"What's that about my little dog, Gregory Stepanovitch?" asked a
tall, lean man, who had strolled up and stood leaning against the
house, watching the players and listening to the old fellow's chatter.
"I'm telling the barin he likes to ride in my barrow at times, Mr.
Zubof."
"That he does, and to sleep in it too. I only wish it was big enough
to hold us all. I slept on the floor last night because we were so
crowded, and it was all wet mud and it got into my bones."
"Ah!" said old Gregory with a chuckle, "I sat on my wife all night,
alongside your little dog, Mr. Zubof, and my bones are all right.
But all the same you don't rest your legs properly when you can't
stretch them out."
"And where are you bound for?" asked Pavlof of the newcomer.
"Only to the provinces, barin."
"And why do you take the dog with you? Is he exiled too?"
"He belonged to my little girl," said the lean man gloomily, as he
fondled the dog. "She and her mother would come with me, and they
took the fever and died. It was just as well, perhaps, for the road
is very terrible for women and children. And I couldn't leave him
behind, you see. Besides----" and he nodded his long melancholy face
knowingly.
"Besides what?"
Zubof glanced round to see if the green-coated watch-dog was within
hearing, and then said cautiously, "I shall walk away from wherever
they send me, one fine day, and Fifi will be company for me in the
woods. He's as sharp as a needle, and it's good to have some one
sensible to talk to when you're lonely."
"You hope to escape, then?" said Pavlof with interest, since he too
was bound for the provinces.
"Of course. Any one can escape from the provinces. It's just as
easy as walking. But that doesn't say it's easy to get back home,
you understand. That's quite another thing altogether. But I've no
one left at home to go back to. When I get away into the woods I
shall just stop there."
"And supposing they catch you?" said Pavlof.
"Why, then, of course, we go to Kara with chains on our legs."
"All the same," said old Gregory, who had been listening open-mouthed
to all that passed, "you'll starve in the woods when the snow comes
on."
"Oh no, I won't. I've thought of all that."
"Ah well, one doesn't get out of Kara as easily as that, especially
with a squeaky little wife tied to your legs," and he patted the
barrow consolingly, as though to intimate that no slight was intended
and no umbrage must be taken at what was so evidently a fact.
"Out of Kara? I believe you! That's no easy job, though I've done
it more than once," said another, who had stopped alongside to see
what was going on.
He was a great burly fellow with leg-irons on. His skin, where it
was visible, was brown as parchment. His face was covered with a
matted growth. He looked as strong as a carthorse.
"And let me tell you," he added, "There are some worse places than
Kara. Yakutsk, for instance. Gr-r--r-r!"
"And what is Yakutsk like? Been there?" asked Pavlof.
"Yes, barin. I've been there and nearly stopped there. They call
Kara hell, but Yakutsk is a hundred times worse."
"That must be pretty bad," said Pavlof, to draw him on.
"Bad! Well, you see, they're human at Kara, if they are a bit
difficult and hard on you. But at Yakutsk they're just simple
barbarians--eat raw and sleep cold. Beasts--just beasts, and not fit
to live among. I'm rough and strong, and I can stand a good deal,
but I can't stand the Yakuts."
"And why did they send you to Yakutsk?"
"Well, it was this way, barin. It was my first time and I was going
to the provinces, and there was a barin in our company, just as it
might be yourself, and he was bound for Kara. And--well, he was very
keen to get back home again, and he got me to change names with him,
so that he went to the provinces and I went to Kara. It turned out
that he was a red-hot bad lot. He got back home all right enough,
but then he was fool enough to get caught again, and then it all came
out, and they found they had two of his name on their hands, so they
sent us both to Yakutsk to make sure. We got away all right, though
it's not easy, for the devils watch you like cats, and--well, it was
bad on the road and he died. No, if ever I'm sent back to Yakutsk,
I'll die there sooner than try getting out."
"And why did they send you here, Mr. Zubof?" asked Pavlof, of the
lean man with the dog.
"I was a schoolmaster," he said bitterly, "and I taught people how to
live and grow, and so they plucked me up by the roots and cast me on
to the dunghill, and here I am. I never wronged any man, as far as I
know. But they have killed my wife and child, and now I have nothing
left but Fifi here. And we're going to live in the woods and care
for nobody.... I used to believe in God, but I can't fit Him in with
these doings."
"These are man's doings," said Pavlof quietly.
"Devil's, barin," said the man who was like a carthorse, very
emphatically. "The men are underneath and the devils are all on top.
As soon as a man gets an office he becomes a devil."
"We're all just rats in a trap," said the schoolmaster, looking
slowly round the great stockade, "and sometimes I wish the trap would
snap and chew us all up with its big, black teeth."
"It's swallowed many a thousand," said the man who was like a
carthorse, "but it always spits them out again--to Kara, and
Nerchinsk, and Yakutsk. And it'll go on swallowing as long as there
are any left to swallow. Think not, barin?" at a sign of dissent
from Pavlof.
"No, I think not. Sometime the end will come."
"Ah God! That is too good to hope for," said the man who was like a
carthorse.