EVERYMAN’S LIBRARY
EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS
FICTION
THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY JULIUS BRAMONT
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A TALE WHICH HOLDETH CHILDREN FROM PLAY
& OLD MEN FROM THE CHIMNEY CORNER
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
THE HOUSE _of the_ DEAD
_or Prison Life in Siberia_
BY FEDOR DOSTOÏEFFSKY
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AND IN NEW YORK
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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.