CHAPTER XII.

THE PERFORMANCE.

On the evening of the third day of the holidays took place our first

theatrical performance. There had been much trouble about organising it.

But those who were to act had taken everything upon themselves, and the

other convicts knew nothing about the representation except that it was

to take place. We did not even know what was to be played. The actors,

while they were at work, were always thinking how they could get

together the greatest number of costumes. Whenever I met Baklouchin he

snapped his fingers with satisfaction, but told me nothing. I think the

Major was in a good humour; but we did not know for certain whether he

knew what was going on or not, whether he had authorised it, or whether

he had determined to shut his eyes and be silent, after assuring himself

that everything would take place quietly. He had heard, I fancy, of the

meditated representation, and said nothing about it, lest he should

spoil everything. The soldiers would be disorderly, or would get drunk,

unless they had something to divert them. Thus I think the Major must

have reasoned, for it will be only natural to do so. I may add that if

the convicts had not got up a performance during the holidays, or done

something of the kind, the administration would have been obliged to

organise some sort of amusement; but as our Major was distinguished by

ideas directly opposed to those of other people, I take a great

responsibility on myself in saying that he knew of our project and

authorised it. A man like him must always be crushing and stifling some

one, taking something away, depriving some one of a right--in a word,

for establishing order of this character he was known throughout the

town.

It mattered nothing to him that his exactions made the men rebellious.

For such offences there were suitable punishments (there are some people

who reason in this way), and with these rascals of convicts there was

nothing to do but to treat them very severely, deal with them strictly

according to law. These incapable executants of the law did not in the

least understand that to apply the law without understanding its spirit

is to provoke resistance. They are quite astonished that, in addition to

the execution of the law, good sense and a sound head should be expected

from them. The last condition would appear to them quite superfluous; to

require such a thing is vexatious, intolerant.

However this may be, the Sergeant-Major made no objection to the

performance, and that was all the convicts wanted. I may say in all

truth that if throughout the holidays there were no disorders in the

convict prison, no sanguinary quarrels, no robberies, that must be

attributed to the convicts being permitted to organise their

performance. I saw with my own eyes how they got out of the way of those

of their companions who had drunk too much, and how they prevented

quarrels on the ground that the representation would be forbidden. The

non-commissioned officer made the prisoners give their word of honour

that they would behave well, and that all would go off quietly. They

gave it with pleasure, and kept their promise religiously. They were

much flattered at finding their word of honour accepted. Let me add that

the representation cost nothing, absolutely nothing, to the

authorities, who were not called upon to spend a farthing. The theatre

could be put up and taken down within a quarter of an hour; and, in case

an order stopping the performance suddenly arrived, the scenery could

have been put away in a second. The costumes were concealed in the

convicts’ boxes; but first of all let me say how our theatre was

constructed, what were the costumes, and what the bill, that is to say,

the pieces that were to be played. To tell the truth, there was no

written playbill, not, at least, for the first representation. It was

ready only for the second and third. Baklouchin composed it for the

officers and other distinguished visitors who might deign to honour the

performance with their presence, including the officer of the guard, the

officer of the watch, and an Engineer officer. It was in honour of these

that the playbill was written out.

It was supposed that the reputation of our theatre would extend to the

fortress, and even to the town, especially as there was no theatre at

N----: a few amateur performances, but nothing more. The convicts

delighted in the smallest success, and boasted of it like children.

“Who knows?” they said to one another; “when our chiefs hear of it they

will perhaps come and see. Then they will know what convicts are worth,

for this is not a performance given by soldiers, but a genuine piece

played by genuine actors; nothing like it could be seen anywhere in the

town. General Abrosimoff had a representation at his house, and it is

said he will have another. Well, they may beat us in the matter of

costumes, but as for the dialogue that is a very different thing. The

Governor himself will perhaps hear of it, and--who knows?--he may come

himself.”

They had no theatre in the town. In a word, the imagination of the

convicts, above all after their first success, went so far as to make

them think that rewards would be distributed to them, and that their

period of hard labour would be shortened. A moment afterwards they were

the first to laugh at this fancy. In a word, they were children, true

children, when they were forty years of age. I knew in a general way the

subjects of the pieces that were to be represented, although there was

no bill. The title of the first was _Philatka and Miroshka Rivals_.

Baklouchin boasted to me, at least a week before the performance, that

the part of Philatka, which he had assigned to himself, would be played

in such a manner that nothing like it had ever been seen, even on the

St. Petersburg stage. He walked about in the barracks puffed up with

boundless importance. If now and then he declaimed a speech from his

part in the theatrical style, every one burst out laughing, whether the

speech was amusing or not; they laughed because he had forgotten

himself. It must be admitted that the convicts, as a body, were

self-contained and full of dignity; the only ones who got enthusiastic

at Baklouchin’s tirades were the young ones, who had no false shame, or

those who were much looked up to, and whose authority was so firmly

established that they were not afraid to commit themselves. The others

listened silently, without blaming or contradicting, but they did their

best to show that the performance left them indifferent.

It was not until the very last moment, the very day of the

representation, that every one manifested genuine interest in what our

companions had undertaken. “What,” was the general question, “would the

Major say? Would the performance succeed as well as the one given two

years before?” etc., etc. Baklouchin assured me that all the actors

would be quite at home on the stage, and that there would even be a

curtain. Sirotkin was to play a woman’s part. “You will see how well I

look in women’s clothes,” he said. The Lady Bountiful was to have a

dress with skirts and trimmings, besides a parasol; while her husband,

the Lord of the Manor, was to wear an officer’s uniform, with

epaulettes, and a cane in his hand.

The second piece that was to be played was entitled, _Kedril, the

Glutton_. The title puzzled me much, but it was useless to ask any

questions about it. I could only learn that the piece was not printed;

it was a manuscript copy obtained from a retired non-commissioned

officer in the town, who had doubtless formerly participated in its

representation on some military stage. We have, indeed, in the distant

towns and governments, a number of pieces of this kind, which, I

believe, are perfectly unknown and have never been printed, but which

appear to have grown up of themselves, in connection with the popular

theatre, in certain zones of Russia. I have spoken of the popular

theatre. It would be a good thing if our investigators of popular

literature would take the trouble to make careful researches as to this

popular theatre which exists, and which, perhaps, is not so

insignificant as may be thought.

I cannot think that everything I saw on the stage of our convict prison

was the work of our convicts. It must have sprung from old traditions

handed down from generation to generation, and preserved among the

soldiers, the workmen in industrial towns, and even the shopkeepers in

some poor, out-of-the-way places. These traditions have been preserved

in some villages and some Government towns by the servants of the large

landed proprietors. I even believe that copies of many old pieces have

been multiplied by these servants of the nobility.

The old Muscovite proprietors and nobles had their own theatres, in

which their servants used to play. Thence comes our popular theatre, the

originals of which are beyond discussion. As for _Kedril, the Glutton_,

in spite of my lively curiosity, I could learn nothing about it, except

that demons appeared on the stage and carried Kedril away to hell. What

did the name of Kedril signify? Why was he called Kedril and not Cyril?

Was the name Russian or foreign? I could not resolve this question.

It was announced that the representation would terminate with a musical

pantomime. All this promised to be very curious. The actors were

fifteen in number, all vivacious men. They were very energetic, got up a

number of rehearsals which sometimes took place behind the barracks,

kept away from the others, and gave themselves mysterious airs. They

evidently wished to surprise us with something extraordinary and

unexpected.

On work days the barracks were shut very early as night approached, but

an exception was made during the Christmas holidays, when the padlocks

were not put to the gates until the evening retreat--nine o’clock. This

favour had been granted specially in view of the play. During the whole

duration of the holidays a deputation was sent every evening to the

officer of the guard very humbly “to permit the representation and not

to shut at the usual hour.” It was added that there had been previous

representations, and that nothing disorderly had occurred at any of

them.

The officer of the guard must have reasoned as follows: There was no

disorder, no infraction of discipline at the previous performance, and

the moment they give their word that to-night’s performance shall take

place in the same manner, they mean to be their own police--the most

rigorous police of all. Moreover, he knew well that if he took it upon

himself to forbid the representation, these fellows (who knows, and with

convicts?) would have committed some offence which would have placed the

officer of the guard in a very difficult position. One final reason

insured his consent: To mount guard is horribly tiresome, and if he

authorised the performance he would see the play acted, not by soldiers,

but by convicts, a curious set of people. It would certainly be

interesting, and he had a right to be present at it.

In case the superior officer arrived and asked for the officer of the

guard, he would be told that the latter had gone to count the convicts

and close the barracks; an answer which could easily be made, and which

could not be disproved. That is why our superintendents authorised the

performance; and throughout the holidays the barracks were kept open

each evening until the retreat. The convicts had known beforehand that

they would meet with no opposition from the officer of the guard. They

were quite quiet about him.

Towards six o’clock Petroff came to look for me, and we went together to

the theatre. Nearly all the prisoners of our barracks were there, with

the exception of the “old believer” from Tchernigoff, and the Poles. The

latter did not decide to be present until the last day of the

representation, the 4th of January, after they had been assured that

everything would be managed in a becoming manner. The haughtiness of the

Poles irritated our convicts. Accordingly they were received on the 4th

of January with formal politeness, and conducted to the best places. As

for the Circassians and Isaiah Fomitch, the play was for them a genuine

delight. Isaiah Fomitch gave three kopecks each time, except the last,

when he placed ten kopecks on the plate; and how happy he looked!

The actors had decided that each spectator should give what he thought

fit. The receipts were to cover the expenses, and anything beyond was to

go to the actors. Petroff assured me that I should be allowed to have

one of the best places, however full the theatre might be; first,

because being richer than the others, there was a probability of my

giving more; and, secondly, because I knew more about acting than any

one else. What he had foreseen took place. But let me first describe the

theatre.

The barrack of the military section, which had been turned into the

theatre, was fifteen feet long. From the court-yard one entered, first

an ante-chamber, and afterwards the barrack itself. The building was

arranged, as I have already mentioned, in a particular manner, the beds

being placed against the wall, so as to leave an open space in the

middle. One half of the barrack was reserved for the spectators, while

the other, which communicated with the second building, formed the

stage. What astonished me directly I entered, was the curtain, which was

about ten feet long, and divided the barrack into two. It was indeed a

marvel, for it was painted in oil, and represented trees, tunnels,

ponds, and stars.

It was made of pieces of linen, old and new, given by the convicts;

shirts, the bandages which our peasants wrap round their feet in lieu of

socks, all sewn together well or ill, and forming together an immense

sheet. Where there was not enough linen, it had been replaced by writing

paper, taken sheet by sheet from the various office bureaus. Our

painters (among whom we had our Bruloff) had painted it all over, and

the effect was very remarkable.

This luxurious curtain delighted the convicts, even the most sombre and

most morose. These, however, like the others, as soon as the play began,

showed themselves mere children. They were all pleased and satisfied

with a certain satisfaction of vanity. The theatre was lighted with

candle ends. Two benches, which had been brought from the kitchen, were

placed before the curtain, together with three or four large chairs,

borrowed from the non-commissioned officers’ room. These chairs were for

the officers, should they think fit to honour the performance. As for

the benches, they were for the non-commissioned officers, engineers,

clerks, directors of the works, and all the immediate superiors of the

convicts who had not officer’s rank, and who had come perhaps to take a

look at the representation. In fact, there was no lack of visitors.

According to the days, they came in greater or smaller numbers, while

for the last representation there was not a single place unoccupied on

the benches.

At the back the convicts stood crowded together; standing up out of

respect to the visitors, and dressed in their vests, or in their short

pelisses, in spite of the suffocating heat. As might have been expected,

the place was too small; so all the prisoners stood up, heaped

together--above all in the last rows. The camp-bedsteads were all

occupied; and there were some amateurs who disputed constantly behind

the stage in the other barrack, and who viewed the performance from the

back. I was asked to go forward, and Petroff with me, close to the

benches, whence a good view could be obtained. They looked upon me as a

good judge, a connoisseur, who had seen many other theatres. The

convicts remarked that Baklouchin had often consulted me, and that he

had shown deference to my advice. Consequently they thought that I ought

to be treated with honour, and to have one of the best places. These men

are vain and frivolous, but only on the surface. They laughed at me when

I was at work, because I was a poor workman. Almazoff had a right to

despise us gentlemen, and to boast of his superior skill in pounding the

alabaster. His laughter and raillery were directed against our origin,

for we belonged by birth to the caste of his former masters, of whom he

could not preserve a good recollection; but here at the theatre these

same men made way for me; for they knew that about this matter I knew

more than they did. Those, even, who were not at all well disposed

towards me, were glad to hear me praise the performance, and gave way to

me without the least servility. I judged now by my impressions of that

time. I understood that in this new view of theirs there was no lowering

of themselves; rather a sentiment of their own dignity.

The most striking characteristic of our people is its conscientiousness,

and its love of justice; no false vanity, no sly ambition to reach the

first rank without being entitled to do so; such faults are foreign to

our people. Take it from its rough shell, and you will perceive, if you

study it without prejudice, attentively, and close at hand, qualities

which you would never have suspected. Our sages have very little to

teach our people. I will even say more; they might take lessons from it.

Petroff had told me innocently, on taking me into the theatre, that they

would pass me to the front, because they expected more money from me.

There were no fixed prices for the places. Each one gave what he liked,

and what he could. Nearly every one placed a piece of money in the plate

when it was handed round. Even if they had passed me forward in the hope

that I should give more than others, was there not in that a certain

feeling of personal dignity?

“You are richer than I am. Go to the first row. We are all equal here,

it is true; but you pay more, and the actors prefer a spectator like

you. Occupy the first place then, for we are not here with money, and

must arrange ourselves anyhow.”

What noble pride in this mode of action! In final analysis not love of

money, but self-respect. There was little esteem for money among us. I

do not remember that one of us ever lowered himself to obtain money.

Some men used to make up to me, but from love of cunning and of fun

rather than in the hope of obtaining any benefit. I do not know whether

I explain myself clearly. I am, in any case, forgetting the performance.

Let me return to it.

Before the rise of the curtain, the room presented a strange and

animated look. In the first place, the crowd pressed, crushed, jammed

together on all sides, but impatient, full of expectation, every face

glowing with delight. In the last ranks was the grovelling, confused

mass of convicts. Many of them had brought with them logs of wood, which

they placed against the wall, on which they climbed up. In this

fatiguing position they paused to rest themselves by placing both hands

on the shoulders of their companions, who seemed quite at ease. Others

stood on their toes, with their heels against the stove, and thus

remained throughout the representation, supported by those around them.

Massed against the camp-bedsteads was another compact crowd; for here

were some of the best places of all. Five convicts had hoisted

themselves up to the top of the stove, whence they had a commanding

view. These fortunate ones were extremely happy. Elsewhere swarmed the

late arrivals, unable to find good places.

Every one conducted himself in a becoming manner, without making any

noise. Each one wished to show advantageously before the distinguished

persons who were visiting us. Simple and natural was the expression of

these red faces, damp with perspiration, as the rise of the curtain was

eagerly expected. What a strange look of infinite delight, of unmixed

pleasure, was painted on these scarred faces, these branded foreheads,

so dark and menacing at ordinary times! They were all without their

caps, and as I looked back at them from my place, it seemed to me that

their heads were entirely shaved.

Suddenly the signal is given, and the orchestra begins to play. This

orchestra deserves a special mention. It consisted of eight musicians:

two violins, one of which was the property of a convict, while the other

had been borrowed from outside; three balalaiki, made by the convicts

themselves; two guitars, and a tambourine. The violins sighed and

shrieked, and the guitars were worthless, but the balalaiki were

remarkably good; and the agile fingering of the artists would have done

honour to the cleverest executant.

They played scarcely anything but dance tunes. At the most exciting

passages they struck with their fingers on the body of their

instruments. The tone, the execution of the motive, were always original

and distinctive. One of the guitarists knew his instrument thoroughly.

It was the gentleman who had killed his father. As for the tambourinist,

he really did wonders. Now he whirled round the disk, balanced on one of

his fingers; now he rubbed the parchment with his thumb, and brought

from it a countless multitude of notes, now dull, now brilliant.

At last two harmonigers join the orchestra. I had no idea until then of

all that could be done with these popular and vulgar instruments. I was

astonished. The harmony, but, above all, the expression, the very

conception of the motive, were admirably rendered. I then understood

perfectly, and for the first time, the remarkable boldness, the

striking abandonment, which are expressed in our popular dance tunes,

and our village songs.

At last the curtain rose. Every one made a movement. Those who were at

the back raised themselves upon the point of their feet; some one fell

down from his log. At once there were looks that enjoined silence. The

performance now began.

I was seated not far from Ali, who was in the midst of the group formed

by his brothers and the other Circassians. They had a passionate love of

the theatre, and did not miss one of our evenings. I have remarked that

all the Mohammedans, Circassians, and so on, are fond of all kinds of

representations. Near them was Isaiah Fomitch, quite in a state of

ecstasy. As soon as the curtain rose he was all ears and eyes; his

countenance expressed an expectation of something marvellous. I should

have been grieved had he been disappointed. The charming face of Ali

shone with a childish joy, so pure that I was quite happy to behold it.

Involuntarily, whenever a general laugh echoed an amusing remark, I

turned towards him to see his countenance. He did not notice it, he had

something else to do.

Near him, placed on the left, was a convict, already old, sombre,

discontented, and always grumbling. He also had noticed Ali, and I saw

him cast furtive glances more than once towards him, so charming was the

young Circassian. The prisoners always called him Ali Simeonitch,

without my knowing why.

In the first piece, _Philatka and Miroshka_, Baklouchin, in the part of

Philatka, was really marvellous. He played his rôle to perfection. It

could be seen that he had weighed each speech, each movement. He managed

to give to each word, each gesture, a meaning which responded perfectly

to the character of the personage. Apart from the conscientious study he

had made of the character, he was gay, simple, natural, irresistible. If

you had seen Baklouchin you would certainly have said that he was a

genuine actor, an actor by vocation, and of great talent. I have seen

Philatka several times at the St. Petersburg and Moscow theatres, and I

declare that none of our celebrated actors was equal to Baklouchin in

this part. They were peasants, from no matter what country, and not true

Russian moujiks. Moreover, their desire to be peasant-like was too

apparent. Baklouchin was animated by emulation; for it was known that

the convict Potsiakin was to play the part of Kedril in the second

piece, and it was assumed--I do not know why--that the latter would show

more talent than Baklouchin. The latter was as vexed by this preference

as a child. How many times did he not come to me during the last days to

tell me all he felt! Two hours before the representation he was attacked

by fever. When the audience burst out laughing, and called out “Bravo,

Baklouchin! what a fellow you are!” his figure shone with joy, and true

inspiration could be read in his eyes. The scene of the kisses between

Kiroshka and Philatka, in which the latter calls out to the daughter,

“Wife, your mouth,” and then wipes his own, was wonderfully comic. Every

one burst out laughing.

What interested me was the spectators. They were all at their ease, and

gave themselves up frankly to their mirth. Cries of approbation became

more and more numerous. A convict nudged his companion with his elbow,

and hastily communicated his impressions, without even troubling himself

to know who was by his side. When a comic song began, one man might be

seen agitating his arms violently, as if to engage his companions to

laugh; after which he turned suddenly towards the stage. A third smacked

his tongue against his palate, and could not keep quiet a moment; but as

there was not room for him to change his position, he hopped first on

one leg, then on the other; towards the end of the piece the general

gaiety attained its climax. I exaggerate nothing. Imagine the convict

prison, chains, captivity, long years of confinement, of task-work, of

monotonous life, falling away drop by drop like rain on an autumn day;

imagine all this despair in presence of permission given to the convicts

to amuse themselves, to breathe freely for an hour, to forget their

nightmare, and to organise a play--and what a play! one that excited the

envy and admiration of our town.

“Fancy those convicts!” people said: everything interested them, take

the costumes for instance. It seemed very strange, but then to see,

Nietsvitaeff, or Baklouchin, in a different costume from the one they

had worn for so many years.

He is a convict, a genuine convict, whose chains ring when he walks; and

there he is, out on the stage with a frock-coat, and a round hat, and a

cloak, like any ordinary civilian. He has put on hair, moustaches. He

takes a red handkerchief from his pocket and shakes it, like a real

nobleman. What enthusiasm is created! The “good landlord” arrives in an

aide-de-camp uniform, a very old one, it is true, but with epaulettes,

and a cocked hat. The effect produced was indescribable. There had been

two candidates for this costume, and--will it be believed?--they had

quarrelled like two little schoolboys as to which of them should play

the part. Both wanted to appear in military uniform with epaulettes. The

other actors separated them, and, by a majority of voices, the part was

entrusted to Nietsvitaeff; not because he was more suited to it than the

other, and that he bore a greater resemblance to a nobleman, but only

because he had assured them all that he would have a cane, and that he

would twirl it and rap it out grand, like a true nobleman--a dandy of

the latest fashion--which was more than Vanka and Ospiety could do,

seeing they have never known any noblemen. In fact, when Nietsvitaeff

went to the stage with his wife, he did nothing but draw circles on the

floor with his light bamboo cane, evidently thinking that this was the

sign of the best breeding, of supreme elegance. Probably in his

childhood, when he was still a barefooted child, he had been attracted

by the skill of some proprietor in twirling his cane, and this

impression had remained in his memory, although thirty years afterwards.

Nietsvitaeff was so occupied with his process that he saw no one, he

gave the replies in his dialogue without even raising his eyes. The most

important thing for him was the end of his cane, and the circles he drew

with it. The Lady Bountiful was also very remarkable; she came on in an

old worn-out muslin dress, which looked like a rag. Her arms and neck

were bare. She had a little calico cap on her head, with strings under

her chin, an umbrella in one hand, and in the other a fan of coloured

paper, with which she constantly fanned herself. This great lady was

welcomed with a wild laugh; she herself, too, was unable to restrain

herself, and burst out more than once. The part was filled by the

convict Ivanoff. As for Sirotkin, in his girl’s dress, he looked

exceedingly well. The couplets were all well sung. In a word, the piece

was played to the satisfaction of every one; not the least hostile

criticism was passed--who, indeed, was there to criticise? The air,

“Sieni moi Sieni,” was played again by way of overture, and the curtain

again went up.

_Kedril, the Glutton_, was now to be played. Kedril is a sort of Don

Juan. This comparison may justly be made, for the master and the servant

are both carried away by devils at the end of the piece; and the piece,

as the convicts had it, was played quite correctly; but the beginning

and the end must have been lost, for it had neither head nor tail. The

scene is laid in an inn somewhere in Russia. The innkeeper introduces

into a room a nobleman wearing a cloak and a battered round hat; the

valet, Kedril, follows his master; he carries a valise, and a fowl

rolled up in blue paper; he wears a short pelisse and a footman’s cap.

It is this fellow who is the glutton. The convict Potsiakin, the rival

of Baklouchin, played this part, while the part of the nobleman was

filled by Ivanoff, the same who played the great lady in the first

piece. The innkeeper (Nietsvitaeff) warns the nobleman that the room is

haunted by demons, and goes away; the nobleman is interested and

preoccupied; he murmurs aloud that he has known that for a long time,

and orders Kedril to unpack his things and to get supper ready.

Kedril is a glutton and a coward. When he hears of devils he turns pale

and trembles like a leaf; he would like to run away, but is afraid of

his master; besides, he is hungry, he is voluptuous, he is sensual,

stupid, though cunning in his way, and, as before said, a poltroon; he

cheats his master every moment, though he fears him like fire. This type

of servant is a remarkable one in which may be recognised the principal

features of the character of Leporello, but indistinct and confused. The

part was played in really superior style by Potsiakin, whose talent was

beyond discussion, surpassing as it did in my opinion that of Baklouchin

himself. But when the next day I spoke to Baklouchin I concealed my

impression from him, knowing that it would give him bitter pain.

As for the convict who played the part of the nobleman, it was not bad.

Everything he said was without meaning, incomparable to anything I had

ever heard before; but his enunciation was pure and his gestures

becoming. While Kedril occupies himself with the valise, his master

walks up and down, and announces that from that day forth he means to

lead a quiet life. Kedril listens, makes grimaces, and amuses the

spectators by his reflections “aside.” He has no pity for his master,

but he has heard of devils, would like to know what they are like, and

thereupon questions him. The nobleman replies that some time ago, being

in danger of death, he asked succour from hell. Then the devils aided

and delivered him, but the term of his liberty has expired; and if the

devils come that evening, it will be to exact his soul, as has been

agreed in their compact. Kedril begins to tremble in earnest, but his

master does not lose courage, and orders him to prepare the supper.

Hearing of victuals, Kedril revives. Taking out a bottle of wine, he

taps it on his own account. The audience expands with laughter; but the

door grates on its hinges, the winds shakes the shutters, Kedril

trembles, and hastily, almost without knowing what he is doing, puts

into his mouth an enormous piece of fowl, which he is unable to swallow.

There is another gust of wind.

“Is it ready?” cries the master, still walking backwards and forwards in

his room.

“Directly, sir. I am preparing it,” says Kedril, who sits down, and,

taking care that his master does not see him, begins to eat the supper

himself. The audience is evidently charmed with the cunning of the

servant, who so cleverly makes game of the nobleman; and it must be

admitted that Poseikin, the representative of the part, deserved high

praise. He pronounced admirably the words: “Directly, sir.

I--am--preparing--it.”

Kedril eats gradually, and at each mouthful trembles lest his master

shall see him. Every time that the nobleman turns round Kedril hides

under the table, holding the fowl in his hand. When he has appeased his

hunger, he begins to think of his master.

“Kedril, will it soon be ready?” cries the nobleman.

“It is ready now,” replies Kedril boldly, when all at once he perceives

that there is scarcely anything left. Nothing remains but one leg. The

master, still sombre and pre-occupied, notices nothing, and takes his

seat, while Kedril places himself behind him with a napkin on his arm.

Every word, every gesture, every grimace from the servant, as he turns

towards the audience to laugh at his master’s expense, excites the

greatest mirth among the convicts. Just at the moment when the young

nobleman begins to eat, the devils arrive. They resemble nothing human

or terrestrial. The side-door opens, and the phantom appears dressed

entirely in white, with a lighted lantern in lieu of a head, and with a

scythe in its hand. Why the white dress, scythe, and lantern? No one

could tell me, and the matter did not trouble the convicts. They were

sure that this was the way it ought to be done. The master comes

forward courageously to meet the apparitions, and calls out to them that

he is ready, and that they can take him. But Kedril, as timid as a hare,

hides under the table, not forgetting, in spite of his fright, to take a

bottle with him. The devils disappear, Kedril comes out of his

hiding-place, and the master begins to eat his fowl. Three devils enter

the room, and seize him to take him to hell.

“Save me, Kedril,” he cries. But Kedril has something else to think of.

He has now with him in his hiding-place not only the bottle, but also

the plate of fowl and the bread. He is now alone. The demons are far

away, and his master also. Kedril gets from under the table, looks all

round, and suddenly his face beams with joy. He winks, like the rogue he

is, sits down in his master’s place, and whispers to the audience: “I

have now no master but myself.”

Every one laughs at seeing him masterless; and he says, always in an

under-tone and with a confidential air: “The devils have carried him

off!”

The enthusiasm of the spectators is now without limits. The last phrase

was uttered with such roguery, with such a triumphant grimace, that it

was impossible not to applaud. But Kedril’s happiness does not last

long. Hardly has he taken up the bottle of wine, and poured himself out

a large glass, which he carries to his lips, than the devils return,

slip behind, and seize him. Kedril howls like one possessed, but he dare

not turn round. He wishes to defend himself, but cannot, for in his

hands he holds the bottle and the glass, from which he will not

separate. His eyes starting from his head, his mouth gaping with horror,

he remains for a moment looking at the audience with a comic expression

of cowardice that might have been painted. At last he is dragged,

carried away. His arms and legs are agitated in every direction, but he

still sticks to his bottle. He also shrieks, and his cries are still

heard when he has been carried from the stage.

The curtain falls amid general laughter, and every one is delighted.

The orchestra now attacks the famous dance tune Kamarinskaia. First it

is played softly, pianissimo; but little by little, the motive is

developed and played more lightly. The time is quickened, and the wood,

as well as the strings of the balalaiki, is made to sound. The musicians

enter thoroughly into the spirit of the dance. Glinka [who has arranged

the Kamarinskaia in the most ingenious manner, and with harmonies of his

own devising, for full orchestra] should have heard it as it was

executed in our Convict Prison.

The pantomimic musical accompaniment is begun; and throughout the

Kamarinskaia is played. The stage represents the interior of a hut. A

miller and his wife are sitting down, one mending clothes, the other

spinning flax. Sirotkin plays the part of the wife, and Nietsvitaeff

that of the husband. Our scenery was very poor. In this piece, as in the

preceding ones, imagination had to supply what was wanting in reality.

Instead of a wall at the back of the stage, there was a carpet or a

blanket; on the right, shabby screens; while on the left, where the

stage was not closed, the camp-bedsteads could be seen; but the

spectators were not exacting, and were willing to imagine all that was

wanting. It was an easy task for them; all convicts are great dreamers.

Directly they are told “this is a garden,” it is for them a garden.

Informed that “this is a hut,” they accept the definition without

difficulty. To them it is a hut. Sirotkin was charming in a woman’s

dress. The miller finishes his work, takes his cap and his whip, goes up

to his wife, and gives her to understand by signs, that if during his

absence she makes the mistake of receiving any one, she will have to

deal with him--and he shows her his whip. The wife listens, and nods

affirmatively her head. The whip is evidently known to her; the hussey

has often deserved it. The husband goes out. Hardly has he turned upon

his heel, than his wife shakes her fist at him. There is a knock; the

door opens, and in comes a neighbour, miller also by trade. He wears a

beard, is in a kuftan, and he brings as a present a red handkerchief.

The woman smiles. Another knock is heard at the door. Where shall she

hide him? She conceals him under the table, and takes up her distaff

again. Another admirer now presents himself--a farrier in the uniform of

a non-commissioned officer.

Until now the pantomime had gone on capitally; the gestures of the

actors being irreproachable. It was astounding to see these improvised

players going through their parts in so correct a manner; and

involuntarily one said to oneself:

“What a deal of talent is lost in our Russia, left without use in our

prisons and places of exile!”

The convict who played the part of the farrier had, doubtless, taken

part in a performance at some provincial theatre, or had played with

amateurs. It seemed to me, in any case, that our actors knew nothing of

acting as an art, and bore themselves in the meanest manner. When it was

his turn to appear, he came on like one of the classical heroes of the

old repertory--taking a long stride with one foot before he raised the

other from the ground, throwing back his head on the upper part of his

body and casting proud looks around him. If such a gait was ridiculous

on the part of classical heroes, still more so was it when the actor was

representing a comic character. But the audience thought it quite

natural, and accepted the actor’s triumphant walk as a necessary fact,

without criticising it.

A moment after the entry of the second admirer there is another knock at

the door. The wife loses her head. Where is the farrier to be concealed?

In her big box. It fortunately is open. The farrier disappears within it

and the lid falls upon him.

The new arrival is a Brahmin, in full costume. His entry is hailed by

the spectators with a formidable laugh. This Brahmin is represented by

the convict Cutchin, who plays the part perfectly, thanks, in a great

measure, to a suitable physiognomy. He explains in the pantomime his

love of the miller’s wife, raises his hands to heaven, and then clasps

them on his breast.

There is now another knock at the door--a vigorous one this time. There

could be no mistake about it. It is the master of the house. The

miller’s wife loses her head; the Brahmin runs wildly on all sides,

begging to be concealed. She helps him to slip behind the cupboard, and

begins to spin, and goes on spinning without thinking of opening the

door. In her fright she gets the thread twisted, drops the spindle, and,

in her agitation, makes the gesture of turning it when it is lying on

the ground. Sirotkin represented perfectly this state of alarm.

Then the miller kicks open the door and approaches his wife, whip in

hand. He has seen everything, for he was spying outside; and he

indicates by signs to his wife that she has three lovers concealed in

the house. Then he searches them out.

First, he finds the neighbour, whom he drives out with his fist. The

frightened farrier tries to escape. He raises, with his head, the cover

of the chest, and is at once seen. The miller thrashes him with his

whip, and for once this gallant does not march in the classical style.

The only one now remaining is the Brahmin, whom the husband seeks for

some time without finding him. At last he discovers him in his corner

behind the cupboard, bows to him politely, and then draws him by his

beard into the middle of the stage. The Brahmin tries to defend himself,

and cries out, “Accursed, accursed!”--the only words pronounced

throughout the pantomime. But the husband will not listen to him, and,

after settling accounts with him, turns to his wife. Seeing that her

turn has come, she throws away both wheel and spindle, and runs out,

causing an earthen pot to fall as she shakes the room in her fright. The

convicts burst into a laugh, and Ali, without looking at me, takes my

hand, and calls out, “See, see the Brahmin!” He cannot hold himself

upright, so overpowering is his laugh. The curtain falls, and another

song begins.

There were two or three more, all broadly humorous and very droll. The

convicts had not composed them themselves, but they had contributed

something to them. Every actor improvised to such purpose that the part

was a different one each evening. The pantomime ended with a ballet, in

which there was a burial. The Brahmin went through various incantations

over the corpse, and with effect. The dead man returns to life, and, in

their joy, all present begin to dance. The Brahmin dances in Brahminical

style with the dead man. This was the final scene. The convicts now

separated, happy, delighted, and full of praise for the actors and

gratitude towards the non-commissioned officers. There was not the least

quarrel, and they all went to bed with peaceful hearts, to sleep with a

sleep by no means familiar to them.

This is no fantasy of my imagination, but the truth, the very truth.

These unhappy men had been permitted to live for some moments in their

own way, to amuse themselves in a human manner, to escape for a brief

hour from their sad position as convicts; and a moral change was

effected, at least for a time.

The night is already quite dark. Something makes me shudder, and I

awake. The “old believer” is still on the top of the high porcelain

stove praying, and he will continue to pray until dawn. Ali is sleeping

peacefully by my side. I remember that when he went to bed he was still

laughing and talking about the theatre with his brothers. Little by

little I began to remember everything; the preceding day, the Christmas

holidays, and the whole month. I raised my head in fright and looked at

my companions, who were sleeping by the trembling light of the candle

provided by the authorities. I look at their unhappy countenances, their

miserable beds; I view this nakedness, the wretchedness, and then

convince myself that it is not a frightful night there, but a simple

reality. Yes, it is a reality. I hear a groan. Some one has moved his

arm and made his chains rattle. Another one is agitated in his dreams

and speaks aloud, while the old grandfather is praying for the “Orthodox

Christians.” I listened to his prayer, uttered with regularity, in

soft, rather drawling tones: “Lord Jesus Christ have mercy upon us.”

“Well, I am not here for ever, but only for a few years,” I said to

myself, and I again laid my head down on my pillow.

Part II.

CHAPTER I.

THE HOSPITAL

Shortly after the Christmas holidays I felt ill, and had to go to our

military hospital, which stood apart at about half a verst (one-third of

a mile) from the fortress. It was a one-storey building, very long, and

painted yellow. Every summer a great quantity of ochre was expended in

brightening it up. In the immense court-yard stood buildings, including

those where the chief physicians lived, while the principal building

contained only wards intended for the patients. There were a good many

of them, but as only two were reserved for the convicts, these latter

were nearly always full, above all in summer, so that it was often

necessary to bring the beds closer together. These wards were occupied

by “unfortunates” of all kinds: first by our own, then by military

prisoners, previously incarcerated in the guard-houses. There were

others, again, who had not yet been tried, or who were passing through.

In this hospital, too, were invalids from the Disciplinary Company, a

melancholy institution for bringing together soldiers of bad conduct,

with a view to their correction. At the end of a year or two, they come

back the most thorough-going rascals that the earth can endure.

When a convict felt that he was ill, he told the non-commissioned

officer, who wrote the man’s name down on a card, which he then gave to

him and sent him to the hospital under the escort of a soldier. On his

arrival he was examined by a doctor, who authorised the convict to

remain at the hospital if he was really ill. My name was duly written

down, and towards one o’clock, when all my companions had started for

their afternoon work, I went to the hospital. Every prisoner took with

him such money and bread as he could (for food was not to be expected

the first day), a little pipe, and pouch containing tobacco, with flint,

steel, and match-paper. The convicts concealed these objects in their

boots. On entering the hospital I experienced a feeling of curiosity,

for a new aspect of life was now presented.

The day was hot, cloudy, sad--one of those days when places like a

hospital assume a particularly disagreeable and repulsive look. Myself

and the soldier escorting me went into the entrance room, where there

were two copper baths. There were two convicts waiting there with their

warders. An assistant surgeon came in, looked at us with a careless and

patronising air, and went away still more carelessly to announce our

arrival to the physician on duty. Soon the physician arrived. He

examined me, treating me in a very affable manner, and gave me a paper

on which my name was inscribed. The ordinary physician of the wards

reserved for the convicts was to make the diagnosis of my illness, to

prescribe the fitting remedies, together with the necessary diet. I had

already heard the convicts say that their doctors could not be too much

praised. “They are fathers to us,” they would say.

I took my clothes off to put on another costume. Our clothes and linen

were taken away, and we were given hospital linen instead, to which were

added long stockings, slippers, cotton nightcaps, and a dressing-gown of

a very thick brown cloth, which was lined, not with linen, but with

filth. The dressing-gown was indeed very filthy, but I soon understood

its utility. We were afterwards taken to the convict wards, which were

at the head of a long corridor, very high, and very clean. The external

cleanliness was quite satisfactory. Everything that could be seen shone;

so, at least, it seemed to me, after the dirtiness of the convict

prison.

The two prisoners, whom I had found in the entrance hall, went to the

left of the corridor, while I entered a room. Before the padlocked door

walked a sentinel, musket on shoulder; and not far off was the soldier

who was to replace him. The sergeant of the hospital guard ordered him

to let me pass, and suddenly I found myself in the middle of a long

narrow room, with beds to the number of twenty-two arranged against the

walls. Three or four of them were still unoccupied. These wooden beds

were painted green, and, as is notoriously the case with all hospital

beds in Russia, were doubtless inhabited by bugs. I went into a corner

by the side of the windows. There were very few prisoners dangerously

ill and confined to their beds.

The inmates of the hospital were, for the most part, convalescents, or

men who were slightly indisposed. My new companions were stretched out

on their couches, or walking about up and down between the rows of beds.

There was just space enough for them to come and go. The atmosphere of

the ward was stifling with the odour peculiar to hospitals. It was

composed of various emanations, each more disagreeable than the other,

and of the smell of drugs; though the stove was kept well heated all day

long, my bed was covered with a counterpane, which I took off. The bed

itself consisted of a cloth blanket lined with linen, and coarse sheets

of more than doubtful cleanliness. By the side of the bed was a little

table with a pitcher and a pewter mug, together with a diminutive

napkin, which had been given to me. The table could, moreover, hold a

tea-urn for those patients who were rich enough to drink tea. These men

of means, however, were not very numerous. The pipes and the tobacco

pouches--for all the patients smoked, even the consumptive ones--could

be concealed beneath the mattress. The doctors and the other officials

scarcely ever made searches, and when they surprised a patient with a

pipe in his mouth, they pretended not to see. The patients, however,

were very prudent, and smoked always at the back of the stove. They

never smoked in their beds except at night, when no rounds were made by

the officers commanding the hospital.

Until then I had not been in any hospital in the character of patient,

so that everything was quite new to me. I noticed that my entry had

mystified some of the prisoners. They had heard of me, and all the

inmates now looked upon me with that slight shade of superiority which

recognised members of no matter what society show to one newly admitted

among them. On my right was lying down a man committed for trial--an

ex-secretary and the illegitimate son of a retired captain--accused of

having made false money. He had been in the hospital nearly a year. He

was not in the least ill, but he assured the doctors that he had an

aneurism, and he so thoroughly convinced them that he escaped both the

hard labour and the corporal punishment to which he had been sentenced.

He was sent a year later to T----k, where he was attached to an asylum.

He was a vigorous young fellow of eight-and-twenty, cunning, a

self-confessed rogue, and something of a lawyer. He was intelligent, had

easy manners, but was very presumptuous, and suffered from morbid

self-esteem. Convinced that there was no one in the world a bit more

honest or more just than himself, he did not consider himself at all

guilty, and never kept this assurance to himself.

This personage was the first to address me, and he questioned me with

much curiosity. He initiated me into the ways of the hospital; and, of

course, began by telling me that he was the son of a captain. He was

very anxious that I should take him for a noble, or at least, for some

one connected with the nobility.

Soon afterwards an invalid from the Disciplinary Company came and told

me that he knew a great many nobles who had been exiled; and, to

convince me, he repeated to me their christian names and their

patronymics. It was only necessary to see the face of this soldier to

understand that he was lying abominably. He was named Tchekounoff, and

came to pay court to me, because he suspected me of having money. When

he saw a packet of tea and sugar, he at once offered me his services to

make the water boil and to get me a tea-urn. M. D. S. K---- had promised

to send me my own by one of the prisoners who worked in the hospital,

but Tchekounoff arranged to get me one forthwith. He got me a tin

vessel, in which he made the water boil; and, in a word, he showed such

extraordinary zeal, that it drew down upon him bitter laughter from one

of the patients, a consumptive man, whose bed was just opposite mine,

Usteantseff by name. This was the soldier condemned to the rods, who,

from fear, had swallowed a bottle of vodka, in which he had infused

tobacco, this bringing on lung disease.

I have spoken of him above. He had remained silent until now, stretched

out on his bed, and breathing with difficulty. He looked at me all the

time with a very serious air. He did not take his eyes from Tchekounoff,

whose civility irritated him. His extraordinary gravity rendered his

indignation comic. At last he could stand it no longer.

“Look at this fellow! He has found his master,” he said, stammering out

the words with a voice strangled by weakness, for he had now not long to

live.

Tchekounoff, much annoyed, turned round.

“Who is the fellow?” he asked, looking at Usteantseff, with contempt.

“Why, you are a flunkey,” replied Usteantseff, as confidently as if he

had possessed the right of calling Tchekounoff to order.

“I a fellow?”

“Yes, you are a flunkey; a true flunkey. Listen, my good friends. He

won’t believe me. He is quite astonished, the brave fellow.”

“What can that matter to you? You see when they don’t know how to make

use of their hands that they are not accustomed to be without servants.

Why should I not serve him, buffoon with a hairy snout?”

“Who has a hairy snout?”

“You!”

“I have a hairy snout?”

“Yes; certainly you have.”

“You are a nice fellow, you are. If I have a hairy snout, you have a

face like a crow’s egg.”

“Hairy snout! The merciful Lord has settled your account. You would do

much better to keep quiet and die.”

“Why? I would rather prostrate myself before a boot than before a

slipper. My father never prostrated himself, and never made me do so.”

He would have continued, but an attack of coughing convulsed him for

some minutes. He spat blood, and a cold sweat broke out on his low

forehead. If his cough had not prevented him from speaking, he would

have continued to declaim. One could see that from his look; but in his

powerlessness he could only move his hand, the result of which was that

Tchekounoff spoke no more about the matter.

I quite understood that the consumptive patient hated me much more than

Tchekounoff. No one would have thought of being angry with him or of

looking down upon him by reason of the services he was rendering me, and

the few kopecks that he tried to get from me. Every one understood that

he did it all in order to get himself a little money.

The Russian people are not at all susceptible on such points, and know

perfectly well how to take them.

I had displeased Usteantseff, as my tea had also displeased him. What

irritated him was that, in spite of all, I was a gentleman, even with my

chains; that I could not do without a servant, though I neither asked

for nor desired one. In reality I tried to do everything for myself, in

order not to appear a white-handed, effeminate person, and not to play

the part which excited so much envy.

I even felt a little pride on this point; but, in spite of every

thing--I do not know why--I was always surrounded by officious,

complaisant people, who attached themselves to me of their own free

will, and who ended by governing me. It was I rather who was their

servant; so that, whether I liked it or not, I was made to appear to

every one a noble, who could not do without the services of others, and

who gave himself airs. This exasperated me.

Usteantseff was consumptive, and, therefore, irascible. The other

patients only showed me indifference, tinged with a shade of contempt.

They were occupied with a circumstance which now presents itself to my

memory.

I learned, as I listened to their conversation, that there was to be

brought into the hospital that evening a convict who, at that moment,

was receiving the rods. The prisoners were looking forward to this new

arrival with some curiosity. They said, however, that his punishment was

but slight--only five hundred strokes.

I looked round. The greater number of genuine patients were, as far as I

could observe, affected by scurvy and diseases of the eyes--both

peculiar to this country. The others suffered from fever, lung disease,

and other illnesses. The different illnesses were not separated; all the

patients were together in the same room.

I have spoken of genuine patients, for certain convicts had come in

merely to get a little rest. The doctors admitted them from pure

compassion, above all, if there were any vacant beds. Life in the

guard-house and in the prison was so hard compared with that of the

hospital, that many persons preferred to remain lying down in spite of

the stifling atmosphere and the rules against leaving the room.

There were even men who took pleasure in this kind of life. They

belonged nearly all to the Disciplinary Company. I examined my new

companions with curiosity. One of them puzzled me very much. He was

consumptive, and was dying. His bed was a little further on than that of

Usteantseff, and was nearly beside mine. He was named Mikhailoff. I had

seen him in the Convict Prison two weeks before, when he was already

seriously ill. He ought to have been under treatment long before, but

he bore up against his malady with surprising courage. He did not go to

the hospital until about the Christmas holidays, to die three weeks

afterwards of galloping consumption. He seemed to have burned out like a

candle. What astonished me most was the terrible change in his

countenance. I had noticed him the very first day of my imprisonment. By

his side was lying a soldier of the Disciplinary Company--an old man

with a bad expression on his face, whose general appearance was

disgusting.

But I am not going to enumerate all the patients. I just remember this

old man simply because he made an impression on me, and initiated me at

once into certain peculiarities of the ward. He had a severe cold in the

head, which made him sneeze at every moment, even during his sleep, as

if firing salutes, five or six times running, while each time he called

out, “My God, what torture!”

Seated on his bed he stuffed his nose eagerly with snuff, which he took

from a paper bag, in order to sneeze more strongly, and with greater

regularity. He sneezed into a checked cotton pocket-handkerchief which

belonged to him, and which had lost its colour through perpetual

washing. His little nose then became wrinkled in a most peculiar manner

with a multitude of wrinkles, and his open mouth exhibited broken teeth,

decayed and black, and red gums moist with saliva. When he sneezed into

his handkerchief he unfolded it and wiped it on the lining of his

dressing-gown. His proceedings disgusted me so much that involuntarily I

examined the dressing-gown I had just put on myself. It exhaled a most

offensive odour, which contact with my body helped to bring out. It

smelt of plasters and medicaments of all kinds. It seemed as though it

had been worn by patients from time immemorial. The lining had, perhaps,

been washed once, but I would not swear to it. Certainly, at the time I

put it on, it was saturated with lotions, and stained by contact with

poultices and plasters of all imaginable kinds.

The men condemned to the rods, having undergone their punishment, were

brought straight to the hospital, their backs still bleeding. As

compresses and as poultices were placed on their wounds, the

dressing-gown they wore over their wet shirt received and retained the

droppings.

During all the time of my hard labour I had to go to the hospital, which

often happened, I always put on, with mistrust and abhorrence, the

dressing-gown that was delivered to me. As soon as Tchekounoff had given

me my tea (I will say, in parenthesis, that the water brought in in the

morning, and not renewed throughout the day, was soon corrupted, soon

poisoned by the fetid air), the door opened, and the soldier, who had

just received the rods, was brought in under a double escort. I saw, for

the first time, a man who had just been whipped. Later on many were

brought in, and whenever this happened it caused great distress to the

patients. These unfortunate men were received with grave composure, but

the nature of the reception depended nearly always on the enormity of

the crime committed, and, consequently, the number of strokes

administered.

The criminals most cruelly whipped, and who were celebrated as brigands

of the first order, enjoyed more respect and attention than a simple

deserter, a recruit, like the one who had just been brought in. But in

neither case was any particular sympathy manifested, nor were any

annoying remarks made. The unhappy man was attended to in silence, above

all if he was incapable of attending to himself. The assistant-surgeons

knew that they were entrusting their patients to skilful and experienced

hands. The usual treatment consisted in applying very often to the back

of the man who had been whipped a shirt or a piece of linen steeped in

cold water. It was also necessary to withdraw skilfully from the wounds

the twigs left by the rods which had been broken on the criminal’s back.

This last operation was particularly painful to the patients. The

extraordinary stoicism with which they supported their sufferings

astonished me greatly.

I have seen many convicts who had been whipped, and cruelly, I can tell

you. Well, I do not remember one of them uttering a groan. Only after

such an experience, the countenance becomes pale, decomposed, the eyes

glitter, the look wanders, and the lips tremble so that the patient

sometimes bites them till they bleed.

The soldier who had just come in was twenty-three years of age; he had a

good muscular development, and was rather a fine man, tall, well-made,

with a bronzed skin. His back, uncovered down to the waist, had been

seriously beaten, and his body now trembled with fever beneath the damp

sheet with which his back was covered. For about an hour and a half he

did nothing but walk backwards and forwards in the room. I looked at his

face: he seemed to be thinking of nothing; his eyes had a strange

expression, at once wild and timid; they seemed to fix themselves with

difficulty on the various objects. I fancied I saw him looking

attentively at my hot tea; the steam was rising from the full cup, and

the poor devil was shivering and clattering his teeth. I invited him to

have some; he turned towards me without saying a word, and taking up the

cup, swallowed the tea at one gulp, without putting sugar in it. He

tried not to look at me, and when he had finished he put the cup back in

silence without making a sign, and then began to walk up and down as

before. He was in too much pain to think of speaking to me or thanking

me. As for the other prisoners, they abstained from questioning him;

when once they had applied compresses they paid no more attention to

him, thinking probably it would be better to leave him alone, and not to

worry him by their questions and compassion. The soldier seemed quite

satisfied with this view.

Meanwhile, night came on and the lamp was lighted; some of the patients

possessed candlesticks of their own, but these were not numerous. In the

evening the doctor came round, after which a non-commissioned officer on

guard counted the patients and closed the room.

The prisoners could not speak in too high terms of their doctors. They

looked upon them truly as fathers and respected them. These doctors had

always something pleasant to say, a kind word even for reprobates, who

appreciated it all the more because they knew it was said in all

sincerity.

Yes, these kind words were really sincere, for no one would have thought

of blaming the doctors had they shown themselves cross and inhuman; they

were kind purely from humanity. They understood perfectly that a convict

who is sick has as much right to breathe pure air as any other person,

even though the latter might be a great personage. The convalescents

there had a right to walk freely through the corridors to take exercise,

and to breathe air less pestilential than that of our infirmary, which

was close and saturated with deleterious emanations. In our ward, when

once the doors had been closed in the evening, they had to remain closed

throughout the night, and under no pretext was one of the inmates

allowed to go out.

For many years an inexplicable fact troubled me like an insoluble

problem. I must speak of it before going on with my description. I am

thinking of the chains which every convict is obliged to wear, however

ill he may be; even consumptives have died beneath my eyes with their

legs loaded with irons.

Everybody was accustomed to it, and regarded it as an inevitable fact. I

do not think any one, even the doctors, would have thought of demanding

the removal of the irons from convicts who were seriously ill, not even

from the consumptive ones. The chains, it is true, were not exceedingly

heavy; they did not in general weigh more than eight or ten pounds,

which is a supportable burden for a man in good health. I have been

told, however, that after some years the legs of the convicts dry up and

waste away. I do not know whether it is true. I am inclined to think it

is; the weight, however light it may be (say not more than ten pounds),

if it is fixed to the leg for ever, increases the general weight in an

abnormal manner, and at the end of a certain time must have a disastrous

effect on its development.

For a convict in good health this is nothing, but the same cannot be

said of one who is sick. For the convicts who were seriously ill, for

the consumptive ones whose arms and legs dry up of themselves, this last

straw is insupportable. Even if the medical authorities claimed

alleviation for the consumptive patients alone, it would be an immense

benefit, I assure you. I shall be told convicts are malefactors,

unworthy of compassion; but ought increased severity to be shown towards

him on whom the finger of God already weighs? No one will believe that

the object of this aggravation is to reform the criminal. The

consumptive prisoners are exempted from corporal punishment by the

tribunal.

There must be some mysterious, important reason for all this, but what

it is, it is impossible to understand. No one believes--it is impossible

to believe--that a consumptive man will run away. Who can think of such

a thing, especially if the illness has reached a certain degree of

intensity? It is impossible to deceive the doctors and make them mistake

a convict in good health for one who is in a consumption, for this

malady is one that can be recognised at the first glance. Moreover, can

the irons prevent the convict not in good health from escaping? Not in

the least. The irons are a degradation and shame, a physical and moral

burden; but they would not hinder any one attempting to escape. The most

awkward and least intelligent convict can saw through them, or break the

rivets by hammering at them with a stone. Chains, then, are a useless

precaution; and if the convicts wear them as a punishment, should not

this punishment be spared to dying men?

As I write these lines, a face stands out from my memory: that of a

dying man, a man who died in consumption, this same Mikhailoff, whose

bed was nearly opposite me, and who expired, I think, four days after my

arrival at the hospital. When I spoke above of the consumptive patients,

I was only reproducing involuntarily the sensations and ideas which

occurred to me on the occasion of this death. I knew Mikhailoff very

little; he was a young man of twenty-five at most, not very tall, thin,

and with a fine face; he belonged to the “special section,” and was

remarkable for his strange, but soft and sad taciturnity; he seemed to

have “dried up” in the convict prison, to use an expression employed by

the convicts who had a good recollection of him. I remember he had very

fine eyes. I really cannot tell why I think of that.

He died at three o’clock in the afternoon on a clear, dry day. The sun

was darting its brilliant rays obliquely through the greenish, frozen

panes of our room. A torrent of light inundated the unhappy patient, who

had lost all consciousness, and was several hours dying. From the early

morning his sight became confused; he was unable to recognise those who

approached him. The convicts would gladly have done anything to relieve

him, for they saw he was in great suffering. His respiration was

painful, deep, and irregular; his breast rose and fell violently, as

though he were in want of air; he cast his blanket and his clothes far

from him. Then he began to tear up his shirt, which seemed to him a

terrible burden. It was taken off. Then it was frightful to see this

immensely long body, with fleshless arms and legs, with beating breast,

and ribs which were as clearly marked as those of a skeleton. There was

nothing now on this skeleton but a cross and the irons, from which his

dried-up legs might easily have freed themselves. A quarter of an hour

before his death everything was silent in our ward, and the inmates

spoke only in whispers. The convicts walked on the tips of their toes.

From time to time they exchanged remarks on other subjects, and cast a

furtive glance at the dying man. The rattling in his throat grew more

and more painful. At last, with a trembling hand, he felt the cross on

his breast and endeavoured to tear it off; it was also weighing upon

him, suffocating him. It was taken off. Ten minutes afterwards, he died.

Some one then knocked at the door in order to give notice to the

sentinel; the warder entered, looked at the dead man with a vacant air,

and went away to get the assistant-surgeon. The assistant-surgeon was a

good fellow enough, but a little too much occupied with his personal

appearance, otherwise very agreeable; he soon arrived, went up to the

corpse with long strides which made a noise in the silent ward, and

felt the dead man’s pulse with an unconcerned air which seemed to have

been put on for the occasion. He then made a vague gesture with his hand

and went out.

Information was given at the guard-house; for the criminal was an

important one (he belonged to the special section), and in order to

register his death it was necessary to go through some formalities.

While we were waiting for the hospital guard to come, one of the

prisoners said in a whisper, “The eyes of the defunct might as well be

closed.” Another one profited by this remark, and approaching Mikhailoff

in silence, closed his eyes; then perceiving on the pillow the cross

which had been taken from his neck, he took it and looked at it, put it

down, and crossed himself. The face of the dead man was becoming

ossified; a ray of white light was playing on the surface and

illuminated two rows of white, good teeth which sparkled between his

thin lips, glued to the gums by the mouth.

The non-commissioned officer on guard arrived at last, musket on

shoulder, helmet on head, accompanied by two soldiers; he approached the

corpse, slackening his pace with an air of uncertainty. Then he examined

with a side glance the silent prisoners, who looked at him with a sombre

expression. At one step from the dead man he stopped short, as if

suddenly nailed to the spot; the naked, dried-up body, loaded with

irons, had impressed him; he undid his chin-strap, removed his helmet

(which was not at all necessary for him to do), and made the sign of the

cross; he had a gray head, the head of a soldier who had seen much

service. I remember that by his side stood Tchekounoff, an old man who

was also gray. He looked all the time at the non-commissioned officer,

and followed all his movements with strange attention. They glanced

across, and I saw that Tchekounoff also trembled. He bit and closed his

teeth, and said to the non-commissioned officer, as if involuntarily, at

the same time nodding his head in the direction of the dead man, “He had

a mother, too!”

These words went to my heart. Why had he said them? and how did this

idea occur to him? The corpse was raised with the mattress; the straw

creaked, the chains dragged along the ground with a sharp ring; they

were taken up and the body was carried out. Suddenly all spoke once more

in a loud voice. The non-commissioned officer in the corridor could well

be heard crying out to some one to go for the blacksmith. It was

necessary to take the dead man’s irons off. But I have digressed from my

subject.

CHAPTER II.

THE HOSPITAL (_continued_).

The doctors used to visit the wards in the morning, towards eleven

o’clock; they appeared all together, forming a procession, which was

headed by the chief physician. An hour and a half before, the ordinary

physician had made his round. He was a quiet young man, always affable

and kind, much liked by the prisoners, and thoroughly versed in his art;

they only found one fault with him, that he was “too soft.” He was, in

fact, by no means communicative, he seemed confused in our presence,

blushed sometimes, and changed the quantity of food at the first

representation of the patient. I think he would have consented to give

them any medicine they desired: in other respects an excellent young

man.

A doctor in Russia often enjoys the affection and respect of the people,

and with reason, as far as I have been able to see. I know that my words

would seem a paradox, above all when the mistrust of this same people

for foreign drugs and foreign doctors is taken into account; in fact,

they prefer, even when suffering from a serious illness, to address

themselves year after year to a witch, or employ old women’s remedies

(which, however, ought not to be despised), rather than consult a

doctor, or go into the hospital. In truth, these prejudices may be

above all attributed to causes which have nothing to do with medicine,

namely, the mistrust of the people for anything which bears an official

and administrative character; nor must it be forgotten that the common

people are frightened and prejudiced in regard to the hospitals, by the

stories, often absurd, of fantastic horrors said to take place within

them. Perhaps, however, these stories have a basis of truth.

But what repels them above all, is the Germanism of the hospitals, the

idea that during their illness they will be attended to by foreigners,

the severity of the diet, the heartlessness of the surgeons and doctors,

the dissection and autopsy of the bodies, etc. The common people

reflect, moreover, that they will be attended by nobles--for in their

view the doctors belong to the nobility. Once they have made

acquaintance with them (there are exceptions, no doubt, but they are

rare), their fears vanish. This success must be attributed to our

doctors, especially the young ones, who, for the most part, know how to

gain the respect and affection of the people. I speak now of what I

myself have seen and experienced in many cases and in different parts,

and I think matters are the same everywhere. In some distant localities

the doctors receive presents, make profit out of their hospitals, and

neglect the patients; sometimes they forget even their art. This

happens, no doubt; but I am speaking of the majority, inspired as it is

by that spirit, that generous tendency which is regenerating the medical

art. As for the apostates, the wolves in the sheep-fold, they may excuse

themselves, and cast the blame on the circumstances amid which they

live; but they are absurd, inexcusable, especially if they are no longer

humane; it is precisely the humanity, affability, and brotherly

compassion of the doctor which prove most efficacious remedies for the

patients. It is time to stop these apathetic lamentations on the

circumstances surrounding us. There may be truth in the lament, but a

cunning rogue who knows how to take care of himself never fails to

blame the circumstances around him when he wishes his faults to be

forgiven--above all, if he writes or speaks with eloquence.

I have again departed from my subject; I wish only to say that the

common people mistrust and dislike officialism and the Government

doctors, rather than the doctors themselves; but on personal

acquaintance many prejudices disappear.

Our doctor generally stopped before the bed of each patient, questioned

him seriously and attentively, then prescribed the remedies, potions,

etc. He sometimes noticed that the pretended invalid was not ill at all;

he had come to take rest after his hard work, and to sleep on a mattress

in a warm room, far preferable to the naked planks in a damp guard-house

among a mass of pale, broken-down men, waiting for their trial. In

Russia the prisoners in the House of Detention are almost always broken

down, which shows that their moral and material condition is worse even

than those of the convicts.

In cases of feigned sickness our doctor would describe the patient as

suffering from _febris catharalis_, and sometimes allowed him to remain

a week in the hospital. Every one laughed at this _febris catharalis_,

for it was known to be a formula agreed upon between the doctor and the

patient to indicate no malady at all. Often the robust invalid who

abused the doctor’s compassion remained in the hospital until he was

turned out by force. Our doctor was worth seeing then. Confused by the

prisoner’s obstinacy, he did not like to tell him plainly that he was

cured and offer him his leaving ticket, although he had the right to

send him away without the least explanation on writing the words,

_sanat. est_. First he would hint to him that it was time to go, and

then would beg him to leave.

“You must go, you know you are cured now, and we have no place for you,

we are very much cramped here, etc.”

At last, ashamed to remain any longer, the patient would consent to go.

The physician-in-chief, although compassionate and just (the patients

were much attached to him), was incomparably more severe and more

decided than our ordinary physician. In certain cases he showed

merciless severity which only gained for him the respect of the

convicts. He always came into the room accompanied by all the doctors of

the hospital, when his assistants visited all the beds and diagnosed on

each particular case; he stopped longest at the beds of those who were

seriously ill, and had an encouraging word for them. He never sent back

the convicts who arrived with _febris catharalis_; but if one of them

was determined to remain in the hospital, he certified that the man was

cured. “Come,” he would say, “you have had your rest; now go, you must

not take liberties.”

Those who insisted upon remaining, were, above all, the convicts who

were worn out by field labour, performed during the great summer heat,

or prisoners who had been sentenced to be whipped. I remember that they

were obliged to be particularly severe, merely in order to get rid of

one of them. He had come to be cured of some disease of the eyes, which

were red all over; he complained of suffering a sharp pain in the

eyelids. He was incurable; plasters, blisters, leeches, nothing did him

any good; and the diseased organ remained in the same condition.

Then it occurred to the doctors that the illness was feigned, for the

inflammation neither became worse nor better; and they soon understood

that a comedy was being played, although the patient would not admit it.

He was a fine young fellow, not ill-looking, though he produced a

disagreeable impression upon all his companions; he was suspicious,

sombre, full of dissimulation, and never looked any one straight in the

face; he also kept himself apart as if he mistrusted us all. I remember

that many persons were afraid that he would do some one harm.

When he was a soldier he had committed some small theft, he had been

arrested and condemned to receive a thousand strokes, and afterwards to

pass into a disciplinary company.

To put off the moment of punishment, the prisoners, as I have already

said, will do incredible things. On the eve of the fatal day, they will

stick a knife into one of their chiefs, or into a comrade, in order that

they may be tried again for this new offence, which will delay their

punishment for a month or two. It matters little to them that their

punishment be doubled or tripled, if they can escape this time. What

they desire is to put off temporarily the terrible minute at whatever

cost, so utterly does their heart fail them.

Many of the patients thought the man with the sore eyes ought to be

watched, lest in his despair he should assassinate some one during the

night; but no precaution was taken, not even by those who slept next to

him. It was remarked, however, that he rubbed his eyes with plaster from

the wall, and with something else besides, in order that they might

appear red when the doctor came round; at last the doctor-in-chief

threatened to cure him by-means of a seton.

When the malady resists all ordinary treatment, the doctors determine to

try some heroic, however painful, remedy. But the poor devil did not

wish to get well, he was either too obstinate or too cowardly; for,

however painful the proposed operation may be, it cannot be compared to

the punishment of the rods.

The operation consists in seizing the patient by the nape of the neck,

taking up the skin, drawing it back as much as possible, and making in

it a double incision, through which is passed a skein of cotton about as

thick as the finger. Every day at a fixed hour this skein is pulled

backwards and forwards in order that the wound may continually suppurate

and may not heal; the poor devil endured this torture which caused him

horrible suffering, for several days.

At last he consented to quit the hospital. In less than a day his eyes

became quite well; and, as soon as his neck was healed, he was sent to

the guard-house which he left next day to receive the first thousand

strokes.

Painful is the minute which precedes such a punishment; so painful, that

perhaps I am wrong in taxing with cowardice those convicts who fear it.

It must be terrible; for the convicts to risk a double or triple

punishment, merely to postpone it. I have spoken, however, of convicts

who have thus wished to quit the hospital before the wounds caused by

the first part of the flogging were healed, in order to receive the last

part and make an end of it. For life in a guard-room is certainly worse

than in a convict prison.

The habit of receiving floggings helps in some cases to give intrepidity

and decision to convicts. Those who have been often flogged, are

hardened both in body and mind, and have at last looked upon such a

punishment as merely a disagreeable incident no longer to be feared.

One of our convicts of the special section was a converted Tartar, who

was named Alexander, or Alexandrina, as they called him in fun at the

convict prison; who told me how he had received 4,000 strokes. He never

spoke of this punishment except with amusement and laughter; but he

swore very seriously that if he had not been brought up in his horde,

from his most tender infancy, on whipping and flogging--and as the scars

which covered his back, and which refused to disappear, were there to

testify--he would never have been able to support those 4,000 strokes.

He blessed the education of sticks that he had received.

“I was beaten for the least thing, Alexander Petrovitch,” he said one

evening, when we were sitting down before the fire. “I was beaten

without reason for fifteen years, as long as I can ever remember, and

several times a day. Any one who liked beat me; so that, at last, it

made no impression upon me.”

I do not know how it was he became a soldier, for perhaps he lied, and

had always been a deserter and vagabond. But I remember his telling me

one day of the fright he was seized with when he was condemned to

receive 4,000 strokes for having killed one of his officers.

“I know that they will punish me severely,” he said to himself, “that,

accustomed as I am to be whipped, I shall perhaps die on the spot. The

devil! 4,000 strokes is not a trifle; and then all my officers were in a

fearful temper with me on account of this affair. I knew well that it

would not be ‘rose-water.’ I even believed that I should die under the

rods. I determined to get baptized. I said to myself, that perhaps they

would not then flog me, at any rate it was worth trying, my comrades had

told me that it would be of no good. But,’ I said to myself, ‘who knows?

perhaps they will pardon me, they will have more compassion on a

Christian than on a Mohammedan. They baptized me, and give me the name

of Alexander; but, in spite of that, I had to take my flogging; they did

not let me off a single stroke; I was, however, very savage. ‘Wait a

bit,’ I said to myself, ‘and I will take you all in’; and, would you

believe it, Alexander? I did take them all in. I knew how to look like a

dead man; not that I appeared altogether without life, but I looked as

if I were on the point of breathing my last. They led me in front of the

battalion to receive my first thousand; my skin was burning, I began to

howl. They gave me my second thousand, and I said to myself, ‘It’s all

over now.’ I had lost my head, my legs seemed broken, so I fell to the

ground, with the eyes of a dead man. My face blue, my mouth full of

froth, I no longer breathed. When the doctor came he said I was on the

point of death. I was carried to the hospital, and at once returned to

life. Twice again they flogged me. What a rage they were in! I took them

all in on each occasion. I received my third thousand, and died again.

On my word, when they gave me the last thousand each stroke ought to

have counted for three, it was like a knife in my heart. Oh, how they

did beat me! They were so severe with me. Oh, that cursed fourth

thousand! it was well worth three firsts put together. If I had

pretended to be dead when I had still 200 to receive, I think they would

have finished me; but they did not get the better of me. I had them

again and again, for they always thought it was all over with me, and

how could they have thought otherwise? The doctor was sure of it. But as

for the 200 which I had still to receive, they might have struck as hard

as they liked--they were worth 2,000; I only laughed at them. Why?

Because, when I was a youngster, I had grown up under the whip. Well, I

am well, and alive now; but I have been beaten in the course of my

life,” he repeated, with a passive air, as he brought his story to an

end. As he did so, he seemed to recollect and count anew the blows he

had received.

After a brief silence, he said: “I cannot count them, nor can any one

else; there are not figures enough.” He looked at me, and burst into a

laugh, so simple and natural, that I could not help smiling in return.

“Do you know, Alexander Petrovitch, when I dream at night, I always

dream that I am being flogged. I dream of nothing else.” He, in fact,

talked in his sleep, and woke up the other prisoners.

“What are you yelling about, you demon?” they would say to him.

This strong, robust fellow, short in stature, about forty-four years of

age, active, good-looking, lived on good terms with every one, though he

was very fond of taking what did not belong to him, and afterwards got

beaten for it. But each of our convicts who stole got beaten for their

thefts.

I will add to these remarks that I was always surprised at the

extraordinary good-nature, the absence of rancour with which these

unhappy men spoke of their punishment, and of the chiefs superintending

it. In these stories, which often gave me palpitation of the heart, not

a shadow of hatred or rancour could be detected; they laughed at what

they had suffered like children.

It was not the same, however, with M--tçki, when he told me of his

punishment. As he was not a noble, he had been sentenced to be flogged.

He had never spoken to me of it, and when I asked him if it were true,

he replied affirmatively in two brief words, but with evident suffering,

and without looking at me. He at the same time turned red, and when he

raised his eyes, I saw flames burning in them, while his lips trembled

with indignation. I felt that he would not forget, that he could never

forget this page of his history. Our companions generally on the other

hand (though theirs might have been exceptions), looked upon their

adventures with quite another eye. It is impossible, I sometimes

thought, that they can be conscious of their guilt, and not acknowledge

the justice of their punishment; above all, when their offences were

against their companions and not against some chief. The greater part of

them did not acknowledge their guilt. I have already said that I never

observed in them the least remorse, even when the crime had been

committed against people of their own station. As for the crimes

committed against a chief, they did not even speak of them. It seems to

me that for those cases, they had special views of their own. They

looked upon them as accidents caused by destiny, by fatality, into which

they had fallen unconsciously as the result of some extraordinary

impulse. The convict always justifies the crimes he has committed

against his chief; he does not trouble himself about the matter. But he

admits that the chief cannot share his view, and consequently, that he

must naturally be punished, and then he will be quits with him.

The struggle between the administration and the prisoner is of the

severest character on both sides. What in a great measure justifies the

criminal in his own eyes, is his conviction that the people among whom

he has been born and has lived will acquit him. He is certain that the

common people will not look upon him as a lost man, unless, indeed, his

crime has bean committed against persons of his own class, against his

brethren. He is quite calm about that; supported by his conscience, he

will not lose his moral tranquillity, and that is the principal thing.

He feels himself on firm ground, and has no particular hatred for the

knout, when once it has been administered to him. He knows that it was

inevitable, and consoles himself by thinking that he was neither the

first nor the last to receive it. Does the soldier detest the Turk whom

he fights? Not in the least! yet he sabres him, hacks him to pieces,

kills him.

It must not be thought, moreover, that all of these stories were told

with indifference and in cold blood.

When the name of Jerebiatnikof was mentioned, it was always with

indignation. I made the acquaintance of this officer during my first

stay in the hospital--only by the convicts’ stories, it must be

understood. I afterwards saw him one day when he was commanding the

guard at the convict prison; he was about thirty years old, very stout

and very strong, with red cheeks hanging down on each side, white teeth,

and a formidable laugh. One could see in a moment that he was in no way

given to reflection. He took the greatest pleasure in whipping and

flogging, when he had to superintend the punishment. I must hasten to

say that the other officers looked upon Jerebiatnikof as a monster, and

the convicts did the same. This was in the good old time, which is not

very very far off, but in which it is already difficult to believe

executioners delighted in their office. But, generally speaking, the

strokes were administered without enthusiasm.

This lieutenant was an exception, and he took a real pleasure and

delight in punishment. He had a passion for it, and liked it for its own

sake; he looked to this art for unnatural delights in order to tickle

and excite his base soul. A prisoner is conducted to the place of

punishment. Jerebiatnikof is the officer superintending the execution.

Arranging a long line of soldiers, armed with heavy rods, he walks along

the front with a satisfied air, and encourages each one to do his duty,

conscientiously or otherwise--the soldiers know before what “otherwise”

means. The criminal is brought out. If he does not yet know

Jerebiatnikof, if he is not in the secret of the mystery, the Lieutenant

plays him the following trick--one of the inventions of Jerebiatnikof,

very ingenious in this style of thing. The prisoner, whose back has been

bared, and whom the non-commissioned officers have fastened to the butt

end of a musket in order to drag him afterwards through the whole length

of the “Green Street.” He begs the officer in charge, with a plaintive

and tearful voice, not to have him struck too hard, not to double the

punishment by any undue severity.

“Your nobility!” cries the unhappy wretch, “have pity on me, treat me

fraternally, so that I may pray God throughout my life for you. Do not

destroy me, show mercy!”

Jerebiatnikof had waited for this. He now suspended the execution, and

engaged the prisoner in conversation, speaking to him in a sentimental,

compassionate tone.

“But, my good fellow,” he would say, “what am I to do? It is the law

that punishes you--it is the law.”

“Your nobility! You can make it everything; have pity upon me.”

“Do you really think that I have no pity on you? Do you think it is any

pleasure to me to see you whipped? I am a man, am I not? Answer me, am I

not a man?”

“Certainly, your nobility. We know that the officers are our fathers and

we their children. Be to me a venerable father,” the prisoner would cry,

seeing some possibility of escaping punishment.

“Then, my friend, judge for yourself. You have a brain to think with,

you know I am human, I ought to take compassion on you, sinner though

you be.”

“Your nobility says the absolute truth.”

“Yes, I ought to be merciful to you however guilty you may be. But it

is not I who punish you, it is the law. I serve God and my country, and

consequently I commit a grave sin if I mitigate the punishment fixed by

the law. Only think of that!”

“Your nobility!”

“Well, what am I to do? Only think, I know that I am doing wrong, but it

shall be as you wish; I will have mercy upon you, you shall be punished

lightly. But if I really do this on one occasion, if I show mercy, if I

punish you lightly, you will think that at another time I shall be

merciful, and you will recommence your follies. What do you say to

that?”

“Your nobility, preserve me! Before the throne of the heavenly Creator,

I----”

“No, no; you swear that you will behave yourself.”

“May the Lord cause me to die this moment and in the next world.”

“Do not swear in that way, it is a sin; I shall believe you if you will

give me your word.”

“Your nobility.”

“Well, listen, I will have mercy on you on account of your tears, your

orphan’s tears, for you are an orphan, are you not?”

“Orphan on both sides, your nobility, I am alone in the world.”

“Well, on account of your orphan’s tears I have pity on you,” he added,

in a voice so full of emotion, that the prisoner could not sufficiently

thank God for having sent him so good an officer.

The procession went out, the drum rolled, the soldiers brandished their

arms. “Flog him,” Jerebiatnikof would roar from the bottom of his lungs,

“flog him! burn him! skin him alive! Harder! harder! Give it harder to

this orphan! Give it him, the rogue.”

The soldiers lay on the strokes with all their might on the back of the

unhappy wretch, whose eyes dart fire, and who howls while Jerebiatnikof

runs after him in front of the line, holding his sides with

laughter--he puffs and blows so that he can scarcely hold himself

upright. He is happy. He thinks it droll. From time to time his

formidable resonant laugh is heard, as he keeps on repeating, “Flog him!

thrash him! this brigand! this orphan!”

He had composed variation on this motive. The prisoner has been brought

to undergo his punishment. He begs the lieutenant to have pity on him.

This time Jerebiatnikof does not play the hypocrite; he is frank with

the prisoner.

“Look, my dear fellow, I will punish you as you deserve, but I can show

you one act of mercy. I will not attach you to the butt end of the

musket, you shall go along in a new style, you have only to run as hard

as you can along the front, each rod will strike you as a matter of

course, but it will be over sooner. What do you say to that, will you

try?”

The prisoner, who has listened, full of mistrust and doubt, says to

himself: Perhaps this way will not be so bad as the other. If I run with

all my might, it will not last quite so long, and perhaps all the rods

will not touch me.

“Well, your nobility, I consent.”

“I also consent. Come, mind your business,” cries the lieutenant to the

soldiers. He knew beforehand that not one rod would spare the back of

the unfortunate wretch; the soldier who failed to hit him would know

what to expect.

The convict tries to run along the “Green Street,” but he does not go

beyond fifteen men before the rods rain upon his poor spine like hail;

so that the unfortunate man shrieks out, and falls as if he had been

struck by a bullet.

“No, your nobility, I prefer to be flogged in the ordinary way,” he

says, managing to get up, pale and frightened. While Jerebiatnikof, who

knew beforehand how this affair would end, held his sides and burst into

a laugh.

But I cannot relate all the diversions invented by him, and all that

was told about him.

My companions also spoke of a Lieutenant Smekaloff, who fulfilled the

functions of Commandant before the arrival of our present Major. They

spoke of Jerebiatnikof with indifference, without hatred, but also

without exalting his high achievements. They did not praise him, they

simply despised him, whilst at the name of Smekaloff the whole prison

burst into a chorus of laudation. The Lieutenant was by no means fond of

administering the rods; there was nothing in him of Jerebiatnikof’s

disposition. How did it happen that the convicts remembered his

punishments, severe as they were, with sweet satisfaction. How did he

manage to please them. How did he gain the popularity he certainly

enjoyed?

Our companions, like Russian people in general, were ready to forget

their tortures if a kind word was said to them; I speak of the effect

itself without analysing or examining it. It is not difficult, then, to

gain the affections of such a people and become popular. Lieutenant

Smekaloff had gained such popularity, and when the punishments he had

directed were spoken of, they were always mentioned with a certain

sympathy.

“He was as kind as a father,” the convicts would sometimes say, as, with

a sigh, they compared him with their present chief, the Major who had

replaced him.

He was a simple-minded man, and kind in a manner. There are chiefs who

are naturally kind and merciful, but who are not at all liked and are

laughed at; whereas, Smekaloff had so managed that all the prisoners had

a special regard for him; this was due to innate qualities, which those

who possess them do not understand. Strange thing! There are men who are

far from being kind, and who have yet the talent of making themselves

popular; they do not despise the people who are beneath their rule.

That, I think, is the cause of this popularity. They do not give

themselves lordly airs; they have no feeling of “caste;” they have a

certain odour of the people; they are men of birth, and the people at

once sniff it. They will do anything for such men; they will gladly

change the mildest and most humane man for a very severe chief, if the

latter possesses this sort of odour, and especially if the man is also

genial in his way. Oh! then he is beyond price.

Lieutenant Smekaloff, as I have said, ordered sometimes very severe

punishments. But he seemed to inflict them in such a way, that the

prisoners felt no rancour against him. On the contrary, they recalled

his whipping affairs with laughter; he did not punish frequently, for he

had no artistic imagination. He had invented only one practical joke, a

single one which amused him for nearly a year in our convict prison.

This joke was dear to him, probably, because it was his only one, and it

was not without humour.

Smekaloff assisted himself at the executions, joking all the time, and

laughing at the prisoner as he questioned him about the most

out-of-the-way things, such, for instance, as his private affairs. He

did this without any bad motive, and simply because he really wished to

know something about the man’s affairs. A chair was brought to him,

together with the rods which were to be used for chastising the

prisoner. The Lieutenant sat down and lighted his long pipe; the

prisoner implored him.

“No, comrade, lie down. What is the matter with you?”

The convict stretched himself on the ground with a sigh.

“Can you read fluently?”

“Of course, your nobility; I am baptized, and I was taught to read when

I was a child.”

“Then read this.”

The convict knows beforehand what he is to read, and knows how the

reading will end, because this joke has been repeated more than thirty

times; but Smekaloff knows also that the convict is not his dupe any

more than the soldier who now holds the rods suspended over the back of

the unhappy victim. The convict begins to read; the soldiers armed with

the rods await motionless. Smekaloff ceases even to smoke, raises his

hand, and waits for a word fixed upon beforehand. At the word, which

from some double meaning might be interpreted as the order to start, the

Lieutenant raises his hand, and the flogging begins. The officer bursts

into a laugh, and the soldiers around him also laugh; the man who is

whipping laughs, and the man who is being whipped also.

CHAPTER III.

THE HOSPITAL[4] (_continued_).

I have spoken here of punishments and of those who have administered

them, because I got a very clear idea on the subject during my stay in

the hospital. Until then I knew of them only by general report. In our

room were confined all the prisoners from the battalion who were to

receive the spitzruten [rods], as well as those from the military

establishment in our town and in the district surrounding it.

During my first few days I looked at all that surrounded me with such

greedy eyes that these strange manners, these men who had just been

flogged or were about to be flogged, left upon me a terrible impression.

I was agitated, frightened.

As I listened to the conversation or narratives of the other prisoners

on this subject, I put to myself questions which I endeavoured in vain

to solve. I wished to know all the degrees of the sentences; the

punishments, and their shades; and to learn the opinion of the convicts

themselves. I tried to represent to myself the psychological condition

of the men flogged.

It rarely happened, as I have already said, that the prisoner approached

the fatal moment in cold blood, even if he had been beaten several times

before. The condemned man experiences a fear which is very terrible, but

purely physical--an unconscious fear which upsets his moral nature.

During my several years’ stay in the convict prison I was able to study

at leisure the prisoners who wished to leave the hospital, where they

had remained some time to have their damaged backs cured before

receiving the second half of their punishment. This interruption in the

punishment is always called for by the doctor who assists at the

execution.

If the number of strokes to be received is too great for them to be

administered all at once, it is divided according to advice given by the

doctor on the spot. It is for him to see if the prisoner is in a

condition to undergo the whole of his punishment, or if his life is in

danger.

Five hundred, one thousand, and even one thousand five hundred strokes

with the stick are administered at once. But if it is two or three

thousand the punishment is divided into two or three doses.

Those whose back had been cured after the first administration, and who

are to undergo a second, were sad, sombre and silent the day they went

out, and the evening before. They were almost in a state of torpor. They

engaged in no conversation, and remained perfectly silent.

It is worthy of remark that the prisoners avoid addressing those who are

about to be punished, and, above all, never make any allusion to the

subject, neither in consolation nor in superfluous words. No attention

whatever is paid to them, which is certainly the best thing for the

prisoner.

There are exceptions, however.

The convict Orloff, of whom I have already spoken, was sorry that his

back did not get more quickly cured, for he was anxious to get his

leave-ticket in order that he might take the rest of his flogging, and

then be assigned to a convoy of prisoners, when he meant to escape

during the journey. He had a passionate, ardent nature, and with only

that object in view.

A cunning rascal, he seemed very pleased when he first came; but he was

in a state of abnormal excitement, though he endeavoured to conceal it.

He had been afraid of being left on the ground, and dying before half of

his punishment had been undergone. He had heard steps taken in his case,

by the authorities, when he was still being tried, and he thought he

could not survive the punishment. But when he had received his first

dose he recovered his courage.

When he came to the hospital I had never seen such wounds as his; but he

was in the best spirits. He now hoped to be able to live. The stories

which had reached him were untrue, or the execution would not have been

interrupted.

He now began to think of a long Siberian journey, possibly of escaping

to liberty, fields, and forests.

Two days after he had left the hospital he came back to die--on the very

couch which he had occupied during my stay there.

He had been unable to support the second half of his punishment; but I

have already spoken of this man.

All the prisoners without exception, even the most pusillanimous, even

those who were beforehand tormented night and day, supported it

courageously when it came. I scarcely ever heard groans during the night

following the execution; our people, as a rule, knew how to endure pain.

I questioned my companion often in reference to this pain, that I might

know to what kind of suffering it might be compared. It was no idle

curiosity which urged me. I repeat that I was moved and frightened; but

it was in vain, I could get no satisfactory reply.

“It burns like fire!” was the general answer; they all said the same

thing.

First I tried to question M--tski. “It burns like fire! like hell! It

seems as if one’s back were in a furnace.”

I made one day a strange observation, which may or may not have been

well founded, although the opinion of the convicts themselves confirms

my views; namely, that the rods are the most terrible punishment in use

among us.

At first it seems absurd, impossible, yet five hundred strokes of the

rods, four hundred even, are enough to kill a man. Beyond five hundred

death is almost certain; the most robust man will be unable to support a

thousand rods, whereas five hundred sticks are endured without much

inconvenience, and without the least risk in the world of losing one’s

life. A man of ordinary build supports a thousand sticks without danger;

even two thousand sticks will not kill a man of ordinary strength and

constitution. All the convicts declared that rods were worse than sticks

or ramrods.

“Rods hurt more and torture more!” they said.

They must torture more than sticks, that is certain, that is evident;

for they irritate much more forcibly the nervous system, which they

excite beyond measure. I do not know whether any person still exists,

but such did a short time ago, to whom the whipping of a victim procured

a delight which recalls the Marquis de Sade and the Marchioness

Brinvilliers. I think this delight must consist in the sinking of the

heart, and that these nobles must have experienced pain and delight at

the same time.

There are people who, like tigers, are greedy for blood. Those who have

possessed unlimited power over the flesh, blood, and soul of their

fellow-creatures, of their brethren according to the law of Christ,

those who have possessed this power and who have been able to degrade

with a supreme degradation, another being made in the image of God;

these men are incapable of resisting their desires and their thirst for

sensations. Tyranny is a habit capable of being developed, and at last

becomes a disease. I declare that the best man in the world can become

hardened and brutified to such a point, that nothing will distinguish

him from a wild beast. Blood and power intoxicate; they aid the

development of callousness and debauchery; the mind then becomes capable

of the most abnormal cruelty in the form of pleasure; the man and the

citizen disappear for ever in the tyrant; and then a return to human

dignity, repentance, moral resurrection, becomes almost impossible.

That the possibility of such license has a contagious effect on the

whole of society there is no doubt. A society which looks upon such

things with an indifferent eye, is already infected to the marrow. In a

word, the right granted to a man to inflict corporal punishment on his

fellow-men, is one of the plague-spots of our society. It is the means

of annihilating all civic spirit. Such a right contains in germ the

elements of inevitable, imminent decomposition.

Society despises an executioner by trade, but not a lordly executioner.

Every manufacturer, every master of works, must feel an irritating

pleasure when he reflects that the workman he has beneath his orders is

dependent upon him with the whole of his family. A generation does not,

I am sure, extirpate so quickly what is hereditary in it. A man cannot

renounce what is in his blood, what has been transmitted to him with his

mother’s milk; these revolutions are not accomplished so quickly. It is

not enough to confess one’s fault. That is very little! Very little

indeed! It must be rooted out, and that is not done so quickly.

I have spoken of the executioners. The instincts of an executioner are

in germ in nearly every one of our contemporaries; but the animal

instincts of the man have not developed themselves in a uniform manner.

When they stifle all other faculties, the man becomes a hideous monster.

There are two kinds of executioners, those who of their own will are

executioners and those who are executioners by duty, by reason of

office. He who, by his own will, is an executioner, is in all respects

below the salaried executioner, whom, however, the people look upon with

repugnance, and who inspires them with disgust, with instinctive

mystical fear. Whence comes this almost superstitious horror for the

latter, when one is only indifferent and indulgent to the former?

I know strange examples of honourable men, kind, esteemed by all their

friends, who found it necessary that a culprit should be whipped until

he would implore and beg for mercy; it seemed to them a natural thing, a

thing recognised as indispensable. If the victim did not choose to cry

out, his executioner, whom in other respects I should consider a good

man, looked upon it as a personal offence; he meant, in the first

instance, to inflict only a light punishment, but directly he failed to

hear the habitual supplications, “Your nobility!” “Have mercy!” “Be a

father to me!” “Let me thank God all my life!” he became furious, and

ordered that fifty more blows should be administered, hoping thus, at

last, to obtain the necessary cries and supplications; and at last they

came.

“Impossible! he is too insolent,” cried the man in question, very

seriously.

As for the executioner by office, he is a convict who has been chosen

for this function. He passes an apprenticeship with an old hand, and as

soon as he knows his trade remains in the convict prison, where he lives

by himself. He has a room, which he shares with no one. Sometimes,

indeed, he has a separate establishment, but he is always under guard. A

man is not a machine. Although he whips by virtue of his office, he

sometimes becomes furious, and beats with a certain pleasure.

Notwithstanding he has no hatred for his victim, a desire to show his

skill in the art of whipping may sharpen his vanity. He works as an

artist; he knows well that he is a reprobate, and that he excites

everywhere superstitious dread. It is impossible that this should

exercise no influence upon him, and not irritate his brutal instincts.

Even little children say that this man has neither father nor mother.

Strange thing!

All the executioners I have known were intelligent men, possessing a

certain degree of conceit. This conceit became developed in them through

the contempt which they everywhere met with, and was strengthened,

perhaps, by the consciousness of the fear with which they inspired their

victims, and of the power over unfortunate wretches.

The theatrical paraphernalia surrounding them developed, perhaps, in

them a certain arrogance. I had for some time an opportunity of meeting

and observing at close quarters an ordinary executioner. He was a man

about forty, muscular, dry, with an agreeable, intelligent face,

surrounded by long curly hair. His manners were quiet and grave, his

general demeanour becoming. He replied clearly and sensibly to all

questions put to him, but with a sort of condescension as if he were in

some way my superior. The officers of the guard spoke to him with a

certain respect, which he fully appreciated, for which reason, in

presence of his chiefs, he became polite, and more dignified than ever.

He never departed from the most refined politeness. I am sure that, when

I was speaking to him, he felt incomparably superior to the man who was

addressing him. I could read that in his countenance. Sometimes he was

sent under escort, in summer, when it was very hot, to kill the dogs of

the town with a long, very thin spear. These wandering dogs increased in

numbers with such prodigious rapidity, and became so dangerous during

the dog days, that, by the decision of the authorities, the executioner

was ordered to destroy them. This degrading duty did not in any way

humiliate him. It should have been seen with what gravity he walked

through the streets of the town, accompanied by a soldier escorting him;

how, with a single glance, he frightened the women and children; and

how, from the height of his grandeur, he looked down upon the passers-by

generally.

Executioners live at their ease. They have money to travel comfortably,

and drink vodka. They derive most of their income from presents which

the prisoners condemned to be flogged slip into their hands before the

execution. When they have to do with convicts who are rich, they then

fix a sum to be paid in proportion to the means of the victim. They will

exact thirty roubles, sometimes more. The executioner has no right to

spare his victim; and he does so at the risk of his own back. But for a

suitable present he agrees not to strike too hard. People almost always

give what he asks; should they in any case refuse, he would strike like

a savage; and it is in his power to do so. He sometimes exacts a heavy

sum from a man who is very poor. Then all the relations of the victim

are put in movement. They bargain, try and beat him down, supplicate

him; but it will not be well if they do not succeed in satisfying him.

In such a case the superstitious fear inspired by the executioner stands

them in good part. I had been told the most wonderful things--that at

one blow the executioner can kill his man.

“Is this your experience?” I asked.

Perhaps so. Who knows? Their tone seemed to decide, if there could be

any doubt about it. They also told me that he can strike a criminal in

such a way that he will not feel the least pain, and without leaving a

scar.

Even when the executioner receives a present not to whip too severely,

he gives the first blow with all his strength. It is the custom! Then he

administers the other blows with less severity, above all if he has been

well paid.

I do not know why this is done. Is it to prepare the victim for the

succeeding blows, which will appear less painful after the first cruel

one; or do they want to frighten the criminal, so that he may know with

whom he has to deal; or do they simply wish to display their vigour from

vanity? In any case the executioner is slightly excited before the

execution, and he is conscious of his strength and of his power. He is

acting at the time; the public admires him, and is filled with terror.

Accordingly, it is not without satisfaction that he cries out to his

victim, “Look out! you are going to have it!”--customary and fatal words

which precede the first blow.

It is difficult to imagine a human being degraded to such a point.

The first day of my stay at the hospital I listened attentively to the

stories of the convicts, which broke the monotony of the long days.

In the morning, the doctor’s visit was the first diversion. Then came

dinner, which it will be believed was the most important affair of our

daily life. The portions were different according to the nature of the

illness: some of the prisoners received nothing but broth with groats in

it; others nothing but gruel; others a kind of semolina, which was much

liked. The convicts ended by becoming effeminate and fastidious. The

convalescents received a piece of boiled beef. The best food, which was

reserved for the scorbutic patients, consisted of roast beef with

onions, horseradish, and sometimes a small glass of spirits. The bread

was, according to the illness, black or brown; the precision preserved

in distributing the rations would make the patients laugh.

There were some who took absolutely nothing; the portions were exchanged

in such a way that the food intended for one patient was eaten by

another: those who were being kept on low diet, who received only small

rations, bought those of the scorbutic patients; others would give any

price for meat. There were some who ate two entire portions; it cost

them a good deal, for they were generally sold at five kopecks each. If

one had no meat to sell in our room the warder was sent to another

section, and if he could not find any there he was asked to get some

from the military “infirmary”--the free infirmary, as we called it.

There were always patients ready to sell their rations; poverty was

general, and those who possessed a few kopecks used to send out to buy

cakes and white bread, or other delicacies, at the market. Warders

executed these commissions in a disinterested manner. The most painful

moment was that which followed the dinner; some went to sleep, if they

had no other way of passing their time; others either wrangled or told

stories in a loud voice.

When no new patients were brought in, everything became very dull. The

arrival of a new patient caused always a certain excitement, above all,

if no one knew anything about him; he was questioned about his past

life.

The most interesting ones were the birds of passage: they had always

something to tell.

Of course they never spoke of their own little faults. If the prisoner

did not enter upon this subject himself, no one questioned him about it.

The only thing he was asked was, what quarter he came from? who were

with him on the road? what state the road was in? where he was being

taken to? etc. Stimulated by the stories of the new comers, our comrades

in their turn began to tell what they had seen and done; what was most

talked about was the convoys, those in command of them, the men who

carried the sentences into execution.

About this time, too, towards evening, the convicts who had been

scourged came up; they always made a rather strong impression, as I have

said; but it was not every day that any of these were brought to us, and

everybody was bored to extinction, when nothing happened to give a

fillip to the general relaxed and indolent state of feeling. It seemed,

then, as though the sick themselves were exasperated at the very sight

of those near them. Sometimes they squabbled violently.

Our convicts were in high glee when a madman was taken off for medical

examination; sometimes those who were sentenced to be scourged, feigned

insanity that they might get off. The trick was found out, or it would

sometimes be that they voluntarily gave up the pretence. Prisoners, who

during two or three days had done all sorts of wild things, suddenly

became steady and sensible people, quieted down, and, with a gloomy

smile, asked to be taken out of the hospital. Neither the other convicts

nor the doctors said a word of remonstrance to them about the deceit, or

brought up the subject of their mad pranks. Their names were put down on

a list without a word being said, and they were simply taken elsewhere;

after the lapse of some days they came back to us with their backs all

wounds and blood.

On the other hand, the arrival of a genuine lunatic was a miserable

thing to see all through the place. Those of the mentally unsound who

were gay, lively, who uttered cries, danced, sang, were greeted at first

with enthusiasm by the convicts.

“Here’s fun!” said they, as they looked on the grins and contortions of

the unfortunates. But the sight was horribly painful and sad. I have

never been able to look upon the mad calmly or with indifference. There

was one who was kept three weeks in our room: we would have hidden

ourselves, had there been any place to do it. When things were at the

worst they brought in another. This one affected me very powerfully.

In the first year, or, to be more exact, during the first month of my

exile, I went to work with a gang of kiln men to the tileries situate at

two versts from our prison. We were set to repairing the kiln in which

the bricks were baked in summer. That morning, in which M--tski and B.

made me acquainted with the non-commissioned officer, superintendent of

the works. This was a Pole already well on in life, sixty years old at

least, of high stature, lean, of decent and even somewhat imposing

exterior. He had been a long time in service in Siberia, and although he

belonged to the lower orders he had been a soldier, and in the rising of

1830--M--tski and B. loved and esteemed him. He was always reading the

Vulgate. I spoke to him; his talk was agreeable and intelligent; he told

a story in a most interesting way; he was straightforward and of

excellent temper. For two years I never saw him again, all I heard was

that he had become a “case,” and that they were inquiring into it; and

then one fine day they brought him into our room; he had gone quite mad.

He came in yelling, uttering shouts of laughter, and began to dance in

the middle of the room with indecent gestures which recalled the dance

known as Kamarinskaïa.

The convicts were wild with enthusiasm; but, for my part, account for it

as you will, I felt utterly miserable. Three days after, we were all of

us upset with it; he got into violent disputes with everybody, fought,

groaned, sang in the dead of the night; his aberrations were so

inordinate and disgusting as to bring our very stomachs up.

He feared nobody. They put the strait-waistcoat on him; but we were no

whit better off for it, for he went on quarreling and fighting all

round. At the end of three weeks, the room put up an unanimous entreaty

to the head doctor that he might be removed to the other apartment

reserved for the convicts. But after two days, at the request of the

sick people in that other room, they brought him back to our infirmary.

As we had two madmen there at once, both rooms kept sending them back

and forward, and ended by taking one or the other of the two lunatics,

turn and turn about. Everybody breathed more freely when they took them

away from us, a good way off, somewhere or other.

There was another lunatic whom I remember--a very remarkable creature.

They had brought in, during the summer, a man under sentence, who

looked like a solid and vigorous fellow enough, of about forty-five

years. His face was sombre and sad, pitted with small-pox, with little

red and swollen eyes. He sat down by my side. He was extremely quiet;

spoke to nobody, and seemed utterly absorbed in his own deep

reflections.

Night fell; then he addressed me, and, without a word of preface, told

me in a hurried and excited way--as if it were a mighty secret he were

confiding--that he was to have two thousand strokes with the rod; but

that he had nothing to fear, as the daughter of Colonel G---- was taking

steps on his behalf.

I looked at him with surprise, and observed that, as I saw the affair,

the daughter of a Colonel could be of little use in such a case. I had

not yet guessed what sort of person I had to do with, for they had

brought him to the hospital as a bodily sick person, not mentally. I

then asked him what illness he was suffering from.

He answered that he knew nothing about it; that he had been sent among

us for something or other; but that he was in good health, and that the

Colonel’s daughter had fallen in love with him. Two weeks before she had

passed in a carriage before the guard-house, where he was looking

through the barred window, and she had gone head over ears in love at

the mere sight of him.

After that important moment she had come three times to the guard-house

on different pretexts. The first time with her father, ostensibly to

visit her brother, who was the officer on service; the second with her

mother, to distribute alms to the prisoners. As she passed in front of

him she had muttered that she loved him and would get him out of prison.

He told me all this nonsense with minute and exact details; all of it

pure figment of his poor disordered head. He believed devoutly and

implicitly that his punishment would be graciously remitted. He spoke

very calmly, and with all assurance of the passionate love he had

inspired in this young lady.