Complete works of fyodor.., p.153
Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky, page 153
I have wiped down the panels of the door,
I have cooked the patties.
But for the most part they sang prison songs, one of them called ‘ As it happened,’ which was most amusing. It told how a man amused himself and lived like a prince until he was sent to prison, where he fared very differently. Another very popular number explained how the hero had once owned capital, but now possessed nothing but captivity. Here is a true convict song:
The day breaks in the heavens,
We are waked up by the drum.
The old man opens the door,
The warder comes and calls us.
No one sees us behind the prison walls,
Nor how we live in this place.
But God, the Heavenly Creator, is with us.
He will not let us perish.
Another, still more melancholy but set to glorious music, was spoiled by its tame and inaccurate wording. I can remember a few of the verses:
My eyes no more will see the land,
Where I was born;
To suffer torments undeserved,
Will be my punishment.
The owl will shriek upon the roof,
And raise the echoes of the forest.
My heart is broken down with grief.
No, never more shall I return.
This is a favourite solo piece, and is seldom sung in chorus. When the day’s work is done, a prisoner will go outside, squat on the doorstep, and meditate with his chin in his hand. Presently he begins to drawl a song in high falsetto. We listen, and the effect is heart-rending. Some of the men had beautiful voices.
Dusk was closing in. Wearisomeness and general depression were making themselves felt after drunkenness and debauchery. One fellow, who an hour beforehand was holding his sides with laughter, now sat in a corner maudlin drunk; others fought or tottered about the barracks, pale, very pale, and looking for someone with whom to quarrel. The poor creatures had meant to spend a merry Christmas, but for most of them it had proved an unhappy day. They had looked vaguely for a joy that was beyond their reach. For instance, on the two occasions that I ran across Petroff he was sober enough, having drunk next to nothing. Yet right up to the last he was expecting something extraordinary to happen. He did not say so, but you could read it in his eyes. He ran tirelessly from one barrack to another, but found nothing but general intoxication, the meaningless abuse of drunken men, and the giddiness of overheated brains.
Sirotkin too wandered about the barracks, dressed in a brand new red shirt and good-looking as ever. He too was on the watch for something to happen. The spectacle was most unpleasant; indeed, it became quite nauseating. There were some amusing incidents, but I was too sad to be entertained. I felt a deep pity for all these men, whose company seemed to strangle, stifle me. Here are two convicts disputing as to which of them should treat the other. The argument lasts long; they have almost come to blows. One of them has for long borne a grudge against the other. Stammering with indignation, he tries to prove his companion acted dishonestly a year before by selling a pelisse for him and keeping back the money. Nor is this the end of it. The complainant is a tall, well-developed young fellow, quiet, by no means stupid, but who, when drunk, wishes to make friends with everyone and to pour out his grief. He insults his adversary for the sake of the reconciliation that he hopes will follow. The other man, a big, massive person with a round face and as cunning as a fox, has perhaps drunk more than his companion, but he appears only slightly intoxicated. He is supposed to be rich and may therefore be presumed to have no ulterior motive in irritating his companion, whom he accordingly leads to one of the drink-sellers. The other fellow declares that his companion owes him money in any case, and is therefore bound to stand him a drink ‘ if he has any pretensions to be considered an honest man.’
The drink-seller, not without respect for the customer and a touch of contempt for his argumentative friend who was going to drink at someone else’s expense, took a glass and filled it with vodka.
‘No, Stepka, you’ll have to pay; after all, you owe me money.’
‘ I won’t tire my tongue talking to you any longer,’ replied Stepka.
‘ No, Stepka, you lie,’ continued his friend, seizing the glass offered by the drink-seller. ‘You owe me money, you can’t have any conscience. You haven’t a thing on you that’s not borrowed, I don’t believe your very eyes are your own. In fact, Stepka, you’re a blackguard.’
‘What are you whining about? Look, you’re spilling your vodka.’
‘Since you’re being treated, why don’t you drink up?’ cries the drink-seller to the argumentative friend. ‘I can’t wait here all night.’
‘I’ll drink up, don’t you fear. What are you worrying about? My best wishes for the day. My best wishes for the day, Stepka Doroveitch,’ and he bows, glass in hand, towards Stepka whom a moment ago he called a blackguard. ‘Good health to you, and may you live another hundred years.’ He drinks, gives a grunt of satisfaction, and wipes his mouth. ‘What a lot of brandy I’ve drunk,’ he says, gravely speaking to everyone but without addressing anyone in particular, ‘ but I’ve finished now. Say thank you, Stepka Doroveitch.’
‘ There’s nothing to thank you for.’
‘Ah! you won’t thank me. Then I’ll tell everyone what you did to me, and that you’re a scoundrel.’
‘Then I shall have something to tell you, you drunkard,’ interrupts Stepka, who at last loses patience. ‘Listen to me now. Let us divide the world in two. You shall take one half, I the other. Then I shall have peace.’
‘Then you’ll not give me back my money?’
‘What money, you drunken sot?’
‘My money that I earned with the sweat of my brow and the labour of my hands. You’ll be sorry for it in the next world. You’ll be roasted for those five kopecks.’
‘Go to the devil.’
‘What are you driving me for? Am I a horse?’
‘Be off, be off.’
‘Blackguard!’
‘ Convict!’
And the insults exchanged were worse than they had been before the visit to the drink-seller.
Another couple of friends are seated, each on his own bed. One is tall, vigorous, fleshy, with a red face-a regular butcher. He is on the verge of weeping, for he has been deeply moved. The other is tall, thin, conceited, with an immense nose which always seems to have a cold, and little blue eyes fixed upon the ground. He is a clever, well-bred man, and was formerly a secretary. He treats his friend with a trace of contempt which the latter cannot endure. They have been drinking together all day.
‘You’ve taken a liberty with me,’ cried the stout one, shaking his companion’s head with his left hand. To take a liberty means, in prison slang, to strike. This convict, formerly a non-commissioned officer, secretly envies his neighbour’s elegance, and endeavours to make up for his material grossness by refined conversation.
‘ I tell you, you are wrong,’ says the secretary, in a dogmatic tone, with his eyes obstinately fixed on the ground, and without looking at his companion.
‘You struck me. Do you hear?’ continued the other, still shaking his dear friend. ‘You’re the only man in the world I care for, but you shan’t take a liberty with me.’
‘Confess, my dear fellow,’ replies the secretary, ‘that all this is the result of too much drink.’
The corpulent friend staggers backward, peers drunkenly at the secretary, whom he suddenly hits with all his strength right between the eyes. Thus terminates the day’s friendship. The victim disappears unconscious beneath the bedstead.
An acquaintance of mine now entered the room. He belonged to the special section and was a very good-natured,; gay fellow, far from stupid, and jocular without malice. He was the man who, on my arrival at the prison, was looking out for a rich peasant, the man who spoke so much of his self-respect and ended by drinking my tea. He was forty years old, had enormous lips, and a fat, fleshy, red nose. He held a balalaika, and idly plucked its strings. He was followed by a little convict with a large head, whom I knew very little and to whom no one paid any attention. Now that he was drunk he had attached himself to Vermaloff and followed him about like his shadow, at the same time gesticulating and striking the wall and bedsteads. He was almost in tears. Vermaloff took as much notice of him as if he had not existed. The most curious fact was that these two men had absolutely nothing in common; they were utterly different in outlook and occupation. They belonged to different sections, and lived in separate barracks. The little fellow’s name was Bulkin.
Vermaloff smiled when he saw me seated by the stove. He stopped at some distance from me, reflected for a moment, tottered, and then came towards me with an affected swagger. Then he swept the strings of his instrument and sang, or rather recited, beating time with the toe of his boot:
My darling!
With her full, fair face,
Sings like a nightingale;
In her satin dress,
With its brilliant trimming,
She is very fair.
This song roused Bulkin to an extraordinary pitch of excitement. He waved his arms, and shouted for the benefit of all and sundry: ‘He lies, my friends; he lies like a quack doctor. There is not a shadow of truth in what he sings!’
‘My respects to the venerable Alexander Petrovitch,’ said Vermaloff, looking at me with a knowing smile. I fancied he was even going to embrace me. He was drunk. That expression, ‘My respects to the venerable So-and-so,’ is used by the common people throughout Siberia, and may refer even to a young man of twenty. To call a man ‘old’ is a sign of respect, and may amount even to flattery.
‘Well, Vermaloff, how are you?’ I replied.
‘So, so. Nothing to boast of. Those who really enjoy the holiday have been drinking since early morning…’
The rest of the sentence was inaudible.
‘He lies; he lies again,’ said Bulkin, striking the beds as if in despair.
Still Vermaloff ignored him, so deliberately that he might have sworn on oath to do so. That was really the most comic thing about it, for Bulkin had not quitted his side the whole day, finding fault with every word he spoke, wringing his hands, and striking his fists against the wall and the beds till he made them bleed, he suffered visibly from his conviction that Vermaloff ‘lied like a quack doctor.’ If Bulkin had had any hair on his head he would certainly have torn it out in a fury of disappointment. One might have thought he had assumed responsibility for Vermaloff’s behaviour, and that all Vermaloff’s faults troubled his conscience. The amusing part of it was that Vermaloff continued as before.
‘He lies! He lies! He lies!’ cried Bulkin.
‘What can it matter to you?’ replied the convicts, with a laugh.
‘I must tell you, Alexander Petrovitch, that I was very good-looking when I was a young man, and the young girls were very fond of me,’ said Vermaloff suddenly.
‘ He lies! He lies! ‘ interrupted Bulkin with a groan. The convicts burst out laughing.
‘And I dressed to kill, too: red shirt and broad trousers of cotton velvet. I was happy in those days. I got up when I liked and did whatever I pleased. In fact’
‘He lies,’ declared Bulkin.
‘ I inherited from my father a house built of stone and two storeys high. Within two years I had spent both storeys; nothing remained to me but the street door. But what of it? Money comes and goes like a bird.’
‘He lies!’ declared Bulkin, more resolutely than before.
‘When I had spent all my money I wrote and asked my relations for more. They considered that I had defied them and been disrespectful. It is now seven years since I posted that letter.’
‘Any answer?’ I asked, with a smile.
‘No,’ he replied, also laughing and thrusting his face close to mine.
He then informed me that he had a sweetheart.
‘You a sweetheart?’
‘Onufrield said to me the other day: “My girl’s marked with small-pox-ugly as hell; but she has plenty of dresses. Yours may be pretty, but she’s a beggar.”’
‘Is that so?’
‘ Certainly, she is a beggar,’ he answered.
He roared with laughter, and everyone joined in, for they all knew he had a liaison with a beggar woman, to whom he gave ten kopecks every six months.
‘Well, what do you want with me?’ I asked, wishing now to get rid of him.
He remained silent, and then, looking at me in a most insinuating manner, said:
‘Couldn’t you let me have enough to buy half a pint? I’ve drunk nothing but tea the whole day,’ he added, taking the money I offered him, ‘and tea doesn’t agree with me, I’m afraid of becoming asthmatic. Besides, it gives me wind.’
When Bulkin saw him accept the money, his indignation knew no bounds. He gesticulated like a man possessed.
‘Good people all,’ he cried, ‘the man lies. Everything he says-it’s all a lie.’
‘What’s that to do with you?’ the convicts shouted, astonished at his behaviour. ‘You’re possessed.’
‘I will not allow him to he,’ continued Bulkin, rolling his eyes, and striking his fist with energy on the bed-boards. ‘He shall not lie.’
There was more laughter. Vermaloff had obtained what he wanted; he bowed and ran off grimacing to the drink seller. Then only did he notice Bulkin.
‘ Come! ‘ he said, as if Bulkin were indispensable for the execution of some design. ‘ Idiot! ‘ he added contemptuously as his companion passed before him.
Enough of this tumultuous scene, which was soon over.
The convicts turned in and slept heavily, talking and raving in their sleep more than on other nights. A few continued playing cards. The festival looked forward to with such impatience was now over, and to-morrow the daily round, the hard labour, would begin again.
CHAPTER XII
THE PLAY
On the evening of the third day of the holidays there took place our first theatrical performance. Its organization had caused endless trouble, but those who were to act had undertaken full responsibility, and the other convicts knew nothing about the show except that it was to take place. We were not even told the name of the piece. The principal concern of the actors was to obtain the largest possible number of costumes. Whenever I met Baklouchin he snapped his fingers with satisfaction, but told me nothing. I think the governor was well disposed; but we were not certain whether he knew what was going on or not, whether he had authorized it, or whether he had determined to shut his eyes and say nothing, after assuring himself that there would be no disturbance. I fancy he must have known what was afoot but said nothing about it for fear of worse consequences. The soldiers would give trouble, or at least get drunk, unless they had something to divert them. That was a natural conclusion. Indeed, if the convicts themselves had not organized some form of entertainment during the holidays, the authorities would have been obliged to do so. However, the governor was full of idiosyncrasies, and I may be quite wrong in assuming that he both knew and had authorized our project. A man like him must be for ever interfering and disappointing others, taking something away, depriving someone of his rights. He was known far and wide as a kill-joy and a martinet.
It mattered nothing to the governor that his severity made the men rebellious. For such offences there were suitable punishments (there are some people who reason in this way), and the only way to deal with a rascally gang of convicts was to treat them harshly and with the full rigour of the law. An incompetent officer can never understand that to apply the law without understanding its spirit is to invite opposition. He is surprised if you tell him that, besides invoking regulations, he should display a measure of common sense. He looks upon sweet reasonableness as superfluous; to expect such a thing is in his eyes vexatious, intolerant.
However this may be, no objection was made to the performance, and that was all the convicts hoped for. I will go so far as to say that if there were no disorders, no violence, no robberies throughout the holiday period, it was only because the prisoners were allowed to organize their own amusement. I saw with my own eyes how they avoided anyone who was drunk, and how they prevented quarrels on the grounds that their play would be forbidden. They were asked to give their word of honour that they would behave well and that all would go off quietly. They gave it with pleasure, and religiously kept that promise. They took it as a compliment that they were trusted in this way. Let me add that the show cost the authorities nothing whatsoever. The theatre could be erected 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 few minutes. Costumes were stowed in the convicts’ boxes. Let me say a word or two about the programme. There was no written playbill, not, at any rate, for the first performance; 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 their honour that the thing was written out at all.
It was supposed that the reputation of our theatre would extend to the whole fortress, and even to the town, for at N there was no theatre except a few amateur performances. The convicts delighted in the smallest success, and boasted of it like children.
‘Who knows?’ they said to one another; ‘when the officers hear of it they will perhaps come and see. Then they’ll realize what convicts are worth. This is no mere sketch done by soldiers, but genuine theatre played by genuine actors; nothing like it could be seen anywhere in the town. General Abrosimoff had a show at his house, and they say he’s going to have another. Well, they may beat us in the matter of costumes, but as for the dialogue, that’s a very different matter. The commander-in-chief himself will perhaps hear of it, and-who knows?-he may come himself.’
There was certainly no theatre in the town, and the convicts, especially after their initial success, went so far as to imagine that they would be rewarded and that their period of hard labour might be shortened. A moment later they were the first to laugh at the idea. In a word, they were children, real children, at the age of forty! I knew something about the various pieces in spite of the fact that there was as yet 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 for which he had cast himself would be played as it had never been played before, even on the St Petersburg stage. He strutted about the barracks puffed up with boundless self-importance. Now and again he would declaim a speech from his part, and everyone would burst out laughing, regardless of whether it was amusing or not; they laughed at the fellow’s absent-mindedness. It must be admitted that the convicts as a whole were restrained and full of dignity; the only ones who showed themselves enthusiastic over Baklouchin’s tirades were the young ones, who had no false modesty, or those who were as greatly respected, and whose authority was so firmly established, that they were not afraid to commit themselves. The others listened in silence, without blaming or contradicting; but they did their best to show that the performance left them indifferent.
