Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (193 page)

Very soon afterwards, the governor and deputy governor arrived. The deputy was liked, and even respected. He accompanied his chief on a tour of inspection, wished the convicts a happy Christmas, and then went into the kitchen where he tasted the cabbage soup. It was excellent that day; each convict was entitled to nearly a pound of meat in addition to which there was millet-seed, and the butter had certainly not been spared. The governor saw his deputy to the door, and then ordered the convicts to start dinner. Each man tried to avoid his notice; they hated his spiteful, inquisitorial look from behind his spectacles as he strode up and down, apparently looking for some disorder to repress, some crime to punish.

We dined. Akim Akimitch’s sucking-pig was admirably roasted. I could never understand how it was that within five minutes of the governor’s departure the room was full of drunken men, all of whom had appeared stone-cold sober as long as he remained. Ruddy, radiant faces were now everywhere, and balalaiki (Russian banjoes) were soon produced. Next came the little Polish fiddler whom some convivial fellow had engaged for the day to play lively dance-tunes. The conversation became more animated and more noisy, but dinner ended without serious trouble. Everyone had had enough, and some of the older, more serious-minded convicts went straight to bed. So did Akim Akimitch, who probably thought it his duty to sleep after dinner on festival days.

The Old Believer from Starodoub took forty winks and then climbed on to the stove, where he opened his book and continued to pray until late in the evening. He declared himself shocked at the sight of so shameless an orgy. All the Cir-cassions left the table. They looked with curiosity, but with a touch of disgust, at this drunken crowd. I met Nourra.

‘Aman, aman,’ he said, with a burst of honest indignation, and shaking his head. ‘What an offence to Allah!’ Isaiah Fomitch with an arrogant and obstinate air lit a candle in his favourite corner, and set to work in order to show that in his eyes this was no holiday. Here and there card parties were arranged. The players were not worried about the soldiers, but men were placed on the look-out in case the officer of the guard came along. He, however, was careful to turn a blind eye to what was going on. He made altogether three rounds: the prisoners, if they were drunk, promptly hid themselves, and the cards disappeared in the twinkling of an eye. I believe he had resolved to overlook minor breaches of regulations, for drunkenness was not treated as an offence that day. Little by little everyone became more or less gay. There were occasional quarrels, but the majority of prisoners remained calm, amusing themselves with the spectacle of their drunken companions, some of whom had put away enormous quantities of liquor.

Gazin was triumphant. He strutted about with a self-satisfied air by the side of his bed, underneath which he had hidden a store of vodka. Until Christmas Day he had kept it concealed in the snow behind our barrack-room. He smiled knowingly when he saw customers arrive in crowds. He was perfectly sober; indeed he had drunk nothing at all, for he intended to regale himself on the last day of the holidays after he had emptied everyone else’s pocket. The prison was becoming an inferno of drunkenness. Singing was heard, and songs gradually gave way to tears. Some of the prisoners walked about in bands, sheepskins on shoulders, proudly plucking the strings of their balalaiki. A chorus of from eight to ten men had been formed in the special section; the singing here was excellent, with its accompaniment of balalaiki and guitars.

Songs of a truly popular kind were rare. I remember one which was admirably sung:

Yesterday I, a young girl, Went to the feast.

A variation hitherto unknown to me was introduced, and at the end of the song the following lines were added:

At my house, the house of a young girl,

Everything is in order.

I have washed the spoons,

I have turned out the cabbage-soup.

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.