Dostoevsky was arrested in the Petrashevsky case and spent eight months in the Peter and Paul Fortress. After his conviction, he served a prison term in Omsk as a political criminal for four years (January 1850 - February 1854, i.e. from twenty-eight to thirty-two years). This experience of his resulted in “Notes from a Dead House.”
The Introduction says that these notes were written by Alexander Petrovich Goryanchikov. Some literary scholars identify Goryanchikov with Dostoevsky himself, but I would prefer to distance myself from this point of view.
Goryanchikov had already died, the author of the Introduction decided to publish his notes. Most likely, this “history of the text” was borrowed by Dostoevsky from Pushkin (“Belkin’s Tales”) and Lermontov (“Hero of Our Time”). Writing a “prison story” was not an easy decision for the former political prisoner Dostoevsky, because censorship in Russia at that time was very strong. It is possible that the “double authorship” of this work (the author of the notes and the publisher), dedicated to an almost “impenetrable” topic from the point of view of censorship, is explained by Dostoevsky’s desire to provide himself with a kind of “alibi”.
Goryanchikov ended up in prison (“the house of the dead”) because of the murder (out of jealousy) of his beloved wife. Perhaps we should agree with the Soviet researcher of Dostoevsky’s work L.P. Grossman, who suggested that in Goryanchikov one can see the forerunner of Rogozhin (“The Idiot”), who killed his beloved Nastasya Filippovna. At the same time, we should not forget that, despite his four-year hard labor, Dostoevsky still loved to describe “underground secrets” and the misfortunes hidden by man. And Goryanchikov, full of dark memories and avoiding human society, serves as confirmation of this. The heroes of Dostoevsky's future works (Notes from Underground, The Meek One) will continue this same favorite theme: the hero torments the woman he loves, suffers from dark memories, lives alone and writes confessions addressed to no one.
Dostoevsky's prison experience
The notes of the murderer Goryanchikov fully reflect Dostoevsky's prison experience. The prison housed about one hundred and fifty people - with the exception of a few nobles, all the rest were from the common people. For the young and intelligent Dostoevsky, prison life was naturally a difficult test. For a person with thin nervous system impossibility of being left alone and forced living together- already a difficult burden. And Dostoevsky, according to his character, needed to be alone to catch his breath.
In addition, in relation to people like Dostoevsky - people deprived of the rank of nobility, people from the common people felt deep anger and contempt. He wrote that everyone looked at the former nobles with a heavy and hostile gaze. “Their hatred of the nobles exceeds all limits.” And in this hostile environment, the ideas of the philanthropist Dostoevsky with his preaching of universal brotherhood turned out to be inappropriate.
Fyodor Mikhailovich tried to adapt to this unfriendly environment. Dostoevsky himself volunteered to clear snow, pound and burn alabaster. He rotated the grinding wheel of a lathe, which required considerable strength, and carried bricks with enthusiasm. One brick weighed five kilograms. At first, Dostoevsky lifted only eight pieces, and then he carried twelve and even fifteen. Dostoevsky wrote that this made him happy - after all, in order to survive in this difficult life, physical strength was required no less than spiritual.
In the capital St. Petersburg, the young writer Dostoevsky led a chaotic life, in which day and night were mixed. His nerves were completely upset, he suffered from forebodings, visions and fear of death - Fyodor Mikhailovich used all this in his writing. When he sat in solitary confinement and was interrogated, he was afraid that he would go crazy. But one day his condition, oddly enough, suddenly improved.
The sleigh ride from St. Petersburg to the place of exile took twenty days, passing through a huge snow-covered plain. After arriving in Omsk, Dostoevsky, imbued with a sense of the power of nature, got up early in the morning, worked during the day, slept at night - this was the “correct” daily routine imposed on him by force. Dostoevsky himself sought to harden himself, and his young body became noticeably healthier. The change of location had a beneficial effect on him therapeutically.
When reading “Notes from a Dead House,” you feel well that life in prison in Omsk was not a time for Dostoevsky that he wanted to forget about forever, to erase it from his memory.
While in prison, Dostoevsky did not lose interest in people. He always wanted to write about the people he met at hard labor. This is probably why he was not broken by forced living with those common people who looked at him with malice. A striking contrast is his friend Durov, who in the same prison turned into a ruin. The prison actually held a wide variety of people. It was there that Dostoevsky truly felt what “the people” were. Let's now focus on the characters in Notes from a Dead House.
Petrov
Petrov, who was kept in a special section, loved to walk barefoot; he was surprisingly light, small in stature, without any sense of imposingness. By nature he was uncommunicative, without any difficulties, in a word - “simple”. For some unknown reason, he became attached to Dostoevsky. During a rare visit to the bathhouse, he helped the writer undress and was like an “uncle” to him. He did not make friends and was alone all the time, but when he accidentally met Dostoevsky, he behaved as if they were strangers. When it came to him, he behaved in an unpredictable way.
Small, he even gave the impression of a quiet man, but the prisoners were terribly afraid of him. Everyone knew that when it “came over” him, he turned deathly pale and attacked the person - he absolutely did not care who it was, and he did not think at all what would happen to him later. Pole M., one of the educated ones, said that Petrov was “not completely sane.”
Dostoevsky felt the horror emanating from this “simple” man, but still treated him with a kind of warmth. He notes that it is precisely people like Petrov who “suddenly appear sharply and firmly and are identified in the moments of some abrupt, general action or revolution and thus immediately fall into their full activity" Among the people, the writer says, there are many people similar to Petrov.
These remarks help to understand both Dostoevsky himself and how this political criminal saw the revolution. He saw “all-out action,” led by people like Petrov.
Sirotkin
The only one of the prisoners who had a friendly relationship with Petrov was Sirotkin, a young man with a beautiful face. He bears an uncanny resemblance to Gazin, another character from Notes from the House of the Dead. In this case, one can guess about same-sex prison love. Young, quiet and meek Sirotkin is a strange man, there is no malice or passion in him. When he got tired of living, he, without a specific reason for it, began to plot suicide, and when it failed, he somehow, out of inertia, kills his commander.
The mysterious psychology of people like Petrov and Sirotkin, who do not think about the consequences, act obeying a momentary impulse, live instinctively, was, it seems, incomprehensible even to Dostoevsky, despite his phenomenal insight. If he had not seen such people with his own eyes, he would hardly have believed in the existence of such strange persons. Now it became clear to him that there are people who are difficult to understand by applying the usual standards to them. So Dostoevsky managed to gain invaluable writing experience in hard labor.
Krivtsov
The warden, Major Krivtsov, was a mediocre and uneducated man who rose from the bottom. He himself, being a cruel man, neglected discipline and behaved as he pleased, mocked prisoners, used unimaginable figures of speech, and beat prisoners. Dostoevsky had the opportunity to observe many such military ranks.
Fyodor Mikhailovich was able to see with his own eyes in hard labor that small people who endured hardships, who were subjected to humiliation and insults from a young age - when they rise through the ranks and gain power over people, they are overcome by some kind of intoxication and their behavior begins to be exotic antics. In a word, we have before us the fulfilled dream of Golyadkin from The Double.
This inspired intoxication is clearly visible in the flogging scenes. “Forced, obligated executioners” were more cruel than “voluntary” ones.
Unable to tolerate Krivtsov’s bullying, the prisoners make a “claim.” One of the instigators is a man named Kulikov.
Kulikov
Dostoevsky describes him with a clearly benevolent intonation. “He looked terrible, but he got the job done.” Of the noble prisoners, only Dostoevsky joined this “claim.” However, he notes that he joined by chance, “knowing absolutely nothing.” Convicted in a political case, the writer could not help but know what this meant. The prisoners lined up cursed Dostoevsky; they, as he writes, “obviously did not believe that I, too, would show a claim.”
And Kulikov did not allow “Mr.” Dostoevsky to remain in the line. With a dissatisfied look, as if wanting to say that here too he had to provide a service to the pampered barchuk, Kulikov took Fyodor Mikhailovich by the hand and put him out of action. Subsequently, Dostoevsky recalled this saving act of Kulikov for him.
Voronov and other worthy people
It is also difficult to forget the old Old Believer Voronov, sentenced to lifelong hard labor. This old man is not a thief or a murderer. Fortunately, the “Article Lists of the Prisoners of the Omsk Fortress” and other documentary materials from the time when Dostoevsky was there have been preserved. It follows from them that Voronov was a convinced Old Believer; he was condemned only for the fact that he was not present at the service in the official Orthodox (same faith) church (see: PSS. T. 4. P. 282). Dostoevsky with youth was sympathetically interested in the Old Believers, hard labor brought him together with one of them.
Convicts are unkind and distrustful people, Dostoevsky writes that distrust of people was theirs common feature. But they also believed in Voronov’s honesty and began to give him money for safekeeping.
Deep sadness lurked in the old man’s clear eyes. When Dostoevsky suddenly woke up one day in the middle of the night, he saw Voronov, remembering his family and suppressing tears, praying: “Lord, don’t leave me! Lord, strengthen me!” Fyodor Mikhailovich writes that he felt inexpressibly sad.
Until this time, Dostoevsky lived in his imaginary world, a painful world, a world of beautiful dreams. Now, for the first time, he encountered reality and saw the hard lot of other people.
In addition to Voronov, in the Omsk prison Dostoevsky met many other worthy people- not despondent and it is unclear how they found themselves behind bars. This is a pure young man, the Dagestan Tatar Alei, convicted of attacking an Armenian merchant together with his older brothers, and the cheerful Lezgin Nurra, who worked meekly. Among the prisoners was a young man who was convicted of parricide, but was later found innocent.
In “Notes from the House of the Dead” there is almost no voice denouncing the cruelty of power or the injustice of imprisonment, but, perhaps under the impression of the heard prayer of Voronov, sentenced to life, Dostoevsky still could not restrain himself. At the end of the work, he exclaims: “And how much youth was buried in vain within these walls, how many great forces died here in vain.<...>But mighty forces died in vain, died abnormally, illegally, irrevocably.”
Akim Akimych
In any society there are narrow-minded and pedantic people, in whom only one desire is extremely developed - the desire for order. And in the prison there was such a person. This is a former officer and exemplary prisoner Akim Akimych. He is unable to think about anything abstract that has no relation to practical life. The concept of “freedom” is also inaccessible to him. When he noticed at least some kind of disorder, he concentrated only on this and certainly intervened, even if the matter had nothing to do with him. "Order" was his passion. He was extremely careful with his official clothes and terribly disliked any sloppiness. Akim Akimych is a pedant to the core. Dostoevsky describes in detail the deeds and words of this “dried” man, who is not characterized by any deviations from the “norm”, or any manifestations of freedom. The reader develops a feeling of fear before the painfully pedantic “model” prisoner.
Gazin
By making acquaintances with a variety of people in prison, Dostoevsky honed his gift for seeing the essence of a person, peeled from the husk.
When prisoners were sent to work in the city, bull guts filled with vodka were already waiting for them. After graduation working day the prisoner wrapped the intestines around himself and, leading the guards by the nose, carried vodka into the prison. Then this “kisser” sold diluted vodka to the prisoners. The prisoners were engaged in a variety of “businesses,” but vodka was the most profitable. Among the kissing prisoners was a man named Gazin. He spent the money he saved on getting drunk a couple of times a year. After getting drunk, he would become furious and grab a knife. Dostoevsky himself also almost became its victim. When Gazin got drunk, a dozen healthier prisoners attacked him, and they beat Gazin until he lost consciousness. Anyone else in his place would have died, but nothing was done to Gazin. Dostoevsky notes that if he had not seen all this with his own eyes, he would never have believed that people like Gazin exist.
Aristov
A variety of criminals were imprisoned in the Omsk prison - robbers, murderers, swindlers, deserters. However, Dostoevsky does not express either condemnation or hatred towards them. And even the villain Orlov, whom one cannot even call a human being, arouses in Dostoevsky not so much hatred as curiosity.
And only in relation to the former nobleman Aristov, Dostoevsky expresses himself with undisguised anger. Wanting to make money, he received a sentence for false denunciation of innocent people who were allegedly engaged in anti-state activities. In prison he became a secret informant. He observed the prisoners, and then told Major Krivtsov’s orderly about what he saw, for which he received his patronage. From the point of view of the morality that Dostoevsky professed, Aristov should have seemed like a notorious scoundrel. That is why he subjects him to ruthless evaluation.
Sushilov
Prisoner Sushilov at the stage exchanged names with a person who committed a more serious crime than himself. For this he received from him a red shirt and a silver ruble. So he found himself in the Omsk prison. That is, he was sitting there under a false name. Dostoevsky can be trusted because he knew this man and ate from the same pot with him. Otherwise, one would find it incredible that someone could so easily change their fate in this way.
Before hard labor, Dostoevsky was a young writer who described the curious psychology of a petty St. Petersburg official. At hard labor, he became convinced with his own eyes that life is “more interesting” than a writer’s fiction.
Other heroes
The time Dostoevsky spent in Siberia was not lost for him. In addition to the characters already presented here, Notes from the House of the Dead contains descriptions of many other unforgettable characters. This is the bright, life-loving Isai Fomich, and the silent and respectable coachman Roman, and the inveterate theatergoer Baklushin. “Everyone had his own story, vague and heavy, like the fumes of yesterday’s intoxication.” But each of them has its own special character and lives its own life. And many of these people will live a new life in Dostoevsky’s subsequent works. Sirotkin will transform into Falaleya (“The Village of Stepanchikovo and Its Inhabitants”), Aristov into Svidrigailov (“Crime and Punishment”), Voronov into Makara (“Teenager”)...
Finally
The creative gift given to Dostoevsky reveals an amazing ability to penetrate deeply into the inner world of a deformed person, his painful imagination. No one taught him to portray the mental split and dreams of Makar Devushkin and Golyadkin, or the fears of Netochka Nezvanova. The young writer Ivan from “The Humiliated and Insulted” admits that “the mechanism of writing alone is worth it: it will calm, cool, stir up my old authorial habits, turn my memories and sick dreams into action, into something to do.” These same words could have been uttered by Dostoevsky himself. We can say that describing a person’s inner world was his “occupation.”
“Notes from a Dead House” is a specific description of life in prison; it is a series of sketches of people with a difficult fate and bright character. In such a genre, he could not (and there was no need to) show himself as a person who transforms sick dreams and painful fantasies into “occupation.” In this case, Dostoevsky’s brush depicts the model with clear and clear lines, with a portrait resemblance, which makes this work atypical for the work of Fyodor Mikhailovich.
But talent and character still cannot be abolished. Even if it is an “atypical” work, the peculiarities of the talent still reveal themselves. Yes, the characters are not subject to in-depth analysis by the writer, but it is still felt that they have an inner world, that they also contain a reflection of the inner world of Dostoevsky himself.
If only a wonderful expert folk life Nikolai Leskov would have begun to describe the prisoners; he would probably have described the specifics of the prison more accurately and completely than Dostoevsky did. In the portraits of Fyodor Mikhailovich - no matter how uneducated, stupid and insensitive the “object” may be - from the instant sparkle in the eyes, from some trifle, the world hidden in him is still guessed. And this cannot be expected from Leskov.
After returning from hard labor, Dostoevsky moves away from factual descriptiveness, he again follows his natural talent and returns to depicting the inner world of man. The beginnings of this approach can also be seen in the characters of Notes from the House of the Dead.
Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky
Notes from a Dead House
Part one
Introduction
In the remote regions of Siberia, among the steppes, mountains or impenetrable forests, you occasionally come across small towns, with one, many with two thousand inhabitants, wooden, nondescript, with two churches - one in the city, the other in the cemetery - towns that look more like good village near Moscow than the city. They are usually quite sufficiently equipped with police officers, assessors and all other subaltern ranks. In general, in Siberia, despite the cold, it is extremely warm. People live simple, illiberal lives; the order is old, strong, sanctified for centuries. The officials who rightly play the role of the Siberian nobility are either natives, inveterate Siberians, or visitors from Russia, mostly from the capitals, seduced by the non-credited salaries, double runs and tempting hopes for the future. Among them, those who know how to solve the riddle of life almost always remain in Siberia and take root in it with pleasure. They subsequently bear rich and sweet fruits. But others, frivolous people who do not know how to solve the riddle of life, will soon become bored with Siberia and ask themselves with longing: why did they come to it? They eagerly serve out their legal term of service, three years, and at the end of it they immediately bother about their transfer and return home, scolding Siberia and laughing at it. They are wrong: not only from an official point of view, but even from many points of view, one can be blissful in Siberia. The climate is excellent; there are many remarkably rich and hospitable merchants; there are many extremely wealthy foreigners. The young ladies bloom with roses and are moral to the last extreme. The game flies through the streets and stumbles upon the hunter. An unnatural amount of champagne is drunk. The caviar is amazing. The harvest happens in other places as early as fifteen... In general, the land is blessed. You just need to know how to use it. In Siberia they know how to use it.
In one of these cheerful and self-satisfied towns, with the sweetest people, the memory of which will remain indelible in my heart, I met Alexander Petrovich Goryanchikov, a settler who was born in Russia as a nobleman and landowner, then became a second-class exile and convict for the murder of his wife. and, after the expiration of the ten-year term of hard labor prescribed for him by law, he humbly and quietly lived out his life in the town of K. as a settler. He, in fact, was assigned to one suburban volost, but lived in the city, having the opportunity to earn at least some food in it by teaching children. In Siberian cities one often encounters teachers from exiled settlers; they are not disdained. They teach mainly the French language, which is so necessary in the field of life and which, without them, in the remote regions of Siberia they would have no idea. The first time I met Alexander Petrovich in the house of an old, honored and hospitable official, Ivan Ivanovich Gvozdikov, who had five daughters, different years who showed great promise. Alexander Petrovich gave them lessons four times a week, thirty silver kopecks per lesson. His appearance interested me. He was extremely pale and skinny person, not yet old, about thirty-five, small and frail. He was always dressed very cleanly, in a European style. If you spoke to him, he looked at you extremely intently and attentively, listening to every word of yours with strict politeness, as if he were pondering it, as if you asked him a task with your question or wanted to extract some secret from him, and, finally, he answered clearly and briefly, but weighing every word of his answer so much that you suddenly felt awkward for some reason and you yourself finally rejoiced at the end of the conversation. I then asked Ivan Ivanovich about him and found out that Goryanchikov lives impeccably and morally and that otherwise Ivan Ivanovich would not have invited him for his daughters; but that he is a terrible unsociable person, hides from everyone, is extremely learned, reads a lot, but speaks very little, and that in general it is quite difficult to talk to him. Others argued that he was positively crazy, although they found that, in essence, this was not such an important flaw, that many of the honorary members of the city were ready to favor Alexander Petrovich in every possible way, that he could even be useful, write requests, etc. They believed that he must have decent relatives in Russia, maybe not even last people, but they knew that from the very exile he stubbornly stopped all relations with them - in a word, he was harming himself. In addition, we all knew his story, we knew that he killed his wife in the first year of his marriage, killed out of jealousy and denounced himself (which greatly facilitated his punishment). Such crimes are always looked upon as misfortunes and regretted. But, despite all this, the eccentric stubbornly avoided everyone and appeared in people only to give lessons.
At first I didn’t pay much attention to him, but, I don’t know why, little by little he began to interest me. There was something mysterious about him. There was not the slightest opportunity to talk to him. Of course, he always answered my questions, and even with such an air as if he considered this his primary duty; but after his answers I somehow felt burdened to question him longer; and on his face, after such conversations, some kind of suffering and fatigue was always visible. I remember walking with him one fine summer evening from Ivan Ivanovich. Suddenly I took it into my head to invite him to my place for a minute to smoke a cigarette. I cannot describe the horror that was expressed on his face; he was completely lost, began to mutter some incoherent words and suddenly, looking angrily at me, he started running in the opposite direction. I was even surprised. Since then, whenever he met me, he looked at me as if with some kind of fear. But I didn’t calm down; I was drawn to him by something, and a month later, out of the blue, I went to see Goryanchikov. Of course, I acted stupidly and indelicately. He lived on the very edge of the city, with an old bourgeois woman who had a daughter who was sick with consumption, and that daughter had an illegitimate daughter, a child of about ten years old, a pretty and cheerful girl. Alexander Petrovich was sitting with her and teaching her to read the minute I came into his room. When he saw me, he became so confused, as if I had caught him committing some crime. He was completely confused, jumped up from his chair and looked at me with all his eyes. We finally sat down; he closely watched my every glance, as if he suspected some special mysterious meaning in each of them. I guessed that he was suspicious to the point of madness. He looked at me with hatred, almost asking: “Are you going to leave here soon?” I talked to him about our town, about current news; he remained silent and smiled evilly; it turned out that he not only did not know the most ordinary, well-known city news, but was not even interested in knowing them. Then I started talking about our region, about its needs; he listened to me in silence and looked into my eyes so strangely that I finally felt ashamed of our conversation. However, I almost teased him with new books and magazines; I had them in my hands, fresh from the post office, and I offered them to him, still uncut. He cast a greedy glance at them, but immediately changed his mind and declined the offer, citing lack of time. Finally, I said goodbye to him and, leaving him, I felt that some unbearable weight had been lifted from my heart. I was ashamed and it seemed extremely stupid to pester a person whose main goal was to hide as far away from the whole world as possible. But the job was done. I remember that I noticed almost no books on him, and, therefore, it was unfair to say about him that he reads a lot. However, driving past his windows twice, very late at night, I noticed a light in them. What did he do while he sat until dawn? Didn't he write? And if so, what exactly?
Introduction
I met Aleksandr Petrovich Goryanchikov in a small Siberian town. Born in Russia as a nobleman, he became an exiled convict of the second category for the murder of his wife. After serving 10 years of hard labor, he lived out his life in the town of K. He was a pale and thin man of about thirty-five years old, small and frail, unsociable and suspicious. Driving past his windows one night, I noticed a light in them and decided that he was writing something.
Returning to the town about three months later, I learned that Alexander Petrovich had died. His owner gave me his papers. Among them was a notebook describing the hard labor life of the deceased. These notes—“Scenes from the House of the Dead,” as he called them—found me curious. I select a few chapters to try.
I. House of the Dead
The prison stood at the ramparts. The large yard was surrounded by a fence made of high pointed posts. There were strong gates in the fence, guarded by sentries. There was a special world here, with its own laws, clothing, morals and customs.
Along the sides of the wide courtyard stretched two long one-story barracks for prisoners. In the depths of the yard there is a kitchen, cellars, barns, sheds. In the middle of the yard there is a flat area for roll calls and roll calls. Between the buildings and the fence there was a large space where some prisoners liked to be alone.
At night we were locked in the barracks, a long and stuffy room lit by tallow candles. In winter they locked up early, and in the barracks there was a din, laughter, curses and the clanking of chains for about four hours. There were about 250 people constantly in the prison. Each region of Russia had its own representatives here.
Most of the prisoners are exiled convicts of the civilian category, criminals, deprived of all rights, with their faces branded. They were sent for periods of 8 to 12 years, and then dispersed throughout Siberia for settlement. Criminals of the military category were sent for short periods of time, and then returned to where they came from. Many of them returned to prison for repeated crimes. This category was called “always on.” Criminals were sent to the “special department” from all over Rus'. They did not know their term and worked more than other convicts.
On a December evening I entered this strange house. I had to get used to the fact that I would never be alone. The prisoners did not like to talk about the past. Most could read and write. The ranks were distinguished by different colored clothes and differently shaved heads. Most of the convicts were gloomy, envious, vain, boastful and offensive people. What was most valued was the ability to not be surprised by anything.
There was endless gossip and intrigue going on in the barracks, but no one dared to rebel against the internal regulations of the prison. There were outstanding characters who found it difficult to obey. People came to the prison who committed crimes out of vanity. Such newcomers quickly realized that there was no one to surprise here, and fell into the general tone of special dignity that was accepted in the prison. Cursing was elevated to a science, which was developed by continuous quarrels. Strong people did not get into quarrels, they were reasonable and obedient - this was beneficial.
I hated hard labor. Many in the prison had their own business, without which they could not have survived. The prisoners were forbidden to have tools, but the authorities turned a blind eye to this. All kinds of crafts were found here. Work orders were obtained from the city.
Money and tobacco saved from scurvy, and work saved from crime. Despite this, both work and money were prohibited. Searches were carried out at night, everything prohibited was taken away, so the money was immediately wasted away.
Anyone who didn’t know how to do anything became a reseller or moneylender. Even government items were accepted as collateral. Almost everyone had a chest with a lock, but this did not prevent theft. There were also kissers who sold wine. Former smugglers quickly found use for their skills. There was another constant income - alms, which were always divided equally.
II. First impressions
I soon realized that the severity of the drudgery of the work lay in the fact that it was forced and useless. In winter there was little government work. Everyone returned to the prison, where only a third of the prisoners were engaged in their craft, the rest gossiped, drank and played cards.
It was stuffy in the barracks in the mornings. In each barracks there was a prisoner who was called a parashnik and did not go to work. He had to wash the bunks and floors, take out the night tub and bring two buckets of fresh water - for washing and for drinking.
At first they looked at me askance. Former nobles in hard labor are never recognized as their own. We especially got it at work because we had little strength and we couldn’t help them. The Polish nobles, of whom there were five, were disliked even more. There were four Russian nobles. One is a spy and informer, the other is a father-killer. The third was Akim Akimych, a tall, thin eccentric, honest, naive and neat.
He served as an officer in the Caucasus. One neighboring prince, considered peaceful, attacked his fortress at night, but was unsuccessful. Akim Akimych shot this princeling in front of his detachment. He was sentenced to death penalty, but the sentence was commuted and exiled to Siberia for 12 years. The prisoners respected Akim Akimych for his accuracy and skill. There was no craft that he did not know.
While waiting in the workshop for the shackles to be changed, I asked Akim Akimych about our major. He turned out to be a dishonest and evil person. He looked at the prisoners as his enemies. In the prison they hated him, feared him like the plague and even wanted to kill him.
Meanwhile, several Kalashnikovs came to the workshop. Until adulthood, they sold the rolls that their mothers baked. Having matured, they sold completely different services. This was fraught with great difficulties. It was necessary to choose a time, a place, make an appointment and bribe the guards. But still, I sometimes managed to witness love scenes.
The prisoners ate lunch in shifts. At my first dinner, there was talk among the prisoners about some Gazin. The Pole who was sitting next to him said that Gazin sells wine and drinks away his earnings. I asked why many prisoners looked at me askance. He explained that they were angry with me because I was a nobleman, many of them would like to humiliate me, and added that I would encounter troubles and abuse more than once.
III. First impressions
The prisoners valued money as much as freedom, but it was difficult to keep it. Either the major took the money, or they stole their own. Subsequently, we gave the money for safekeeping to the old man of the Old Faith, who came to us from the Old Oak settlements.
He was a small, gray-haired old man, about six-ten years old, calm and quiet, with clear, light eyes surrounded by small, radiant wrinkles. The old man, together with other fans, set fire to the one-faith church. As one of the ringleaders, he was exiled to hard labor. The old man was a wealthy tradesman, left his family at home, but firmly went into exile, considering it “torment for the faith.” The prisoners respected him and were sure that the old man could not steal.
It was depressing in the prison. The prisoners were drawn to go on a spree with all their capital in order to forget their melancholy. Sometimes a person worked for several months only to lose all his earnings in one day. Many of them loved to get themselves bright new clothes and go to the barracks on holidays.
Trading wine was a risky business, but profitable. For the first time, the priest himself brought wine into the prison and sold it profitably. After the second and third times, he established a real trade and acquired agents and assistants who took risks in his place. Promotional revelers usually became agents.
In the first days of my imprisonment, I became interested in a young prisoner named Sirotkin. He was no more than 23 years old. He was considered one of the most dangerous war criminals. He ended up in prison because he killed his company commander, who was always dissatisfied with him. Sirotkin was friends with Gazin.
Gazin was a Tatar, very strong, tall and powerful, with a disproportionately huge head. In the prison they said that he was a fugitive military man from Nerchinsk, he was exiled to Siberia more than once, and finally ended up in a special section. In prison he behaved prudently, did not quarrel with anyone and was unsociable. It was noticeable that he was intelligent and cunning.
All the brutality of Gazin’s nature manifested itself when he got drunk. He flew into a terrible rage, grabbed a knife and rushed at people. The prisoners found a way to deal with him. About ten people rushed at him and began to beat him until he lost consciousness. Then they wrapped him in a short fur coat and carried him to the bunk. The next morning he got up healthy and went to work.
Having burst into the kitchen, Gazin began to find fault with me and my friend. Seeing that we decided to remain silent, he trembled with rage, grabbed a heavy bread tray and swung it. Despite the fact that the murder threatened trouble for the entire prison, everyone became quiet and waited - such was their hatred of the nobles. Just as he was about to put down the tray, someone shouted that his wine had been stolen, and he rushed out of the kitchen.
All evening I was occupied with the thought of the inequality of punishment for the same crimes. Sometimes crimes cannot be compared. For example, one stabbed a person just like that, and the other killed, defending the honor of his fiancee, sister, daughter. Another difference is in the punished people. An educated person with a developed conscience will condemn himself for his crime. The other doesn’t even think about the murder he committed and considers himself right. There are also those who commit crimes in order to end up in hard labor and get rid of hard life free.
IV. First impressions
After the last check from the authorities, a disabled man remained in the barracks, keeping order, and the eldest of the prisoners, appointed a parade major for good behavior. In our barracks, Akim Akimych turned out to be the eldest. The prisoners did not pay attention to the disabled person.
The convict authorities always treated prisoners with caution. The prisoners realized that they were afraid, and this gave them courage. The best boss for prisoners is the one who is not afraid of them, and the prisoners themselves enjoy such trust.
In the evening our barracks took on a homely appearance. A group of revelers sat around the mat playing cards. In each barracks there was a prisoner who rented a rug, a candle and greasy cards. All this was called “Maidan”. The servant at the Maidan stood guard all night and warned about the appearance of the parade major or guards.
My place was on the bunk by the door. Akim Akimych was located next to me. On the left was a group of Caucasian highlanders convicted of robbery: three Dagestan Tatars, two Lezgins and one Chechen. The Dagestan Tatars were siblings. The youngest, Aley, a handsome guy with big black eyes, was about 22 years old. They ended up in hard labor because they robbed and stabbed an Armenian merchant. The brothers loved Aley very much. Despite his outward gentleness, Aley had a strong character. He was fair, smart and modest, avoided quarrels, although he knew how to stand up for himself. In a few months I taught him to speak Russian. Alei mastered several crafts, and his brothers were proud of him. With the help of the New Testament, I taught him to read and write in Russian, which earned him the gratitude of his brothers.
The Poles at hard labor were separate family. Some of them were educated. An educated person in hard labor must get used to an environment that is foreign to him. Often the same punishment for everyone becomes even more painful for him.
Of all the convicts, the Poles loved only the Jew Isaiah Fomich, who looked like a common chicken, a man of about 50 years old, small and weak. He came on charges of murder. It was easy for him to live in hard labor. Being a jeweler, he was swamped with work from the city.
There were also four Old Rites in our barracks; several Malo-Russians; a young convict, about 23 years old, who killed eight people; a bunch of fakes and a few gloomy personalities. All this flashed before me on the first evening of my new life, amid the smoke and soot, with the clanking of shackles, among curses and shameless laughter.
V. First month
Three days later I went to work. At that time, among the hostile faces, I could not discern a single kind person. Hello everyone, Akim Akimych was with me. Next to me there was another person whom I only got to know well many years later. It was the prisoner Sushilov, who served me. I also had another servant, Osip, one of the four cooks chosen by the prisoners. The cooks did not go to work, and could refuse this position at any time. Osip was elected for several years in a row. He was an honest and meek man, although he came for the smuggling gang. Together with other cooks, he sold wine.
Osip prepared food for me. Sushilov himself began to do my laundry, run to different errands and mend my clothes. He couldn't help but serve someone. Sushilov was a pitiful man, unresponsive and downtrodden by nature. Conversation was difficult for him. He was of average height and of vague appearance.
The prisoners laughed at Sushilov because he was replaced on the way to Siberia. To change means to exchange name and fate with someone. This is usually done by prisoners who have served a long term of hard labor. They find klutzes like Sushilov and deceive them.
I looked at the penal servitude with greedy attention, I was amazed by such phenomena as meeting with prisoner A-vy. He was one of the nobles and reported to our parade major about everything that was happening in the prison. Having quarreled with his relatives, A-ov left Moscow and arrived in St. Petersburg. To get money, he made a vile denunciation. He was exposed and exiled to Siberia for ten years. The penal servitude untied his hands. To satisfy his brutal instincts, he was ready to do anything. It was a miracle, cunning, smart, beautiful and educated.
VI. First month
I had several rubles hidden in the binding of the Gospel. This book and money were given to me by other exiles in Tobolsk. There are people in Siberia who selflessly help exiles. In the city where our prison was located, there lived a widow, Nastasya Ivanovna. She couldn’t do much because of poverty, but we felt that we had a friend there, behind the prison.
In these first days I thought about how I would put myself in prison. I decided to do as my conscience dictates. On the fourth day I was sent to dismantle old government barges. This old material was worth nothing, and the prisoners were sent in order not to sit idly by, which the prisoners themselves understood well.
They began to work sluggishly, reluctantly, ineptly. An hour later the conductor came and announced a lesson, after completing which it would be possible to go home. The prisoners quickly got down to business and went home tired, but happy, even though they only won for about half an hour.
I was in the way everywhere, they almost drove me away with curses. When I stepped aside, they immediately shouted that I was a bad worker. They were happy to make fun of the former nobleman. Despite this, I decided to keep myself as simple and independent as possible, without fear of their threats and hatred.
According to their understanding, I was supposed to behave like a white-handed nobleman. They would scold me for this, but they would respect me privately. This role was not for me; I promised myself not to belittle my education or way of thinking in front of them. If I started to cozy up and be familiar with them, they would think that I was doing it out of fear, and they would treat me with contempt. But I didn’t want to isolate myself in front of them either.
In the evening I was wandering alone behind the barracks and suddenly I saw Sharik, our cautious dog, quite large, black with white spots, with intelligent eyes and a fluffy tail. I stroked her and gave her some bread. Now, returning from work, I hurried behind the barracks with Sharik squealing with joy, grabbed his head, and a bittersweet feeling pricked my heart.
VII. New acquaintances. Petrov
I started to get used to it. I no longer wandered around the prison as if lost, the inquisitive glances of the convicts did not stay on me so often. I was struck by the light-mindedness of the convicts. A free person hopes, but he lives and acts. The prisoner's hope is of a completely different kind. Even terrible criminals, chained to the wall, dream of walking through the courtyard of the prison.
The convicts mocked me for my love of work, but I knew that work would save me, and I did not pay attention to them. The engineering authorities made the work easier for the nobles, as weak and inept people. Three or four people were appointed to burn and grind the alabaster, led by master Almazov, a stern, dark and lean man in his years, unsociable and grumpy. Another job I was sent to do was turn the grinding wheel in the workshop. If you did something big, they sent another nobleman to help me. This work remained with us for several years.
Gradually my circle of acquaintances began to expand. Prisoner Petrov was the first to visit me. He lived in a special section, in the barracks farthest from me. Petrov was of short stature, strong build, with a pleasant wide-cheekbone face and bold gaze. He was about 40 years old. He spoke to me unnecessarily, behaved decently and delicately. This relationship continued between us for several years and never became closer.
Petrov was the most decisive and fearless of all the convicts. His passions, like hot coals, were sprinkled with ash and quietly smoldered. He rarely quarreled, but was not friendly with anyone. He was interested in everything, but he remained indifferent to everything and wandered around the prison with nothing to do. Such people manifest themselves sharply at critical moments. They are not the instigators of the matter, but its main executors. They are the first to jump over the main obstacle, everyone rushes after them and blindly goes to last line, where they lay their heads.
VIII. Decisive people. Luchka
There were few determined people in penal servitude. At first I stayed away from these people, but then I changed my views even on the most terrible killers. It was difficult to form an opinion about some of the crimes, there was so much strange in them.
The prisoners loved to boast about their “exploits.” Once I heard a story about how prisoner Luka Kuzmich killed a major for his own pleasure. This Luka Kuzmich was a small, thin, young Ukrainian prisoner. He was boastful, arrogant, self-loving, the convicts did not respect him and called him Luchka.
Luchka told his story to a stupid and narrow-minded, but kind guy, his bunk neighbor, prisoner Kobylin. Luchka spoke loudly: he wanted everyone to hear him. This happened during the transfer. With him sat about 12 crests, tall, healthy, but meek. The food is bad, but the major plays with them as his Lordship pleases. Luchka infuriated the crests, demanded the major, and in the morning he took a knife from a neighbor. The major ran in, drunk, screaming. “I am a king, I am a god!” Luchka got closer and stuck a knife in his stomach.
Unfortunately, expressions such as: “I am the king, I am the god,” were used by many officers, especially those who came from the lower ranks. In front of their superiors, they are passionate, but for their subordinates they become unlimited leaders. This irritates the prisoners very much. Every prisoner, no matter how humiliated he may be, demands respect for himself. I saw the effect that noble and kind officers had on these humiliated ones. They, like children, began to love.
For the murder of an officer, Luchka was given 105 lashes. Even though Luchka killed six people, no one in the prison was afraid of him, although in his heart he dreamed of being known as a terrible person.
IX. Isai Fomich. Bathhouse. Baklu-shin's story
Four days before Christmas we were taken to the bathhouse. Isai Fomich Bumstein was the most happy. It seemed that he did not regret at all that he had ended up in hard labor. He did only jewelry work and lived richly. The city Jews patronized him. On Saturdays, he went under escort to the city synagogue and waited for the end of his twelve-year term to get married. He had a mixture of naivety, stupidity, cunning, impudence, simplicity, timidity, boastfulness and impudence. Isai Fomich served everyone for entertainment. He understood this and was proud of his importance.
There were only two public baths in the city. The first was paid, the other was shabby, dirty and cramped. They took us to this bathhouse. The prisoners were glad that they would leave the fortress. In the bathhouse we were divided into two shifts, but despite this, it was crowded. Petrov helped me undress - because of the shackles it was difficult. The prisoners were given a small piece of government soap, but right there, in the bathhouse entrance, in addition to soap, you could buy sbiten, rolls of bread and hot water.
The bathhouse was like hell. A hundred people were crammed into the small room. Petrov bought a place on the bench from some man, who immediately ducked under the bench, where it was dark, dirty and everything was occupied. All this screamed and cackled to the sound of chains dragging along the floor. Dirt poured from all sides. Baklushin brought hot water, and Petrov washed me with such ceremony, as if I were porcelain. When we got home, I treated him to a scythe. I invited Baklu-shin to my place for tea.
Everyone loved Baklu-Shin. He was a tall guy, about 30 years old, with a youthful and simply soulful face. He was full of fire and life. Having met me, Baklushin said that he was from the Cantonists, served in the pioneers and was loved by some high officials. He even read books. Having come to me for tea, he announced to me that there would soon be a theatrical performance, which the prisoners organized in the prison on holidays. Baklushin was one of the main instigators of the theater.
Baklushin told me that he served as a non-commissioned officer in a garrison battalion. There he fell in love with a German washerwoman Louise, who lived with her aunt, and decided to marry her. Her distant relative, a middle-aged and wealthy watchmaker, the German Schultz, also expressed a desire to marry Louise. Louise was not against this marriage. A few days later it became known that Schultz had made Louise swear not to meet Baklu-shin, that the German was keeping her and her aunt in a black body, and that the aunt would meet Schultz on Sunday in his store so that It’s time to agree on everything. On Sunday, Baklushin took a gun, went to the store and shot Schultz. Two weeks after that he was happy with Louise, and then he was arrested.
X. Feast of the Nativity of Christ
Finally the holiday arrived, from which everyone expected something. By evening, the disabled people who went to the market brought a lot of all kinds of provisions. Even the most thrifty prisoners wanted to celebrate Christmas with dignity. On this day, prisoners were not sent to work; there were three such days a year.
Akim Akimych had no family memories - he grew up as an orphan in someone else’s house and from the age of fifteen he went into hard service. He was not particularly religious, so he was preparing to celebrate Christmas not with melancholy memories, but with quiet goodwill. He didn’t like to think and lived according to rules that were established forever. Only once in his life did he try to live by his own wits - and he ended up in hard labor. He derived a rule from this - never reason.
In a military barracks, where bunks stood only along the walls, the priest held a Christmas service and blessed all the barracks. Immediately after this, the parade major and commandant arrived, whom we loved and even respected. They walked around all the barracks and congratulated everyone.
Gradually the people cleared up, but there were many more sober people left, and there was someone to look after the drunk ones. Gazin was sober. He intended to go for a walk at the end of the holiday, collecting all the money from the prisoners’ pockets. Songs were heard throughout the barracks. Many walked around with their own bala-laikas, and even a choir of eight people formed in a special section.
Meanwhile, twilight began. Among the drunkenness, sadness and melancholy were visible. The people wanted to have fun on the great holiday, but what a difficult and sad day this was for almost everyone. It became unbearable and disgusting in the barracks. I felt sad and sorry for them all.
XI. Performance
On the third day of the holiday, a performance took place in our theater. We did not know whether our parade major knew about the theater. A person like the parade major had to take away something, deprive someone of their rights. The senior non-commissioned officer did not contradict the prisoners, taking their word that everything would be quiet. The poster was written by Baklushin for gentlemen officers and noble visitors who honored our theater with their visit.
The first play was called “Filatka and Miroshka are rivals,” in which Baklushin played Filatka, and Sirotkin played Filatka’s bride. The second play was called “Kedril the Glutton.” In conclusion, a “panto-mime with music” was presented.
The theater was set up in a military barracks. Half of the room was given over to the audience, and on the other half there was a stage. The curtain stretched across the barracks was painted oil paint and made from canvas. In front of the curtain there were two benches and several chairs for officers and outside visitors who did not change during the entire holiday. Behind the benches stood the prisoners, and the crowd there was incredible.
The crowd of spectators, squeezed from all sides, with bliss on their faces, awaited the start of the performance. A glimmer of childish joy shone on the gluey faces. The prisoners were delighted. They were allowed to have fun, forget about the shackles and long years of imprisonment.
Part two
I. Hospital
After the holidays, I got sick and went to our military hospital, in the main building of which there were 2 prison wards. Sick prisoners announced their illness to the non-commissioned officer. They were recorded in a book and sent with a guard to the battalion infirmary, where the doctor registered the really sick ones in the hospital.
The prescribing of medications and the distribution of portions was handled by the intern, who was in charge of the prison wards. We were dressed in hospital linen, I walked along a clean corridor and found myself in a long, narrow room where there were 22 wooden beds.
There were few seriously ill people. To my right lay a forger, a former clerk, the illegitimate son of a retired captain. He was a short-bodied guy, about 28 years old, intelligent, cheeky, confident in his innocence. He told me in detail about the procedures in the hospital.
Following him, a patient from the correctional company approached me. It was already a gray-haired soldier named Chekunov. He began to serve me, which caused several poisonous ridicule from a consumptive patient named Ustyantsev, who, afraid of the punishment, drank a mug of wine infused with tobacco, and got poisoned. I felt that his anger was directed more at me than at Chekunov.
All diseases, even Venous diseases, were collected here. There were also a few who came just to “relax.” The doctors allowed them in out of compassion. Externally, the ward was relatively clean, but we did not boast of internal cleanliness. Patients got used to this and even believed that this was the way it should be. Those punished by Spitz-ru-te-us were met very seriously and silently looked after the unfortunate ones. The paramedics knew that they were handing over the beaten man to experienced hands.
After the doctor’s evening visit, the room was locked and a night tub was brought in. At night, prisoners were not allowed out of their wards. This useless cruelty was explained by the fact that the prisoner would go out to the toilet at night and run away, despite the fact that there was a window with an iron bar, and an armed sentry would escort the prisoner to the toilet. And where to run in winter in hospital clothes. No disease can free a convict from the shackles of a convict. For the sick, the shackles are too heavy, and this weight aggravates their suffering.
II. Continuation
The doctors walked around the wards in the morning. Before them, our resident, a young but knowledgeable doctor, visited the ward. Many healers in Rus' enjoy love and respect common people, despite the general mistrust of medicine. When the resident noticed that the prisoner had come to rest from work, he wrote down his current illness and left him lying there. The senior doctor was much stern than the ordering officer, and for this we respected him.
Some patients asked to be discharged with their backs not healed from the first sticks, in order to quickly get out of court. Habit helped some people endure punishment. The prisoners spoke with unusual kindness about how they were beaten and about those who beat them.
However, not all stories were cold-blooded and indifferent. They told about Lieutenant Zhere-byat-nikova from him. He was a man of about 30, tall, fat, with rosy cheeks, white teeth and a roaring laugh. He loved to flog and punish with sticks. The lieutenant was a sophisticated gourmet in the executive field: he invented various unnatural things in order to pleasantly tickle his fat-swollen soul.
They remembered Lieutenant Smekalov, who was the commander of our prison, with joy and anticipation. The Russian people are ready to forget any torment for one kind word, but Lieutenant Smekalov gained particular popularity. He was a simple man, even kind in his own way, and we recognized him as one of our own.
III. Continuation
In the hospital I received a visual representation of all types of punishment. All those punished by Spitz-ru-the-us were brought into our chambers. I wanted to know all the degrees of sentences, I tried to imagine the psychological state of those going to execution.
If the prisoner could not withstand the prescribed number of blows, then, according to the doctor’s verdict, this number was divided into several parts. The prisoners endured the execution itself with courage. I noticed that large quantities of rods are the heaviest punishment. Five hundred rods can flog a person to death, and five hundred sticks can be carried without danger to life.
Almost every person has executioner characteristics, but they develop unevenly. There are two types of executioners: voluntary and forced. The people experience an unconscious, mystical fear of the slave executioner.
A forced executioner is an exiled prisoner who became an apprentice to another executioner and was left forever at the prison, where he has his own household and is under guard. The executioners have money, they eat well and drink wine. The executioner cannot punish lightly; but for the bribe he promises the victim that he will not beat her very painfully. If they don’t agree to his proposal, he punishes barbarously.
It was boring to be in the hospital. The arrival of a newcomer always created a revival. Even the crazy people who were brought in for testing were happy. The defendants pretended to go crazy in order to get rid of punishment. Some of them, after spending two or three days in the woods, calmed down and asked to be discharged. The real madmen were punishment for the entire ward.
The seriously ill loved to be treated. The bleeding was accepted with pleasure. Our banks were of a special kind. The paramedic lost or damaged the machine used to cut the skin, and was forced to make 12 cuts for each jar with a lancet.
The saddest time came late in the evening. It became stuffy, and vivid pictures of my past life came back to me. One night I heard a story that seemed like a fever dream.
IV. Akulkin's husband
Late at night I woke up and heard two people whispering to each other not far from me. The narrator Shishkov was still young, about 30 years old, a citizen's prisoner, an empty, eccentric and cowardly man of small stature, thin, with restless or stupidly thoughtful thoughts. eyes.
It was about the father of Shishkov's wife, Anku-dim Trofi-mych. He was a rich and respected old man of 70 years old, had trades and a large loan, and kept three workers. Ankudim Trofimych was married a second time, had two sons and an eldest daughter, Akulina. Shishkov's friend Filka Morozov was considered her lover. At that time, Filka’s parents died, and he was going to skip his inheritance and become a soldier. He did not want to marry Akulka. Shishkov then also buried his father, and his mother worked for Anku-Dim - she baked gingerbread for sale.
One day Filka encouraged Shishkov to smear Akulka’s gate with tar - Filka didn’t want her to marry the old rich man who had wooed her. He heard that there were rumors about Akulka and backed down. Shishkov's mother persuaded him to marry Akulka - now no one would marry her, and they gave her a good dowry.
Until the wedding, Shishkov drank without waking up. Filka Morozov threatened to break all his ribs and to sleep with his wife every night. Ankudim shed tears at the wedding; he knew that he was giving his daughter away to torment. And Shishkov, even before the wedding, had prepared a whip with him, and decided to make fun of Akulka so that she would know how to get married by dishonest deception.
After the wedding, they left them with Akulka in a cage. She sits white, not a trace of blood on her face from fear. Shishkov prepared the whip and placed it by the bed, but Akulka turned out to be innocent. He then knelt before her, asked for forgiveness, and vowed to take revenge on Filka Morozov for the shame.
Some time later, Filka suggested that Shishkov sell his wife to him. In order to force Shishkov, Filka started a rumor that he does not sleep with his wife because he is always drunk, and his wife is accepting others at this time. Shishkov was offended, and from then on he began to beat his wife from morning to evening. Old man Ankudim came to stand up, and then retreated. Shishkov did not allow his mother to interfere; he threatened to kill her.
Filka, meanwhile, became completely drunk and went to work as a mercenary for a tradesman, for his eldest son. Filka lived with a tradesman for his own pleasure, drank, slept with his daughters, and pulled his owner by the beard. The tradesman endured - Filka had to join the army for his eldest son. When they were taking Filka to turn him in as a soldier, he saw Akulka on the way, stopped, bowed to the ground and asked her for forgiveness for his meanness. Shark forgave him, and then told Shishkov that now she loves Filka more than death.
Shishkov decided to kill Shark. At dawn, he harnessed the cart, drove with his wife into the forest, to a remote village, and there he cut her throat with a knife. After that, fear attacked Shishkov, he left both his wife and his horse, and he ran home to his backside and hid in the bathhouse. In the evening they found dead Akulka and found Shishkov in the bathhouse. And now he has been in hard labor for four years now.
V. Summer time
Easter is approaching. Summer work has begun. The coming spring worried the chained man and gave birth to desires and longing in him. At this time, wandering began throughout Russia. Life in the forests, free and full of adventure, had a mysterious charm for those who experienced it.
One prisoner out of a hundred decides to escape, the other ninety-nine only dream about it. Defendants and those sentenced to long terms escape much more often. After serving two or three years of hard labor, the prisoner prefers to finish his sentence and go out into prison rather than risk risk and death in case of failure. All these runners come to the prisons for the winter in the fall, hoping to run again in the summer.
My anxiety and melancholy grew every day. The hatred that I, a nobleman, aroused in the prisoners, poisoned my life. On Easter, the authorities gave us one egg and a loaf of wheat bread. Everything was exactly like at Christmas, only now you could walk and bask in the sun.
Summer work turned out to be much harder than winter work. The prisoners built, dug, laid bricks, and did plumbing, carpentry or painting work. I either went to the workshop, or to the alabaster, or was a brick bearer. I became stronger from work. Physical strength is necessary in hard labor, but I wanted to live even after prison.
In the evenings, the prisoners walked in crowds around the yard, discussing the most ridiculous rumors. It became known that an important general was coming from St. Petersburg to inspect all of Siberia. At this time, one incident happened in the prison, which did not excite the major, but gave him pleasure. During a fight, one prisoner poked another in the chest with an awl.
The prisoner who committed the crime was named Lomov. The victim, Gavrilka, was one of the habitual tramps. Lomov was from wealthy peasants of the K district. All the Lomovs lived as a family, and, in addition to legal affairs, they were engaged in usury, harboring tramps and stolen property. Soon the Lomovs decided that they had no control, and began to take more and more risks in various lawless enterprises. Not far from the village they had a large farm where about six Kirghiz robbers lived. One night they were all killed. The Lomovs were accused of killing their workers. During the investigation and trial, their entire fortune went to waste, and the Lomovs’ uncle and nephew ended up in our penal servitude.
Soon Gavrilka, a rogue and tramp, appeared in the prison and took the blame for the death of the Kirghiz upon himself. The Lomovs knew that Gavrilka was a criminal, but they did not quarrel with him. And suddenly Uncle Lomov stabbed Gavrilka with an awl because of a girl. The Lomovs lived in the prison of the gods, for which the major hated them. Lomov was tried, although the wound turned out to be a scratch. The criminal was given a longer sentence and put through a thousand. The major was pleased.
On the second day after arriving in the city, the auditor came to our prison. He entered sternly and grandly, followed by a large retinue. The general walked around the barracks in silence, looked into the kitchen, and tried the cabbage soup. They pointed me out to him: they say, one of the nobles. The general nodded his head, and two minutes later he left the prison. The prisoners were blinded, puzzled, and left in bewilderment.
VI. Convict animals
The purchase of Gnedok entertained the prisoners much more than the high-ranking visit. There was a horse in the prison for household needs. One fine morning she died. The major ordered the immediate purchase of a new horse. The purchase was entrusted to the prisoners themselves, among whom were real experts. It was a young, beautiful and strong horse. He soon became the favorite of the entire prison.
The prisoners loved animals, but in the prison it was not allowed to raise a lot of livestock and poultry. In addition to Sharik, there were two other dogs living in the prison: Belka and Kul-tyapka, which I brought home from work as a puppy.
We got geese by accident. They amused the prisoners and even became famous in the city. The whole brood of geese went to work with the prisoners. They always joined the largest party and grazed nearby at work. When the party moved back to the prison, they also stood up. But, despite their devotion, they were all ordered to be slaughtered.
The goat Vaska appeared in the prison as a small, white kid and became everyone’s favorite. From Vaska grew a large goat with long horns. He also got into the habit of going to work with us. Vaska would have lived in prison for a long time, but one day, returning at the head of the prisoners from work, he caught the eye of the major. They immediately ordered the goat to be slaughtered, the skin sold, and the meat given to the prisoners.
An eagle also lived in our prison. Someone brought him to the prison, wounded and exhausted. He lived with us for three months and never left his corner. Lonely and angrily, he awaited death, not trusting anyone. In order for the eagle to die in freedom, the prisoners threw it off the rampart into the steppe.
VII. Claim
It took me almost a year to come to terms with life in prison. Other prisoners could not get used to this life either. Anxiety, ardor and impatience constituted the most characteristic property of this place.
The daydreaming gave the prisoners a gloomy and gloomy appearance. They did not like to show off their hopes. Simple soulfulness and frankness were despised. And if anyone started to dream out loud, he was rudely besieged and ridiculed.
Apart from these naive and simple talkers, everyone else was divided into good and evil, gloomy and bright. There were much more gloomy and angry people. There was also a group of desperate people, there were very few of them. Not a single person lives without striving for a goal. Having lost purpose and hope, a person turns into a monster, and everyone’s goal was freedom.
One day, on a hot summer day, the entire penal servitude began to be built in the prison yard. I didn’t know anything, and yet the penal servitude had been silently worried for three days. The pretext for this explosion was food, which everyone was unhappy with.
The convicts are quarrelsome, but they rarely rise together. However, this time the excitement was not in vain. In such a case, instigators always appear. This is a special type of people, naively confident in the possibility of justice. They are too hot to be cunning and calculating, so they always lose. Instead of main goal they often rush into trifles, and this ruins them.
There were several ringleaders in our prison. One of them is Martynov, a former hussar, a hot-tempered, restless and suspicious person; the other is Vasily Antonov, smart and cold-blooded, with an insolent look and an arrogant smile; both are honest and truthful.
Our non-commissioned officer was scared. Having lined up, the people politely asked him to tell the major that the hard labor prisoner wanted to talk to him. I also went out to line up, thinking that some kind of check was taking place. Many looked at me with surprise and mocked me angrily. In the end, Kulikov came up to me, took my hand and led me out of the ranks. Puzzled, I went to the kitchen, where there were a lot of people.
In the entryway I met the nobleman T-vsky. He explained to me that if we were there, we would be accused of rioting and brought to justice. Akim Akimych and Isai Fomich also did not take part in the unrest. There were all the cautious Poles and several gloomy, stern prisoners, convinced that nothing good would come of this matter.
The major flew in angry, followed by the clerk Dyatlov, who actually ran the prison and had influence on the major, a cunning but not bad person. A minute later, one prisoner went to the guardhouse, then another and a third. Clerk Dyatlov went to our kitchen. Here they told him that they had no complaints. He immediately reported to the major, who ordered us to be re-written separately from the dissatisfied. The paper and the threat to bring the dissatisfied to court brought action. Everyone suddenly turned out to be happy with everything.
The next day the food improved, although not for long. The major began to visit the prison more often and find disorder. The prisoners could not calm down for a long time; they were distraught and puzzled. Many laughed at themselves, as if punishing themselves for their pretension.
That same evening I asked Petrov if the prisoners were angry with the nobles for not coming out with everyone else. He didn't understand what I was trying to achieve. But I realized that I would never be accepted into the partnership. In Petrov’s question: “What kind of comrade are you to us?” — one could hear genuine naivety and simple soulful bewilderment.
VIII. Comrades
Of the three nobles who were in the prison, I only communicated with Akim Akimych. He was a kind man, he helped me with advice and some favors, but sometimes he made me sad with his even, dignified voice.
Besides these three Russians, in my time we had eight Poles. The best of them were painful and intolerant. There were only three educated people: B-sky, M-ky and old Zh-ky, a former professor of mathematics.
Some of them were sent for 10-12 years. With the Circassians and Tatars, with Isai Fomich, they were affectionate and friendly, but they avoided the rest of the convicts. Only one Staro-Dub Old Believer earned their respect.
The highest authorities in Siberia treated the criminal nobles differently than the rest of the exiles. Following the top management, lower commanders also got used to this. The second category of hard labor, where I was, was much harder than the other two categories. The structure of this category was military, very similar to the prison companies, which everyone talked about with horror. The authorities looked at the nobles in our prison more warily and did not punish them as often as they did ordinary prisoners.
They tried to make our work easier only once: B-kiy and I went to the engineering office as clerks for three whole months. This happened under Lieutenant Colonel G-kov. He was affectionate with the prisoners and loved them like a father. In the very first month after his arrival, G-kov quarreled with our major and left.
We were copying papers, when suddenly the higher authorities gave us an order to return us to previous works. Then for two years B. and I went to work together, most often in the workshop.
Meanwhile, M-ky became sadder and gloomier over the years. He was inspired only by remembering his old and sick mother. Finally, M-tsky’s mother offered him forgiveness. He went out to settle and stayed in our city.
Of the rest, two were young people sent for short periods of time, poorly educated, but honest and simple. The third, A-chukovsky, was too simple-minded, but the fourth, B-m, an elderly man, made a bad impression on us. It was a rude, bourgeois soul, with the habits of a shopkeeper. He was not interested in anything other than his craft. He was a skilled painter. Soon the whole city began to demand B-ma to paint the walls and ceilings. They began to send his other comrades to work with him.
B-m painted the house for our parade major, who after that began to patronize the nobles. Soon the parade major was put on trial and resigned. After retiring, he sold his estate and fell into poverty. We met him later in a worn-out frock coat. He was a god in uniform. In a frock coat he looked like a footman.
IX. The escape
Soon after the change of major, hard labor was abolished and a military prison company was founded in its place. A special department also remained, and dangerous war criminals were sent to it until the most difficult hard labor was opened in Siberia.
For us, life continued as before, only the management had changed. A staff officer, a company commander and four chief officers were appointed, who were on duty in turns. Instead of disabled people, twelve non-commissioned officers and a captain were appointed. There were corporals among the prisoners, and Akim Akimych immediately turned out to be a corporal. All this remained in the department of the commandant.
The main thing was that we got rid of the former major. The intimidated look disappeared, now everyone knew that the right one would only be punished by mistake instead of the guilty one. The non-commissioned officers turned out to be decent people. They tried not to watch how vodka was carried in and sold. Like disabled people, they went to the market and brought provisions to the prisoners.
The following years were erased from my memory. Only a passionate desire for a new life gave me the strength to wait and hope. I re-looked at mine past life and judged himself harshly. I swore to myself that I would not make past mistakes in the future.
Sometimes we had escapes. Two people were running with me. After the change of major spy A-v was left without protection. He was a daring, decisive, intelligent and cynical man. A prisoner from the special department, Kulikov, a middle-aged but strong man, drew attention to him. They became friends and agreed to run away.
It was impossible to escape without an escort. A Pole named Koller, an elderly, energetic man, served in one of the battalions stationed in the fortress. Having come to serve in Siberia, he fled. He was caught and kept in prison companies for two years. When he was returned to the army, he began to serve zealously, for which he was made a corporal. He was ambitious, self-motivated and knew his own worth. Kulikov chose him as a comrade. They came to an agreement and set a day.
This was in the month of June. The fugitives arranged it in such a way that they, together with the prisoner Shilkin, were sent to raid the empty barracks. Koller and a young recruit were escorts. After an hour, Kulikov and A. told Shilkin that they were going for wine. After some time, Shilkin realized that his comrades had escaped, quit his job, went straight to the prison and told everything to the sergeant-major.
The criminals were important, messengers were sent to all the volosts to report the fugitives and leave their signs everywhere. They wrote to neighboring districts and provinces, and sent Cossacks in pursuit.
This incident broke the monotonous life of the prison, and the escape resonated in all souls. The commandant himself came to the prison. The prisoners behaved boldly, with strict dignity. The prisoners were sent to work under heavy escort, and in the evenings they were counted several times. But the prisoners behaved decorously and independently. Everyone was proud of Kulikov and A.
The intensive search continued for a whole week. The prisoners received all the news about the maneuvers of the authorities. About eight days after the escape, the fugitives were tracked down. The next day they began to say in the city that the fugitives were caught seven to ten miles from the prison. Finally, the sergeant-major announced that by evening they would be brought directly to the guardhouse at the prison.
At first everyone got angry, then they became depressed, and then they started laughing at those caught. Kulikov and A-va were now humiliated to the same extent as they had previously been exalted. When they were brought in, tied hand and foot, the whole prison camp came out to see what they would do with them. The fugitives were shackled and brought to justice. Having learned that the fugitives had no other choice but to surrender, everyone began to cordially monitor the progress of the case in court.
A-vu was awarded five hundred sticks, Kulikov was given one and a half thousand. Koller lost everything, walked two thousand and was sent somewhere as a prisoner. A-va was punished weakly. At the hospital he said that he was now ready for anything. Returning to the prison after punishment, Kulikov behaved as if he had never left it. Despite this, the prisoners began to respect him.
X. Exit from hard labor
All this happened in the last year of my hard labor. This year my life was easier. Between the arrests I had many friends and acquaintances. I had acquaintances among the military in the city, and I resumed communication with them. Through them I could write to my homeland and receive books.
The closer the release date approached, the more patient I became. Many prisoners sincerely and joyfully congratulated me. It seemed to me that everyone became friendlier with me.
On the day of liberation, I walked around the barracks to say goodbye to all the prisoners. Some shook my hand in a friendly manner, others knew that I had friends in the city, that I would go from here to the gentlemen and sit next to them as an equal. They said goodbye to me not as a comrade, but as a master. Some turned away from me, did not respond to my farewell and looked at me with some kind of hatred.
About ten minutes after the prisoners left for work, I left the prison, never to return to it. I was accompanied to the forge to unfasten the shackles not by a guard with a gun, but by a non-commissioned officer. Our own prisoners unchained us. They were fussing and wanted to do everything as best as possible. The shackles fell off. Freedom, new life. What a glorious moment!
In the remote regions of Siberia, among the steppes, mountains or impenetrable forests, you occasionally come across small towns, with one, many with two thousand inhabitants, wooden, nondescript, with two churches - one in the city, the other in the cemetery - towns that look more like good village near Moscow than the city. They are usually quite sufficiently equipped with police officers, assessors and all other subaltern ranks. In general, in Siberia, despite the cold, it is extremely warm. People live simple, illiberal lives; the order is old, strong, sanctified for centuries. The officials who rightly play the role of the Siberian nobility are either natives, inveterate Siberians, or visitors from Russia, mostly from the capitals, seduced by the non-credited salaries, double runs and tempting hopes for the future. Among them, those who know how to solve the riddle of life almost always remain in Siberia and take root in it with pleasure. They subsequently bear rich and sweet fruits. But others, frivolous people who do not know how to solve the riddle of life, will soon become bored with Siberia and ask themselves with longing: why did they come to it? They eagerly serve out their legal term of service, three years, and at the end of it they immediately bother about their transfer and return home, scolding Siberia and laughing at it. They are wrong: not only from an official point of view, but even from many points of view, one can be blissful in Siberia. The climate is excellent; there are many remarkably rich and hospitable merchants; there are many extremely wealthy foreigners. The young ladies bloom with roses and are moral to the last extreme. The game flies through the streets and stumbles upon the hunter. An unnatural amount of champagne is drunk. The caviar is amazing. The harvest happens in other places as early as fifteen... In general, the land is blessed. You just need to know how to use it. In Siberia they know how to use it.
In one of these cheerful and self-satisfied towns, with the sweetest people, the memory of which will remain indelible in my heart, I met Alexander Petrovich Goryanchikov, a settler who was born in Russia as a nobleman and landowner, then became a second-class exile and convict for the murder of his wife. and, after the expiration of the ten-year term of hard labor prescribed for him by law, he humbly and quietly lived out his life in the town of K. as a settler. He, in fact, was assigned to one suburban volost, but lived in the city, having the opportunity to earn at least some food in it by teaching children. In Siberian cities one often encounters teachers from exiled settlers; they are not disdained. They teach mainly the French language, which is so necessary in the field of life and which, without them, in the remote regions of Siberia they would have no idea. The first time I met Alexander Petrovich was in the house of an old, honored and hospitable official, Ivan Ivanovich Gvozdikov, who had five daughters, of different years, who showed wonderful hopes. Alexander Petrovich gave them lessons four times a week, thirty silver kopecks per lesson. His appearance interested me. He was an extremely pale and thin man, not yet old, about thirty-five, small and frail. He was always dressed very cleanly, in a European style. If you spoke to him, he looked at you extremely intently and attentively, listening to every word of yours with strict politeness, as if he were pondering it, as if you asked him a task with your question or wanted to extract some secret from him, and, finally, he answered clearly and briefly, but weighing every word of his answer so much that you suddenly felt awkward for some reason and you yourself finally rejoiced at the end of the conversation. I then asked Ivan Ivanovich about him and found out that Goryanchikov lives impeccably and morally and that otherwise Ivan Ivanovich would not have invited him for his daughters; but that he is a terrible unsociable person, hides from everyone, is extremely learned, reads a lot, but speaks very little, and that in general it is quite difficult to talk to him. Others argued that he was positively crazy, although they found that, in essence, this was not such an important flaw, that many of the honorary members of the city were ready to favor Alexander Petrovich in every possible way, that he could even be useful, write requests, etc. They believed that he must have decent relatives in Russia, maybe not even the last people, but they knew that from the very exile he stubbornly cut off all relations with them - in a word, he was harming himself. In addition, we all knew his story, we knew that he killed his wife in the first year of his marriage, killed out of jealousy and denounced himself (which greatly facilitated his punishment). Such crimes are always looked upon as misfortunes and regretted. But, despite all this, the eccentric stubbornly avoided everyone and appeared in people only to give lessons.
At first I didn’t pay much attention to him, but, I don’t know why, little by little he began to interest me. There was something mysterious about him. There was not the slightest opportunity to talk to him. Of course, he always answered my questions, and even with such an air as if he considered this his primary duty; but after his answers I somehow felt burdened to question him longer; and on his face, after such conversations, some kind of suffering and fatigue was always visible. I remember walking with him one fine summer evening from Ivan Ivanovich. Suddenly I took it into my head to invite him to my place for a minute to smoke a cigarette. I cannot describe the horror that was expressed on his face; he was completely lost, began to mutter some incoherent words and suddenly, looking angrily at me, he started running in the opposite direction. I was even surprised. Since then, whenever he met me, he looked at me as if with some kind of fear. But I didn’t calm down; I was drawn to him by something, and a month later, out of the blue, I went to see Goryanchikov. Of course, I acted stupidly and indelicately. He lived on the very edge of the city, with an old bourgeois woman who had a daughter who was sick with consumption, and that daughter had an illegitimate daughter, a child of about ten years old, a pretty and cheerful girl. Alexander Petrovich was sitting with her and teaching her to read the minute I came into his room. When he saw me, he became so confused, as if I had caught him committing some crime. He was completely confused, jumped up from his chair and looked at me with all his eyes. We finally sat down; he closely watched my every glance, as if he suspected some special mysterious meaning in each of them. I guessed that he was suspicious to the point of madness. He looked at me with hatred, almost asking: “Are you going to leave here soon?” I talked to him about our town, about current news; he remained silent and smiled evilly; it turned out that he not only did not know the most ordinary, well-known city news, but was not even interested in knowing them. Then I started talking about our region, about its needs; he listened to me in silence and looked into my eyes so strangely that I finally felt ashamed of our conversation. However, I almost teased him with new books and magazines; I had them in my hands, fresh from the post office, and I offered them to him, still uncut. He cast a greedy glance at them, but immediately changed his mind and declined the offer, citing lack of time. Finally, I said goodbye to him and, leaving him, I felt that some unbearable weight had been lifted from my heart. I was ashamed and it seemed extremely stupid to pester a person whose main goal was to hide as far away from the whole world as possible. But the job was done. I remember that I noticed almost no books on him, and, therefore, it was unfair to say about him that he reads a lot. However, driving past his windows twice, very late at night, I noticed a light in them. What did he do while he sat until dawn? Didn't he write? And if so, what exactly?
Circumstances removed me from our town for three months. Returning home in the winter, I learned that Alexander Petrovich died in the fall, died in solitude and never even called a doctor to him. The town has almost forgotten about him. His apartment was empty. I immediately met the owner of the deceased, intending to find out from her; What exactly was her tenant doing and did he write anything? For two kopecks she brought me a whole basket of papers left behind by the deceased. The old woman admitted that she had already used up two notebooks. She was a gloomy and silent woman, from whom it was difficult to get anything worthwhile. She couldn’t tell me anything special new about her tenant. According to her, he almost never did anything and for months at a time did not open a book or pick up a pen; but whole nights he walked back and forth across the room and kept thinking about something, and sometimes talking to himself; that he loved and caressed her granddaughter, Katya, very much, especially since he found out that her name was Katya, and that on Katerina’s day every time he went to serve a memorial service for someone. He could not tolerate guests; he only came out of the yard to teach the children; he even glanced sideways at her, the old woman, when she came, once a week, to tidy up his room at least a little, and almost never said a single word to her for three whole years. I asked Katya: does she remember her teacher? She looked at me silently, turned to the wall and began to cry. Therefore, this man could at least force someone to love him.
Part one
Introduction
In the remote regions of Siberia, among the steppes, mountains or impenetrable forests, you occasionally come across small towns, with one, many with two thousand inhabitants, wooden, nondescript, with two churches - one in the city, the other in the cemetery - towns that look more like good village near Moscow than the city. They are usually quite sufficiently equipped with police officers, assessors and all other subaltern ranks. In general, in Siberia, despite the cold, it is extremely warm. People live simple, illiberal lives; the order is old, strong, sanctified for centuries. The officials who rightly play the role of the Siberian nobility are either natives, inveterate Siberians, or visitors from Russia, mostly from the capitals, seduced by the non-credited salaries, double runs and tempting hopes for the future. Among them, those who know how to solve the riddle of life almost always remain in Siberia and take root in it with pleasure. They subsequently bear rich and sweet fruits. But others, frivolous people who do not know how to solve the riddle of life, will soon become bored with Siberia and ask themselves with longing: why did they come to it? They eagerly serve out their legal term of service, three years, and at the end of it they immediately bother about their transfer and return home, scolding Siberia and laughing at it. They are wrong: not only from an official point of view, but even from many points of view, one can be blissful in Siberia. The climate is excellent; there are many remarkably rich and hospitable merchants; there are many extremely wealthy foreigners. The young ladies bloom with roses and are moral to the last extreme. The game flies through the streets and stumbles upon the hunter. An unnatural amount of champagne is drunk. The caviar is amazing. The harvest happens in other places as early as fifteen... In general, the land is blessed. You just need to know how to use it. In Siberia they know how to use it.
In one of these cheerful and self-satisfied towns, with the sweetest people, the memory of which will remain indelible in my heart, I met Alexander Petrovich Goryanchikov, a settler who was born in Russia as a nobleman and landowner, then became a second-class exile for the murder of his wife, and, after the expiration of the ten-year term of hard labor prescribed for him by law, he humbly and quietly lived out his life in the town of K. as a settler. He was actually assigned to one suburban volost; but he lived in the city, having the opportunity to earn at least some food in it by teaching children. In Siberian cities one often encounters teachers from exiled settlers; they are not disdained. They teach mainly the French language, which is so necessary in the field of life and which, without them, in the remote regions of Siberia they would have no idea. The first time I met Alexander Petrovich was in the house of an old, honored and hospitable official, Ivan Ivanovich Gvozdikov, who had five daughters of different ages who showed wonderful hopes. Alexander Petrovich gave them lessons four times a week, thirty silver kopecks per lesson. His appearance interested me. He was an extremely pale and thin man, not yet old, about thirty-five, small and frail. He was always dressed very cleanly, in a European style. If you spoke to him, he looked at you extremely intently and attentively, listened to every word of yours with strict politeness, as if he were pondering it, as if you asked him a task with your question or wanted to extract some secret from him, and, finally, he answered clearly and briefly, but weighing every word of his answer so much that you suddenly felt awkward for some reason and you yourself finally rejoiced at the end of the conversation. I then asked Ivan Ivanovich about him and found out that Goryanchikov lives impeccably and morally and that otherwise Ivan Ivanovich would not have invited him for his daughters, but that he is a terrible unsociable, hides from everyone, is extremely learned, reads a lot, but says very little and that in general it’s quite difficult to talk to him. Others argued that he was positively crazy, although they found that in essence this was not such an important flaw, that many of the honorary members of the city were ready to favor Alexander Petrovich in every possible way, that he could even be useful, write requests, etc. They believed that he must have decent relatives in Russia, maybe not even the last people, but they knew that from the very exile he stubbornly cut off all relations with them - in a word, he was harming himself. In addition, we all knew his story, we knew that he killed his wife in the first year of his marriage, killed out of jealousy and denounced himself (which greatly facilitated his punishment). Such crimes are always looked upon as misfortunes and regretted. But, despite all this, the eccentric stubbornly avoided everyone and appeared in people only to give lessons.
At first I didn't pay much attention to him; but, I don’t know why, little by little he began to interest me. There was something mysterious about him. There was not the slightest opportunity to talk to him. Of course, he always answered my questions, and even with such an air as if he considered this his primary duty; but after his answers I somehow felt burdened to question him longer; and after such conversations, his face always showed some kind of suffering and fatigue. I remember walking with him one fine summer evening from Ivan Ivanovich. Suddenly I took it into my head to invite him to my place for a minute to smoke a cigarette. I cannot describe the horror that was expressed on his face; he was completely lost, began to mutter some incoherent words and suddenly, looking angrily at me, he started running in the opposite direction. I was even surprised. Since then, whenever he met me, he looked at me as if with some kind of fear. But I didn’t calm down; I was drawn to him by something, and a month later, out of the blue, I went to see Goryanchikov. Of course, I acted stupidly and indelicately. He lived on the very edge of the city, with an old bourgeois woman who had a daughter who was sick with consumption, and that daughter had an illegitimate daughter, a child of about ten years old, a pretty and cheerful girl. Alexander Petrovich was sitting with her and teaching her to read the minute I came into his room. When he saw me, he became so confused, as if I had caught him committing some crime. He was completely confused, jumped up from his chair and looked at me with all his eyes. We finally sat down; he closely watched my every glance, as if he suspected some special mysterious meaning in each of them. I guessed that he was suspicious to the point of madness. He looked at me with hatred, almost asking: “Are you going to leave here soon?” I talked to him about our town, about current news; he remained silent and smiled evilly; it turned out that he not only did not know the most ordinary, well-known city news, but was not even interested in knowing them. Then I started talking about our region, about its needs; he listened to me in silence and looked into my eyes so strangely that I finally felt ashamed of our conversation. However, I almost teased him with new books and magazines; I had them in my hands, fresh from the post office, and I offered them to him, not yet cut. He cast a greedy glance at them, but immediately changed his mind and declined the offer, citing lack of time. Finally, I said goodbye to him and, leaving him, I felt that some unbearable weight had been lifted from my heart. I was ashamed and it seemed extremely stupid to pester a person whose main goal was to hide as far away from the whole world as possible. But the job was done. I remember that I noticed almost no books on him, and, therefore, it was unfair to say about him that he reads a lot. However, driving past his windows twice, very late at night, I noticed a light in them. What did he do while he sat until dawn? Didn't he write? And if so, what exactly?
Circumstances removed me from our town for three months. Returning home in the winter, I learned that Alexander Petrovich died in the fall, died in solitude and never even called a doctor to him. The town has almost forgotten about him. His apartment was empty. I immediately met the owner of the deceased, intending to find out from her: what was her tenant especially doing and did he write anything? For two kopecks she brought me a whole basket of papers left behind by the deceased. The old woman admitted that she had already used up two notebooks. She was a gloomy and silent woman, from whom it was difficult to get anything worthwhile. She couldn’t tell me anything particularly new about her tenant. According to her, he almost never did anything and for months at a time did not open a book or pick up a pen; but whole nights he walked back and forth across the room and kept thinking about something, and sometimes talking to himself; that he loved and caressed her granddaughter, Katya, very much, especially since he found out that her name was Katya, and that on Katerina’s day every time he went to serve a memorial service for someone. He could not tolerate guests; he only came out of the yard to teach the children; he even glanced sideways at her, the old woman, when she came, once a week, to tidy up his room at least a little, and almost never said a single word to her for three whole years. I asked Katya: does she remember her teacher? She looked at me silently, turned to the wall and began to cry. Therefore, this man could at least force someone to love him.
I took his papers and sorted through them all day. Three quarters of these papers were empty, insignificant scraps or student exercises from copybooks. But there was also one notebook, quite voluminous, finely written and unfinished, perhaps abandoned and forgotten by the author himself. This was a description, albeit incoherent, of the ten years of hard labor endured by Alexander Petrovich. In places this description was interrupted by some other story, some strange, terrible memories, sketched unevenly, convulsively, as if under some kind of compulsion. I re-read these passages several times and was almost convinced that they were written in madness. But the convict notes - “Scenes from the House of the Dead,” as he himself calls them somewhere in his manuscript, seemed to me not entirely uninteresting. Absolutely new world, still unknown, the strangeness of other facts, some special notes about the lost people fascinated me, and I read something with curiosity. Of course, I could be wrong. I first select two or three chapters for testing; let the public judge...
I. House of the Dead
Our fort stood on the edge of the fortress, right next to the ramparts. It happened that you looked through the cracks of the fence into the light of God: wouldn’t you see at least something? - and all you will see is the edge of the sky and a high earthen rampart overgrown with weeds, and sentries walking back and forth along the rampart day and night, and you will immediately think that whole years will pass, and you will go in the same way to look through the cracks of the fence and you will see the same rampart, the same sentries and the same small edge of the sky, not the sky that is above the prison, but another, distant, free sky. Imagine a large courtyard, two hundred steps in length and one and a half hundred steps in width, all surrounded in a circle, in the form of an irregular hexagon, by a high fence, that is, a fence of high pillars (pals), dug deep into the ground, firmly leaning against each other with ribs, fastened with transverse planks and pointed at the top: this is the outer fence of the fort. In one of the sides of the fence there is a strong gate, always locked, always guarded day and night by sentries; they were unlocked upon request to be released to work. Behind these gates there was a bright, free world, people lived like everyone else. But on this side of the fence they imagined that world as some kind of impossible fairy tale. It had its own special world, unlike anything else; it had its own special laws, its own costumes, its own morals and customs, and a living dead house, life - like nowhere else, and special people. It is this special corner that I begin to describe.
As you enter the fence, you see several buildings inside it. On both sides of the wide courtyard there are two long one-story log houses. These are barracks. Prisoners housed by category live here. Then, in the depths of the fence, there is another similar log house: this is a kitchen, divided into two artels; further on there is another building where cellars, barns, and sheds are located under one roof. The middle of the yard is empty and forms a flat, fairly large area. Here the prisoners are lined up, verification and roll call take place in the morning, at noon and in the evening, sometimes several more times a day - judging by the suspiciousness of the guards and their ability to quickly count. All around, between the buildings and the fence, there is still quite a large space. Here, at the back of the buildings, some of the prisoners, more unsociable and darker in character, like to walk around during non-working hours, closed from all eyes, and think their little thoughts. Meeting them during these walks, I loved to peer into their gloomy, branded faces and guess what they were thinking about. There was one exile whose favorite pastime was free time it was considered Pali. There were a thousand and a half of them, and he had them all in his account and in mind. Each fire meant a day for him; every day he counted one pala and thus, from the remaining number of uncounted pali, he could clearly see how many days he still had left to stay in the prison before the deadline for work. He was sincerely happy when he finished some side of the hexagon. He still had to wait for many years; but in prison there was time to learn patience. I once saw how a prisoner, who had been in hard labor for twenty years and was finally released, said goodbye to his comrades. There were people who remembered how he entered the prison for the first time, young, carefree, not thinking about his crime or his punishment. He came out as a gray-haired old man, with a gloomy and sad face. Silently he walked around all our six barracks. Entering each barracks, he prayed to the icon and then bowed low, at the waist, to his comrades, asking them not to remember him unkindly. I also remember how one day a prisoner, formerly a wealthy Siberian peasant, was called to the gate one evening. Six months before this, he received the news that his ex-wife had gotten married, and he was deeply saddened. Now she herself drove up to the prison, called him and gave him alms. They talked for two minutes, both cried and said goodbye forever. I saw his face when he returned to the barracks... Yes, in this place one could learn patience.
When it got dark, we were all taken into the barracks, where we were locked up for the whole night. It was always difficult for me to return from the yard to our barracks. It was a long, low and stuffy room, dimly lit by tallow candles, with a heavy, suffocating smell. Now I don’t understand how I survived in it for ten years. I had three boards on the bunk: that was all my space. About thirty people were accommodated on these same bunks in one of our rooms. In winter they locked it early; We had to wait four hours until everyone fell asleep. And before that - noise, din, laughter, curses, the sound of chains, smoke and soot, shaved heads, branded faces, patchwork dresses, everything - cursed, defamed... yes, a tenacious man! Man is a creature that gets used to everything, and I think this is the best definition of him.
There were only two hundred and fifty of us in the prison - the number was almost constant. Some came, others completed their terms and left, others died. And what kind of people were not here! I think every province, every strip of Russia had its representatives here. There were also foreigners, there were several exiles even from the Caucasian highlanders. All this was divided according to the degree of crime, and therefore, according to the number of years determined for the crime. It must be assumed that there was no crime that did not have its representative here. The main basis of the entire prison population were exiled convicts of the civil category ( strongly convicts, as the prisoners themselves naively pronounced). These were criminals, completely deprived of all the rights of fortune, cut off in chunks from society, with their faces branded as an eternal testimony of their rejection. They were sent to work for periods of eight to twelve years and then were sent somewhere in the Siberian volosts as settlers. There were also criminals of the military category, who were not deprived of their status rights, as in general in Russian military prison companies. They were sent for a short period of time; upon completion, they turned back to where they came from, to become soldiers, to the Siberian line battalions. Many of them almost immediately returned back to prison for secondary important crimes, but not for short periods, but for twenty years. This category was called "always". But the "always" were still not completely deprived of all the rights of the state. Finally, there was another special category of the most terrible criminals, mainly military ones, quite numerous. It was called the “special department”. Criminals were sent here from all over Rus'. They themselves considered themselves eternal and did not know the duration of their work. By law, they had to double and triple their work hours. They were kept in prison until the most severe hard labor was opened in Siberia. “You get a prison term, but we get penal servitude along the way,” they said to other prisoners. I heard later that this discharge was destroyed. In addition, civil order at our fortress was destroyed, and one general military prison company was established. Of course, along with this, the management also changed. I am describing, therefore, the old days, things that are long past and past...
It was a long time ago; I dream of all this now, as if in a dream. I remember how I entered the prison. It was in the evening in December. It was already getting dark; people were returning from work; were preparing for verification. The mustachioed non-commissioned officer finally opened the doors for me to this strange house, in which I had to stay for so many years, endure so many sensations about which, without actually experiencing them, I could not even have an approximate idea. For example, I could never imagine: what is terrible and painful about the fact that during all ten years of my penal servitude I will never, not even for a single minute, be alone? At work, always under escort, at home with two hundred comrades, and never, never alone! However, did I still have to get used to this!
There were casual killers and professional killers, robbers and atamans of robbers. There were simply mazuriks and industrialist vagabonds for found money or for the Stolevo part. There were also those about whom it was difficult to decide: why, it seems, could they come here? Meanwhile, everyone had their own story, vague and heavy, like the fumes of yesterday’s intoxication. In general, they talked little about their past, did not like to talk and, apparently, tried not to think about the past. I even knew of them murderers who were so cheerful, so never thinking, that you could bet that their conscience never reproached them. But there were also gloomy faces, almost always silent. In general, rarely did anyone tell their life, and curiosity was not in fashion, somehow not in custom, not accepted. So is it possible that occasionally someone will start talking out of idleness, while someone else listens calmly and gloomily. No one here could surprise anyone. “We are a literate people!” - they often said with some strange complacency. I remember how one day a drunken robber (you could sometimes get drunk in penal servitude) began to tell how he stabbed a five-year-old boy to death, how he first deceived him with a toy, took him somewhere into an empty barn, and stabbed him there. The entire barracks, which had hitherto laughed at his jokes, screamed like one man, and the robber was forced to remain silent; The barracks screamed not out of indignation, but because there was no need to talk about this speak; because talk about it not accepted. By the way, I note that these people were truly literate, and not even figuratively, but literally. Probably more than half of them could read and write. In what other place, where the Russian people gather in large masses, will you separate from them a group of two hundred and fifty people, half of whom would be literate? I heard later that someone began to deduce from similar data that literacy is ruining the people. This is a mistake: there are completely different reasons; although one cannot but agree that literacy develops arrogance among the people. But this is not a drawback at all. All categories differed in dress: some had half their jackets dark brown and the other gray, and the same on their trousers - one leg was gray and the other dark brown. Once, at work, a Kalash-wielding girl approached the prisoners, peered at me for a long time and then suddenly burst out laughing. “Ugh, how nice isn’t it! - she shouted, “there was not enough gray cloth, and there was not enough black cloth!” There were also those whose entire jacket was of the same gray cloth, but only the sleeves were dark brown. The head was also shaved in different ways: for some, half of the head was shaved along the skull, for others across.
At first glance one could notice some sharp commonality in this whole strange family; even the harshest, most original personalities, who reigned over others involuntarily, tried to fall into the general tone of the entire prison. In general, I will say that all this people, with a few few exceptions of inexhaustibly cheerful people who enjoyed universal contempt for this, were a gloomy, envious people, terribly vain, boastful, touchy and extremely formalist. The ability not to be surprised by anything was the greatest virtue. Everyone was obsessed with how to present themselves. But often the most arrogant look was replaced with lightning speed by the most cowardly one. It was somewhat true strong people ; they were simple and did not grimace. But a strange thing: of these real, strong people, several were vain to the extreme, almost to the point of illness. In general, vanity and appearance were in the foreground. The majority were corrupted and terribly sneaky. Gossip and gossip were continuous: it was hell, pitch darkness. But no one dared to rebel against the internal regulations and accepted customs of the prison; everyone obeyed. There were characters that were sharply outstanding, who obeyed with difficulty, with effort, but still obeyed. Those who came to the prison had gone too far too far, had gone too far out of their depth when they were free, so that in the end they committed their crimes as if not of their own accord, as if they themselves did not know why, as if in delirium, in a daze; often out of vanity, excited to the highest degree. But with us they were immediately besieged, despite the fact that others, before arriving at the prison, terrorized entire villages and cities. Looking around, the newcomer soon noticed that he was in the wrong place, that there was no one left to surprise here, and he quietly humbled himself and fell into the general tone. This general tone was composed from the outside out of some special, personal dignity, which imbued almost every inhabitant of the prison. As if, in fact, the title of a convict, a decided one, constituted some kind of rank, and an honorable one at that. No signs of shame or remorse! However, there was also some kind of outward humility, so to speak official, some kind of calm reasoning: “We are a lost people,” they said, “we didn’t know how to live in freedom, now break the green street, check the ranks.” - “I didn’t listen to my father and mother, now listen to the drum skin.” - “I didn’t want to sew with gold, now hit the stones with a hammer.” All this was said often, both in the form of moral teaching and in the form of ordinary sayings and proverbs, but never seriously. All these were just words. It is unlikely that any of them internally admitted their lawlessness. If someone who is not a convict tries to reproach a prisoner for his crime, to scold him (although, however, it is not in the Russian spirit to reproach a criminal), there will be no end to the curses. And what masters they were all at swearing! They swore subtly and artistically. They elevated swearing to a science; they tried to take it not so much with an offensive word, but with an offensive meaning, spirit, idea - and this is more subtle, more poisonous. Continuous quarrels further developed this science between them. All these people worked under pressure, as a result they were idle, and as a result they became corrupted: if they had not been corrupted before, they became corrupted in hard labor. All of them did not gather here of their own free will; they were all strangers to each other.
“The devil took three bast shoes before he gathered us into one heap!” - they said to themselves; and therefore gossip, intrigue, women's slander, envy, quarrel, anger were always in the foreground in this pitch-black life. No woman could be such a woman as some of these murderers. I repeat, among them there were people of strong character, accustomed to breaking and commanding their entire lives, seasoned, fearless. These people were somehow involuntarily respected; they, for their part, although they were often very jealous of their fame, generally tried not to be a burden to others, did not engage in empty curses, behaved with extraordinary dignity, were reasonable and almost always obedient to their superiors - not out of the principle of obedience , not out of consciousness of responsibilities, but as if under some kind of contract, realizing mutual benefits. However, they were treated with caution. I remember how one of these prisoners, a fearless and decisive man, known to his superiors for his brutal inclinations, was called to punishment for some crime. It was a summer day, time off from work. The staff officer, the closest and immediate commander of the prison, came himself to the guardhouse, which was right next to our gates, to be present at the punishment. This major was some kind of fatal creature for the prisoners, he brought them to the point that they trembled at him. He was insanely strict, “throwing himself at people,” as the convicts said. What they feared most about him was his penetrating, lynx-like gaze, from which nothing could be hidden. He somehow saw without looking. Entering the prison, he already knew what was happening at the other end of it. The prisoners called him eight-eyed. His system was false. He only embittered already embittered people with his frenzied, evil actions, and if there had not been a commandant over him, a noble and sensible man, who sometimes moderated his wild antics, then he would have caused great troubles with his management. I don’t understand how he could have ended safely; he retired alive and well, although, however, he was put on trial.
The prisoner turned pale when they called him. Usually he silently and resolutely lay down under the rods, silently endured the punishment and got up after the punishment, as if disheveled, calmly and philosophically looking at the failure that had happened. However, they always dealt with him carefully. But this time he considered himself to be right for some reason. He turned pale and, quietly away from the escort, managed to put a sharp English shoe knife into his sleeve. Knives and all kinds of sharp instruments were terribly prohibited in the prison. The searches were frequent, unexpected and serious, the punishments were cruel; but since it is difficult to find a thief when he has decided to hide something special, and since knives and tools were an ever-present necessity in prison, despite searches, they were not transferred. And if they were selected, then new ones were immediately created. The whole convict rushed to the fence and looked through the cracks of their fingers with bated breath. Everyone knew that Petrov this time would not want to lie under the rod and that the end had come for the major. But at the most decisive moment, our major got into a droshky and drove away, entrusting the execution to another officer. “God himself saved!” – the prisoners said later. As for Petrov, he calmly endured the punishment. His anger subsided with the major's departure. The prisoner is obedient and submissive to a certain extent; but there is an extreme that should not be crossed. By the way: nothing could be more curious than these strange outbursts of impatience and obstinacy. Often a person endures for several years, resigns himself, endures the most severe punishments, and suddenly breaks through for some small thing, for some trifle, for almost nothing. At another glance, one might even call him crazy; Yes, that's what they do.
I have already said that for several years I have not seen among these people the slightest sign of repentance, not the slightest painful thought about their crime, and that most of them internally consider themselves completely right. It is a fact. Of course, vanity, bad examples, youthfulness, false shame are largely the reason for this. On the other hand, who can say that he has traced the depth of these lost hearts and read in them the secrets of the whole world? But after all, it was possible, at so many years, to at least notice something, to catch, to catch in these hearts at least some feature that would indicate inner melancholy, about suffering. But this was not the case, positively not the case. Yes, crime, it seems, cannot be understood from given, ready-made points of view, and its philosophy is somewhat more difficult than is believed. Of course, prisons and the system of forced labor do not correct the criminal; they only punish him and protect society from further attacks by the villain on his peace of mind. In the criminal, prison and the most intensive hard labor develop only hatred, thirst for forbidden pleasures and terrible frivolity. But I am firmly convinced that the famous cell system achieves only a false, deceptive, external goal. It sucks the life juice out of a person, enervates his soul, weakens it, frightens it, and then presents a morally withered mummy, a half-crazed man, as an example of correction and repentance. Of course, a criminal who rebels against society hates it and almost always considers himself right and him guilty. Moreover, he has already suffered punishment from him, and through this he almost considers himself cleansed, even. One can finally judge from such points of view that one almost has to acquit the criminal himself. But, despite all kinds of points of view, everyone will agree that there are crimes that always and everywhere, according to all kinds of laws, from the beginning of the world are considered indisputable crimes and will be considered such as long as a person remains a person. Only in prison did I hear stories about the most terrible, the most unnatural acts, the most monstrous murders, told with the most uncontrollable, most childishly cheerful laughter. One parricide in particular never escapes my memory. He was from the nobility, served and was with his sixty-year-old father something like prodigal son. He was completely dissolute in behavior and got into debt. His father limited him and persuaded him; but the father had a house, there was a farm, money was suspected, and the son killed him, thirsting for an inheritance. The crime was discovered only a month later. The killer himself filed an announcement with the police that his father had disappeared to an unknown location. He spent this entire month in the most depraved manner. Finally, in his absence, the police found the body. In the yard, along its entire length, there was a ditch for sewage drainage, covered with boards. The body lay in this ditch. It was dressed and put away, the gray head was cut off, put to the body, and the killer put a pillow under the head. He didn't confess; was deprived of his nobility and rank and exiled to work for twenty years. The entire time I lived with him, he was in the most excellent, cheerful mood. He was an eccentric, frivolous, extremely unreasonable person, although not at all a fool. I never noticed any particular cruelty in him. The prisoners despised him not for the crime, of which there was no mention, but for his stupidity, for the fact that he did not know how to behave. In conversations, he sometimes remembered his father. Once, speaking to me about the healthy build that was hereditary in their family, he added: “Here my parent
. ... break the green street, check the rows. – The expression has the meaning: to go through a line of soldiers with spitzrutens, receiving a court-determined number of blows on the bare back.
Staff officer, the closest and immediate commander of the prison... - It is known that the prototype of this officer was the parade ground major of the Omsk prison V. G. Krivtsov. In a letter to his brother dated February 22, 1854, Dostoevsky wrote: “Platz-Major Krivtsov is a scoundrel, of which there are few, a petty barbarian, a troublemaker, a drunkard, everything disgusting you can imagine.” Krivtsov was dismissed and then put on trial for abuses.
. ... the commandant, a noble and sensible man... - The commandant of the Omsk fortress was Colonel A.F. de Grave, according to the memoirs of the senior adjutant of the Omsk corps headquarters N.T. Cherevin, “the kindest and most worthy man.”
Petrov. - In the documents of the Omsk prison there is a record that the prisoner Andrei Shalomentsev was punished “for resisting the parade-ground major Krivtsov while punishing him with rods and uttering words that he would certainly do something to himself or kill Krivtsov.” This prisoner may have been the prototype of Petrov; he came to hard labor “for tearing the epaulette off the company commander.”
. ...the famous cell system... - Solitary confinement system. The question of establishing solitary prisons in Russia on the model of the London prison was put forward by Nicholas I himself.
. ...one parricide... - The prototype of the nobleman-"parricide" was D.N. Ilyinsky, about whom seven volumes of his court case have reached us. Outwardly, in terms of events and plot, this imaginary “parricide” is the prototype of Mitya Karamazov in last novel Dostoevsky.
