The House of the Dead or Prison Life in Siberia Part 26

"'But you must have had relations--a father, a mother. Do you remember them?'

"'I suppose I must have had, your wors.h.i.+p; but I've forgotten about 'em, my memory is so bad. Now I come to think about it, I'm sure I had some, your wors.h.i.+p.'

"'But where have you been living till now?'

"'In the woods, your wors.h.i.+p.'

"'Always in the woods?'

"'Always in the woods!'

"'Winter too?'

"'Never saw any winter, your wors.h.i.+p.'

"'Get along with you! And you--what's your name?'

"'Hatchets-and-axes, your wors.h.i.+p.'

"'And yours?'

"'Sharp-and-mum, your wors.h.i.+p.'

"'And you?'

"'Keen-and-spry, your wors.h.i.+p.'

"'And not a soul of you remembers anything that ever happened to you.'

"'Not a mother's son of us anything whatever.'

"He couldn't help it; he laughed out loud. All the rest began to laugh at seeing him laugh! But the thing does not always go off like that.

Sometimes they lay about them, these police, with their fists, till you get every tooth in your jaw smashed. Devilish big and strong these fellows, I can tell you.

"'Take them off to the lock-up,' said he. 'I'll see to them in a bit. As for you, stop here!'

"That's me.

"'Just you go and sit down there.'

"Where he pointed to there was paper, a pen, and ink; so thinks I, 'What's he up to now?'

"'Sit down,' he says again; 'take the pen and write.'

"And then he goes and clutches at my ear and gives it a good pull. I looked at him in the sort of way the devil may look at a priest.

"'I can't write, your wors.h.i.+p.'

"'Write, write!'

"'Have mercy on me, your wors.h.i.+p!'

"'Write your best; write, write!'

"And all the while he keeps pulling my ear, pulling and twisting. Pals, I'd rather have had three hundred strokes of the cat; I tell you it was h.e.l.l.

"'Write, write!' that was all he said."

"Had the fellow gone mad? What the mischief was it?

"Bless us, no! A little while before, a secretary had done a stroke of business at Tobolsk: he had robbed the local treasury and gone off with the money; he had very big ears, just as I have. They had sent the fact all over the country. I answered to that description; that's why he tormented me with his 'Write, write!' He wanted to find out if I could write, and to see my hand.

"'A regular sharp chap that! Did it hurt?'

"'Oh, Lord, don't say a word about it, I beg.'

"Everybody burst out laughing.

"'Well, you did write?'

"'What the deuce was there to write? I set my pen going over the paper, and did it to such good account that he left off torturing me. He just gave me a dozen thumps, regulation allowance, and then let me go about my business: to prison, that is.'

"'Do you really know how to write?'

"'Of course I did. What d'ye mean? Used to very well; forgotten the whole blessed thing, though, ever since they began to use pens for it.'"

Thanks to the gossip talk of the convicts who filled the hospital, time was somewhat quickened for us. But still, Almighty G.o.d, how wearied and bored we were! Long, long were the days, suffocating in their monotony, one absolutely the same as another. If only I had had a single book.

For all that I went often to the infirmary, especially in the early days of my banishment, either because I was ill or because I needed rest, just to get out of the worse parts of the prison. In those life was indeed made a burden to us, worse even than in the hospital, especially as regards the effect upon moral sentiment and good feeling. We of the n.o.bility were the never-ceasing objects of envious dislike, quarrels picked with us all the time, something done every moment to put us in the wrong, looks filled with menacing hatred unceasingly directed on us!

Here, in the sick-rooms, one lived on a sort of footing of equality, there was something of comrades.h.i.+p.

The most melancholy moment of the twenty-four hours was evening, when night set in. We went to bed very early. A smoky lamp just gave us one point of light at the very end of the room, near the door. In our corner we were almost in complete darkness. The air was pestilential, stifling.

Some of the sick people could not get to sleep, would rise up, and remain sitting for an hour together on their beds, with their heads bent, as though they were in deep reflection. These I would look at steadily, trying to guess what they might be thinking of; thus I tried to kill time. Then I became lost in my own reveries; the past came up to me again, showing itself to my imagination in large powerful outlines filled with high lights and ma.s.sive shadows, details that at any other time would have remained in oblivion, presented themselves in vivid force, making on me an impression impossible under any other circ.u.mstances.

Then I would begin to muse dreamily on the future. When shall I leave this place of restraint, this dreadful prison? Whither betake myself?

What will then befall me? Shall I return to the place of my birth? So I brood, and brood, until hope lives once again in my soul.

Another time I would begin to count, one, two, three, etc., to see if sleep could be won that way. I would set sometimes as far as three thousand, and was as wakeful as ever. Then somebody would turn in his bed.

Then there's Oustiantsef coughing, that cough of the hopelessly-gone consumptive, and then he would groan feebly, and stammer, "My G.o.d, I've sinned, I've sinned!"

How frightful it was, that voice of the sick man, that broken, dying voice, in the midst of that silence so dead and complete! In a corner there are some sick people not yet asleep, talking in a low voice, stretched on their pallets. One of them is telling the story of his life, all about things infinitely far off; things that have fled for ever; he is talking of his trampings through the world, of his children, his wife, the old ways of his life. And the very accent of the man's voice tells you that all those things are for ever over for him, that he is as a limb cut off from the world of men, cut off, thrown aside; there is another, listening intently to what he is saying. A weak, feeble sort of muttering and murmuring comes to one's ear from far-off in the dreary room, a sound as of far-off water flowing somewhere.... I remember that one time, during a winter night that seemed as if it would never end, I heard a story which at first seemed as if it were the stammerings of a creature in nightmare, or the delirium of fever. Here it is:

FOOTNOTE:

[4] What I relate about corporal punishment took place during my time.

Now, as I am told, everything is changed, and is changing still.