NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND & THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD. Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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fastened together by three links which were worn beneath the trousers. To the central ring was fastened a strip of leather, tied in its turn to a girdle fastened over the shirt.
I can see again my first morning in prison. A drum beat in the orderly room near the principal entrance. Ten minutes later the under-officer opened the barracks. The convicts woke up one after another and rose trembling with cold from their plank bedsteads by the dim light of a tallow candle. Nearly all of them were morose; they yawned and stretched themselves. Their foreheads, marked by the iron, were contracted. Some made the sign of the Cross; others began to talk nonsense. The cold air from outside rushed in as soon as the door was opened. Then the prisoners hurried round the pails full of water, and one after another took a mouthful of water, spat it out into their hands, and washed their faces. Those pails had been brought in on the previous night by a prisoner specially appointed, according to the rules, to clean the barrack. The convicts chose him themselves. He did not work with the others, for it was his business to examine the camp bedsteads and floors, and also to fetch and carry the water used in the morning for the prisoners’ ablutions, and during the rest of the day for drinking. That very morning there were disputes on the subject of one of the pitchers.
‘What are you doing there with your branded forehead?’ grumbled one of the prisoners, tall, dry, and sallow.
He was remarkable for the strange protuberances which; covered his skull; and now he pushed against another convict, round and small, with a lively rubicund face.
‘Just wait.’
‘What are you shouting about? You know there’s a fine to be paid when others are kept waiting. Get out of the way. What a monument, my brethren.’
‘ A little calf,’ he went on muttering. ‘ See, the white bread of the prison has fattened him.’
‘What do you take yourself for? A fine bird, indeed!’
‘You’re about right.’
‘What kind of bird?’
‘You needn’t ask.’
‘How so?’
‘Find out.’
They devoured one another with their eyes. The little man, waiting for a reply with clenched fists, was apparently ready to fight. I thought they would come to blows: it was all quite new to me, and I watched the scene with curiosity. Later on I learned that such quarrels were perfectly harmless, that they served for entertainment. Like an amusing comedy, such episodes scarcely ever ended in violence, and this fact taught me a great deal about the character of my fellow prisoners.
The tall fellow remained calm and majestic. He felt that some answer was expected from him if he was not to be dishonoured and covered with ridicule. He had to show that he was a wonderful bird, a personage. Accordingly, he cast a sidelong glance at his adversary, endeavouring, with inexpressible contempt, to irritate him by looking at him over his shoulder, up and down, as he would have done an insect. At last the little fat man was so irritated that he would have thrown himself upon his antagonist had not his companions surrounded the combatants to prevent a serious quarrel.
‘Fight with your fists not with your tongues,’ cried a spectator from a corner of the room.
‘No, hold them,’ answered another, ‘they are going to fight. We are fine fellows, one against seven is our style.’
Fine fighting men! One was here for having sneaked a pound of bread, the other was a pot-stealer; he was whipped by the executioner for stealing a pot of curdled milk from an old woman.
‘Enough, keep quiet!’ cried a retired soldier, whose business it was to keep order in the barrack, and who slept in a corner of the room on a bedstead of his own.
‘Water, my children, water for Nevalid Petrovitch, water for our little brother, who has just woken up.’
‘Your brother! Am I your brother? Did we ever drink a rouble’s worth of spirits together? ‘ muttered the old soldier as he passed his arms through the sleeves of his greatcoat.
The roll was about to be called, for it was already late. The prisoners were hurrying towards the kitchen. They had to put on their pelisses, and then go to receive in their particoloured caps the bread which one of the cooks-one of the bakers, that is to say-was distributing. These cooks, like the men who did the household work, were chosen by the prisoners themselves. There were two for the kitchen making four servants in all for the prison. They had at their disposal the only kitchen knife authorized in the prison, which was used for cutting up the bread and meat. The prisoners arranged themselves in groups around the tables as best they could in caps and pelisses, with leather girdles round their waists, all ready to begin work. Some of the convicts had kyas before them, in which they steeped pieces of bread. The noise was insupportable. Many of the convicts, however, were talking together in corners with a steady, tranquil air.
‘Good morning and good appetite, Antonitch,’ said a young prisoner, sitting down by the side of an old man who had lost his teeth.
‘If you are not joking, well, good morning,’ said the latter without raising his eyes, and endeavouring to masticate a piece of bread with his toothless gums.
‘I declare I fancied you were dead, Antonitch.’
‘You die first; I’ll follow you.’
I sat down beside them. On my right two convicts were conversing with an attempt at dignity.
‘I’m not likely to be robbed,’ said one of them. ‘I’m more afraid of stealing myself.’
‘It wouldn’t be a good idea to rob me. The devil! I’d pay the man out.’
‘But what would you do? You’re only a convict. We have no other name. You’ll see she’ll rob you, the wretch, without even saying “Thank you.” The money I gave her was wasted. Just fancy, she was here a few days ago! Where were we to go? Shall I ask permission to go into the house of Theodore, the executioner? He has still his house in the suburb, the one he bought from that Solomon, you know, that scurvy Jew who hanged himself not long ago.’
‘Yes, I know him, the one who sold liquor here three years ago, and who was called Grichka-the secret drinking-shop.’
‘I know.’
‘All brag. You don’t know. In the first place it’s another drinking-shop.’
‘What do you mean, another? You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ll bring you as many witnesses as you like.’
‘Oh, you will, will you? Who are you? Do you know to whom you are speaking?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘I’ve thrashed you often enough, though I don’t boast of it. Don’t give yourself airs then.’
‘You’ve thrashed me? The man who’ll thrash me has yet to be born; and the man who did is six feet below ground.’
‘Plague-stricken rascal of Bender!’
‘May the Siberian leprosy devour you with ulcers!’
‘May a chopper cleave your dog of a head.’
Insults were falling like rain.
‘Come, now, they’re going to fight. When men can’t behave properly they should keep quiet. They’re only too glad to come and eat Government bread, the rascals!’
They were soon separated. They fight with their tongues as much as they wish; that is allowed. It is a diversion at everyone’s disposal. But no blows. It was, indeed, only in extraordinary cases that blows were exchanged. If there was a fight, it was reported to the governor, who ordered an inquiry or directed one himself; and then woe to the culprits! Accordingly the prisoners set their faces against anything like a serious quarrel; besides, they insulted one another chiefly to pass the time, as an oratorical exercise. They get excited; the quarrel takes on a furious, ferocious character; they seem about to slaughter one another. But nothing of the kind happens: