Akimitch generally drank a glass of tea (he had glasses of his own) calmly and silently, then thanked me when he had finished, and at once went to work on my blanket; but he had not been able to tell me what I wanted to know, and did not even understand my desire to know the dispositions of the people surrounding me. He listened to me with a cunning smile which I have still before my eyes. No, I thought, I must find out for myself; it is useless to interrogate others.
The fourth day, the convicts were drawn up in two ranks, early in the morning, in the court-yard before the guard-house, close to the prison gates. Before and behind them were soldiers with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets.
The soldier has the right to fire on the convict if he tries to escape. But, on the other hand, he is answerable for his shot, if there was no absolute necessity for him to fire. The same thing applies to revolts. But who would think of openly taking to flight?
The Engineer officer arrived accompanied by the so-called "conductor" and by some non-commissioned officers of the Line, together with sappers and soldiers told off to superintend the labours of the convicts.
The roll was called. Then the convicts who were going to the tailors' workshop started first. These men worked inside the prison, and made clothes for all the inmates. The other exiles went into the outer workshops, until at last arrived the turn of the prisoners destined for field labour. I was of this number—there were altogether twenty of us. Behind the fortress on the frozen river were two barges belonging to the Government, which were not worth anything, but which had to be taken to pieces in order that the wood might not be lost. The wood was in itself all but valueless, for firewood can be bought in the town at a nominal price. The whole country is covered with forests.
This work was given to us in order that we might not remain with our arms crossed. This was understood on both sides. Accordingly, we went to it apathetically; though just the contrary happened when work had to be done, which would be profitable, or when a fixed task was assigned to us. In this latter case, although prisoners were to derive no profit from their work, they tried to get it over as soon as possible, and took a pride in doing it quickly. When such work as I am speaking of had to be done as a matter of form, rather than because it was necessary, task work could not be asked for. We had to go on until the beating of the drum at eleven o'clock called back the convicts.
The day was warm and foggy, the snow was on the point of melting. Our entire band walked towards the bank behind the fortress, shaking lightly their chains hid beneath their garments: the sound came forth clear and ringing. Two or three convicts went to get their tools from the dépôt.
I walked on with the others. I had become a little animated, for I wanted to see and know in what this field labour consisted, to what sort of work I was condemned, and how I should do it for the first time in my life.
I remember the smallest particulars. We met, as we were walking along, a townsman with a long beard, who stopped and slipped his hand into his pocket. A prisoner left our party, took off his cap and received alms—to the extent of five kopecks—then came back hurriedly towards us. The townsman made the sign of the cross and went his way. The five kopecks were spent the same morning in buying cakes of white bread which were shared equally among us. In my squad some were gloomy and taciturn, others indifferent and indolent. There were some who talked in an idle manner. One of these men was extremely gay, heaven knows why. He sang and danced as we went along, shaking and ringing his chains at each step. This fat and corpulent convict was the very one who, on the very day of my arrival during the general washing, had a quarrel with one of his companions about the water, and had ventured to compare him to some sort of bird. His name was Scuratoff. He finished by shouting out a lively song of which I remember the burden:
They married me without my consent,
When I was at the mill.
Nothing was wanting but a balalaika (the Russian banjo).
His extraordinary good-humour was justly reproved by several of the prisoners, who were offended by it.
"Listen to his hallooing," said one of the convicts, "though it doesn't become him."
"The wolf has but one song; this Tuliak (inhabitant of Tula) is stealing it from him," said another, who could be recognised by his accent as a Little Russian.
"Of course I am from Tula," replied Scuratoff; "but we don't stuff ourselves to bursting as you do in your Pultava."
"Liar! what did you eat yourself? Bark shoes and cabbage soup?"
"You talk as if the devil fed you on sweet almonds," broke in a third.
"I admit, my friend, that I am an effeminate man," said Scuratoff with a gentle sigh, as though he were really reproaching himself for his effeminacy. "From my most tender infancy I was brought up in luxury, fed on plums and delicate cakes. My brothers even now have a large business at Moscow. They are wholesale dealers in the wind that blows; immensely rich men, as you may imagine."
"And what did you sell?"
"I was very successful, and when I received my first two hundred——"
"Roubles? impossible!" interrupted one of the prisoners, struck with amazement at hearing of so large a sum.
"No, my good fellow, not two hundred roubles, two hundred blows of the stick. Luka; I say Luka!"
"Some have the right to call me Luka, but for you I am Luka Kouzmitch," replied rather ill-temperedly a small, feeble convict with a pointed nose.
"The devil take you, you are really not worth speaking to; yet I wanted to be civil to you. But to continue my story; this is how it happened that I did not remain any longer at Moscow. I received my fifteen last strokes and was then sent off, and was at——"
"But what were you sent for?" asked a convict who had been listening attentively.
"Don't ask stupid questions. I was explaining to you how it was I did not make my fortune at Moscow; and yet how anxious I was to be rich, you could scarcely imagine how much."
Many of the prisoners began to laugh. Scuratoff was one of those lively persons, full of animal spirits, who take a pleasure in amusing their graver companions, and who, as a matter of course, received no reward except insults. He belonged to a type of men, to whose characteristics I shall, perhaps, have to return.
"And what a fellow he is now!" observed Luka Kouzmitch. "His clothes alone must be worth a hundred roubles."
Scuratoff had the oldest and greasiest sheepskin that could be seen. It was mended in many different places with pieces that scarcely hung together. He looked at Luka attentively from head to foot.
"It is my head, friend," he said, "my head that is worth money. When I took farewell of Moscow, I was half consoled, because my head was to make the journey on my shoulders. Farewell, Moscow, I shall never forget your free air, nor the tremendous flogging I got. As for my sheepskin, you are not obliged to look at it."
"You would like me, perhaps, to look at your head?"
"If it was really his own natural property, but it was given him in charity," cried Luka Kouzmitch. "It was a gift made to him at Tumen, when the convoy was passing through the town."
"Scuratoff, had you a workshop?"
"What workshop could he have? He was only a cobbler," said one of the convicts.
"It is true," said Scuratoff,
