come to an agreement about the place, and the time; to arrange a meeting, to find solitude, and, what was most difficult of all, to avoid the escorts—almost an impossibility—and to spend relatively prodigious sums. I have sometimes, however, witnessed love scenes. One day three of us were heating a brick-kiln on the banks of the Irtitch. The soldiers of the escort were good-natured fellows. Two "blowers" (they were so-called) soon appeared.
"Where were you staying so long?" said a prisoner to them, who had evidently been expecting them. "Was it at the Zvierkoffs that you were detained?"
"At the Zvierkoffs? It will be fine weather, and the fowls will have teeth, when I go to see them," replied one of the women.
She was the dirtiest woman imaginable. She was called Tchekunda, and had arrived in company with her friend, the "four kopecks," who was beneath all description.
"It's a long time since we have seen anything of you," says the gallant to her of the four kopecks; "you seem to have grown thinner."
"Perhaps; formerly I was good-looking and plump, whereas now one might fancy I had swallowed eels."
"And you still run after the soldiers, is that so?"
"All calumny on the part of wicked people; and after all, if I was to be flogged to death for it, I like soldiers."
"Never mind your soldiers, we're the people to love; we have money."
Imagine this gallant with his shaved crown, with fetters on his ankles, dressed in a coat of two colours, and watched by an escort.
As I was now returning to the prison, my irons had been put on. I wished Akimitch good-bye and went away, escorted by a soldier. Those who do task work return first, and, when I got back to the barracks, a good number of convicts were already there.
As the kitchen could not have held the whole barrack-full at once, we did not all dine together. Those who came in first were first served. I tasted the cabbage soup, but, not being used to it, could not eat it, and I prepared myself some tea. I sat down at one end of the table, with a convict of noble birth like myself. The prisoners were going in and out. There was no want of room, for there were not many of them. Five of them sat down apart from the large table. The cook gave them each two ladles full of soup, and brought them a plate of fried fish. These men were having a holiday. They looked at us in a friendly manner. One of the Poles came in and took his seat by our side.
"I was not with you, but I know that you are having a feast," exclaimed a tall convict who now came in.
He was a man of about fifty years, thin and muscular. His face indicated cunning, and, at the same time, liveliness. His lower lip, fleshy and pendant, gave him a soft expression.
"Well, have you slept well? Why don't you say how do you do? Well, now my friends of Kursk," he said, sitting down by the side of the feasters, "good appetite? Here's a new guest for you."
"We are not from the province of Kursk."
"Then my friends from Tambof, let me say?"
"We are not from Tambof either. You have nothing to claim from us; if you want to enjoy yourself go to some rich peasant."
"I have Maria Ikotishna [from "ikot," hiccough] in my belly, otherwise I should die of hunger. But where is your peasant to be found?"
"Good heavens! we mean Gazin; go to him."
"Gazin is on the drink to-day, he's devouring his capital."
"He has at least twenty roubles," says another convict. "It is profitable to keep a drinking shop."
"You won't have me? Then I must eat the Government food."
"Will you have some tea? If so, ask these noblemen for some."
"Where do you see any noblemen? They're noblemen no longer. They're not a bit better than us," said in a sombre voice a convict who was seated in the corner, who hitherto had not risked a word.
"I should like a cup of tea, but I am ashamed to ask for it. I have self-respect," said the convict with the heavy lip, looking at me with a good-humoured air.
"I will give you some if you like," I said. "Will you have some?"
"What do you mean—will I have some? Who would not have some?" he said, coming towards the table.
"Only think! When he was free he ate nothing but cabbage soup and black bread, but now he is in prison he must have tea like a perfect gentleman," continued the convict with the sombre air.
"Does no one here drink tea?" I asked him; but he did not think me worthy of a reply.
"White rolls, white rolls; who'll buy?"
A young prisoner was carrying in a net a load of calachi (scones), which he proposed to sell in the prison. For every ten that he sold, the baker gave him one for his trouble. It was precisely on this tenth scone that he counted for his dinner.
"White rolls, white rolls," he cried, as he entered the kitchen, "white Moscow rolls, all hot. I would eat the whole of them, but I want money, lots of money. Come, lads, there is only one left for any of you who has had a mother."
This appeal to filial love made every one laugh, and several of his white rolls were purchased.
"Well," he said, "Gazin has drunk in such a style, it is quite a sin. He has chosen a nice moment too. If the man with the eight eyes should arrive—we shall hide him."
"Is he very drunk?"
"Yes, and ill-tempered too—unmanageable."
"There will be some fighting, then?"
"Whom are they speaking of?" I said to the Pole, my neighbour.
"Of Gazin. He is a prisoner who sells spirits. When he has gained a little money by his trade, he drinks it to the last kopeck; a cruel, malicious animal when he has been drinking. When sober, he is quiet enough, but when he is in drink he shows himself in his true character. He attacks people with the knife until it is taken from him."
"How do they manage that?"
"Ten men throw themselves upon him and beat him like a sack without mercy until he loses consciousness. When he is half dead with the beating, they lay him down on his plank bedstead, and cover him over with his pelisse."
"But they might kill him."
"Any one else would die of it, but not he. He is excessively robust; he is the strongest of all the convicts. His constitution is so solid, that the day after one of these punishments he gets up perfectly sound."
"Tell me, please," I continued, speaking to the Pole, "why these people keep their food to themselves, and at the same time seem to envy me my tea."
"Your tea has nothing to do with it. They are envious of you. Are you not a gentleman? You in no way resemble them. They would be glad to pick a quarrel with you in order to humiliate you. You don't know what annoyances you will have to undergo. It is martyrdom for men like us to be here. Our life is doubly painful, and great strength of character can alone accustom one to it. You will be vexed
