“You’d begun to play your pranks together again, you and he?”
“No, by Jove! He was out of the way by this time; he was killing himself with drink, nothing less. He had spent all he had on drink, and had ’listed for a soldier, as substitute for a citizen body in the town. In our parts, when a lad makes up his mind to be substitute for another, he is master of that house and everybody there till he’s called to the ranks. He gets the sum agreed on the day he goes off, but up to then he lives in the house of the man who buys him, sometimes six whole months, and there isn’t a horror in the whole world those fellows are not guilty of. It’s enough to make folks take the holy images out of the house. From the moment he consents to be substitute for the son of the family then he considers himself their patron and benefactor, and makes them dance as he pipes, or else he goes off the bargain.
“So Philka Marosof played the very mischief at the home of this townsman. He slept with the daughter, pulled the master of the house by the beard after dinner, did anything that came into his head. They had to heat the bath for him every day, and, what’s more, give him brandy fumes with the steam of the bath: and he would have the women lead him by the arms to the bath room.[6]
“When he came back to the man’s house after a revel elsewhere, he would stop right in the middle of the road and cry out:
“‘I won’t go in by the door; pull down the fence!’
“And they actually had to pull down the fence, though there was the door right at it to let him in. That all came to an end though, the day they took him to the regiment. That day he was sobered sufficiently. The crowd gathered all through the street.
“‘They’re taking off Philka Marosof!’
“He made a salute on all sides, right and left. Just at that moment Akoulka was returning from the kitchen-garden. Directly Philka saw her he cried out to her:
“‘Stop!’ and down he jumped from the cart and threw himself down at her feet.
“‘My soul, my sweet little strawberry, I’ve loved you two years long. Now they’re taking me off to the regiment with the band playing. Forgive me, good honest girl of a good honest father, for I’m nothing but a hound, and all you’ve gone through is my fault.’
“Then he flings himself down before her a second time. At first Akoulka was exceedingly frightened; but she made him a great bow, which nearly bent her double.
“‘Forgive me, too, my good lad; but I am really not at all angry with you.’
“As she went into the house I was at her heels.
“‘What did you say to him, you she-devil, you?’
“Now you may believe it or not as you like, but she looked at me as bold as you please, and answered:
“‘I love him better than anything or anybody in this world.’
“‘I say!’
“That day I didn’t utter one single word. Only towards evening I said to her: ‘Akoulka, I’m going to kill you now.’ I didn’t close an eye the whole night. I went into the little room leading to ours and drank kwass. At daybreak I went into the house again. ‘Akoulka, get ready and come into the fields.’ I had arranged to go there before; my wife knew it.
“‘You are right,’ said she. ‘It’s quite time to begin reaping. I’ve heard that our labourer is ill and doesn’t work a bit.’
“I put to the cart without saying a word. As you go out of the town there’s a forest fifteen versts in length. At the end of it is our field. When we had gone about three versts through the wood I stopped the horse.
“‘Come, get up, Akoulka; your end is come.’
“She looked at me all in a fright, and got up without a word.
“‘You’ve tormented me enough. Say your prayers.’
“I seized her by the hair—she had long, thick tresses—I rolled them round my arm. I held her between my knees; took out my knife; threw her head back, and cut her throat. She screamed; the blood spurted out. Then I threw away my knife. I pressed her with all my might in my arms. I put her on the ground and embraced her, yelling with all my might. She screamed; I yelled; she struggled and struggled. The blood—her blood—splashed my face, my hands. It was stronger than I was—stronger. Then I took fright. I left her—left my horse and began to run; ran back to the house.
“I went in the back way, and hid myself in the old ramshackle bath-house, which we never used now. I lay myself down under the seat, and remained hid till the dead of the night.”
“And Akoulka?”
“She got up to come back to the house; they found her later, a hundred steps from the place.”
“So you hadn’t finished her?”
“No.” Chichkoff stopped a while.
“Yes,” said Tchérévine, “there’s a vein; if you don’t cut it at the first the man will go on struggling; the blood may flow fast enough, but he won’t die.”
“But she was dead all the same. They found her in the evening, and she was cold. They told the police, and hunted me up. They found me in the night in the old bath.
“And there you have it. I’ve been four years here already,” added he, after a pause.
“Yes, if you don’t beat ’em you make no way at all,” said Tchérévine sententiously, taking out his snuff-box once more. He took his pinches very slowly, with long pauses. “For all that, my lad, you behaved like a fool. Why, I myself—I came upon my wife with a lover. I made her come into the shed, and then I doubled up a halter and said to her:
“‘To whom did you swear to be faithful?—to whom did you swear it in church? Tell me that?’
“And then I gave it her with my halter—beat her and beat her for an hour and a half; till at last she was quite spent, and cried out:
“‘I’ll wash your feet and drink the water afterwards.’
“Her name was Crodotia.”
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Daubing the door of a house, where a young girl lives, is done to show that she is dishonoured.
[6] A mark of respect paid in Russia formerly, now disused.
CHAPTER V. THE SUMMER SEASON
April is come; Holy Week is not far off. We set about our summer tasks. The sun becomes hotter and more brilliant every day; the atmosphere has the spring in it, and acts upon our nervous system powerfully. The convict, in his chains, feels the trembling influence of the lovely days like any other creature; they rouse desires in him, inexpressible longings for his home, and many other things. I think that he misses his liberty, yearns for freedom more when the day is filled with sunlight than during the rainy and melancholy days of autumn and winter. You may observe this positively among convicts; if they do feel a little joy on a beautiful clear day, they have a reaction into greater impatience and irritability.
I noticed that in spring there was much more squabbling in our prison; there was more noise, the yelling was greater, there were more fights; during the working hours we would see a man sometimes fixed in a meditative gaze, which seemed lost in the blue distance somewhere, the other side of the Irtych, where stretched the boundless plain, with its flight of hundreds of versts, the free Kirghiz Steppe. Long-drawn sighs came to one’s ear, sighs breathed from the depths of the chest; it might seem that the air of those wide and free regions, haunted by their thought, forced the convicts to draw deep respirations, and was a sort of solace to their crushed and fettered souls.
“Ah!” cries at last the poor prisoner all at once, with a long, sighing cry; then he seizes his pick furiously, or picks up the bricks, which he has to carry from one place to another. But after a brief minute he seems to forget the passing impression, and begins laughing, or insulting people near, so fitful is his humour; then he attacks the work he has to do with unusual fire, labours with might and main, as if trying to stifle by fatigue the grief that has him by the throat. You see they are fellows of unimpaired vigour, all in the very flower of life, with all their physical and other strength about them.
How heavy the irons are during this season! All this is not sentimentality, it is the report of rigorous observation. During the hot season, under a fiery sun, when all one’s being, all one’s soul, is vividly conscious of, and intimately feels, the unspeakably strong resurrection of nature going on everywhere, it is more difficult to support the confinement, the perpetual surveillance, the tyranny of a will other than one’s own.
Besides this, it is in spring with the first song of the lark that throughout all Siberia and Russia men set out on the tramp; God’s creatures, if they can, break their prison and escape into the woods. After the stifling ditch where they work, after the boats, the irons, the rods and whips, they go vagabondizing where they please, wherever they can make it out best; they eat and drink what they can get, ’tis all the time pot-luck with them; and by night they sleep undisturbed in the woods or
