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, without noticing the caustic tone of the speaker. "I tried to mend boots, but I never got beyond a single pair."
"And were you paid for them?"
"Well, I found a fellow who certainly neither feared God nor honoured either his father or his mother, and as a punishment, Providence made him buy the work of my hands."
The men around Scuratoff burst into a laugh.
"I also worked once at the convict prison," continued Scuratoff, with imperturbable coolness. "I did up the boots of Stepan Fedoritch, the lieutenant."
"And was he satisfied?"
"No, my dear fellows, indeed he was not; he blackguarded me enough to last me for the rest of my life. He also pushed me from behind with his knee. What a rage he was in! Ah! my life has deceived me. I see no fun in the convict prison whatever." He began to sing again.
Akolina's husband is in the court-yard.
There he waits.
Again he sang, and again he danced and leaped.
"Most unbecoming!" murmured the Little Russian, who was walking by my side.
"Frivolous man!" said another in a serious, decided tone.
I could not make out why they insulted Scuratoff, nor why they despised those convicts who were light-hearted, as they seemed to do. I attributed the anger of the Little Russian and the others to a feeling of personal hostility, but in this I was wrong. They were vexed that Scuratoff had not that puffed-up air of false dignity with which the whole of the convict prison was impregnated.
They did not, however, get annoyed with all the jokers, nor treat them all like Scuratoff. Some of them were men who would stand no nonsense, and forgive no one voluntarily or involuntarily. It was necessary to treat them with respect. There was in our band a convict of this very kind, a good-natured, lively fellow, whom I did not see in his true light until later on. He was a tall young fellow, with pleasant manners, and not without good looks. There was at the same time a very comic expression on his face.
He was called the Sapper, because he had served in the Engineers. He belonged to the special section.
But all the serious-minded convicts were not so particular as the Little Russian, who could not bear to see people gay.
We had in our prison several men who aimed at a certain pre-eminence, either in virtue of skill at their work, of their general ingenuity, of their character, or their wit. Many of them were intelligent and energetic, and reached the point they were aiming at—pre-eminence, that is to say, and moral influence over their companions. They often hated one another, and they excited general envy. They looked upon other convicts with a dignified air, that was full of condescension; and they never quarrelled without a cause. Favourably looked upon by the administration, they in some measure directed the work, and none of them would have lowered himself so far as to quarrel with a man about his songs. All these men were very polite to me during the whole time of my imprisonment, but not at all communicative.
At last we reached the bank; a little lower down was the old hulk, which we were to break up, stuck fast in the ice. On the other side of the water was the blue steppe and the sad horizon. I expected to see every one go to work at once. Nothing of the kind. Some of the convicts sat down negligently on wooden beams that were lying near the shore, and nearly all took from their pockets pouches containing native tobacco—which was sold in leaf at the market at the rate of three kopecks a pound—and short wooden pipes. They lighted them while the soldiers formed a circle around them, and began to watch us with a tired look.
"Who the devil had the idea of sinking this barque?" asked one of the convicts in a loud voice, without speaking to any one in particular.
"Were they very anxious, then, to have it broken up?"
"The people were not afraid to give us work," said another.
"Where are all those peasants going to work?" said the first, after a short silence.
He had not even heard his companion's answer.