Scuratoff had the oldest and greasiest sheepskin imaginable. It was patched in many different places with pieces that scarcely hung together. He looked at Luka attentively from head to foot.
‘It’s my head, friend,’ he said, ‘my head that’s worth the money. When I said goodbye to Moscow I felt that at any rate my head was going 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’re not! obliged to look at it.’
‘ Perhaps you ‘d like me 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?’
‘Workshop! He was only a cobbler,’ said one of the convicts.
‘It’s true,’ said Scuratoff, without noticing the caustic tone of the speaker. ‘ I tried to mend boots, but 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 group round Scuratoff burst out laughing.
‘I also worked once at the prison,’ continued Scuratoff, with imperturbable coolness. ‘I mended boots for Stepan Fedoritch, the lieutenant.’
‘And was he satisfied?’
‘No, my dear fellows, indeed he wasn’t; he blackguarded me enough to last me for the rest of my life. He kicked my backside, too. What a rage he was in! Ah! my life’s been a failure. I see no fun whatever in prison.’ He began to sing again.
‘Akolina’s husband is in the courtyard. 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 lighthearted, 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 prison was impregnated.
They did not, however, disapprove of all the jokers, nor treat them all like Scuratoff. Some of them were men who would stand no nonsense, and neither forgive nor forget. It was necessary to treat them with respect. One of these fellows was a goodnatured, lively type, whom I did not see in his true colours until later on. He was a tall young man, with pleasant manners and not without good looks. His face, too, wore a comic expression. He was known as 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.
There were several prisoners who wished to be thought superior, either by virtue of their manual skill, of their general ingenuity, of their character, or of their wit. Many of them were intelligent and energetic, and achieved what they desired -a reputation for preeminence, that is to say, and the enjoyment of moral influence over their companions. They often hated one another, and were envied by the remainder of their fellow prisoners, upon whom they looked down with an air of dignity and condescension, never deigning to quarrel without good cause. Enjoying the favour of officialdom, they exercised some measure of authority at the place of work, and none of them would have lowered himself so far as to quarrel about a song. These men were most polite to me throughout my imprisonment, though by no means communicative.
At last we reached the river bank; a little lower down lay 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 the whole party set to work. Nothing of the kind happened: some immediately sat down casually on logs of wood that lay near the bank, and nearly all took from their pockets pouches of 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 encircled us and looked on with obvious boredom.
‘Who the devil had the idea of sinking this barge? ‘ asked one of the convicts in a loud voice, without addressing anyone 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, and was pointing to the distance, where a troop of peasants were marching in file across the virgin snow.
All the convicts turned slowly in that direction, and began from mere idleness to laugh at the peasants as they approached.
One of them, the last of the line, was the source of particular amusement: he walked with his arms apart, his head on one side, and wore a tall pointed cap. His shadow was cast in clear outline on the white snow.
‘ Look at Petrovitch,’ said one of my companions, imitating the local accent. Oddly enough, the convicts looked down on the peasants, although they were for the most part peasants themselves.
‘Look at that fellow on the end, he looks as if he were planting radishes.’
‘He’s an important chap, he has lots of money,’ said a third.
They all began to laugh without, however, seeming genuinely amused.
Meanwhile a scone-seller had approached. She was a brisk, lively person, and it was with her that the five kopecks given by the townsman were spent.
The young fellow who sold white bread in the prison took two dozen of her scones, and then tried beating down the price. She would not, however, agree to his terms.
At this point the sergeant in charge arrived, cane in hand.
‘What are you sitting down for? Get on with your work.’
‘Detail us off, Ivan Matveitch,’ said one of our so-called foremen, as he slowly got up.
‘You know your jobs. Dismantle that barge and quick about it.’
At last the convicts rose and made their way slowly down to the river. Instructions now fell thick and fast. The barge, it seemed, was not to be actually broken up: the skeleton of the hull was to be left intact, and this was not an easy thing to manage.
‘Pull this beam out, that’s the first thing to do,’ cried one convict, a mere navvy who knew nothing whatever about it. This man, very quiet and a little stupid, had not previously spoken. He now bent down, took hold of a heavy beam with both hands, and waited for someone to help him. No one, however, seemed inclined to do so.
‘You! You’ll never manage it; not even your grandad the bear could do it,’ muttered someone between his teeth.
‘Well, chum, are we going to make a start? I can’t carry on alone,’ said the other morosely, and he stood upright.
‘Well, what’s the hurry unless you’re going to do the whole job on your own?’
‘ I was only making a remark,’ said the poor fellow, excusing himself for his forwardness.
‘Must you have blankets to keep yourselves warm, or do you want to be otherwise heated this winter?’ bellowed a corporal at the twenty men who seemed to loathe to begin work. ‘Get on with it at once.’
‘It’s never any use being in a hurry, Ivan Matveitch.’