The dead house read. Notes from a dead house. V. Summer time

Introduction

I met Alexander Petrovich Goryanchikov in a small Siberian town. Born in Russia as a nobleman, he became a second-class convict for the murder of his wife. After serving 10 years in hard labor, he lived out his life in the town of K. He was a pale and thin man of about thirty-five, small and puny, unsociable and suspicious. Driving past his windows one night, I noticed a light in them and decided that he was writing something.

Returning to the town three months later, I learned that Alexander Petrovich had died. His mistress gave me his papers. Among them was a notebook with a description of the deceased's convict life. These notes - "Scenes from the House of the Dead," as he called them - struck me as curious. I select several chapters for trial.

I. Dead House

The jail stood at the rampart. The large courtyard was surrounded by a fence of tall, pointed posts. There was a strong gate in the fence, guarded by sentries. There was a special world here, with its own laws, clothing, customs and customs.

Along the sides of the wide courtyard were two long, one-story barracks for prisoners. In the back of the yard there is a kitchen, cellars, barns, sheds. In the middle of the yard there is a flat area for checks and roll calls. There was a large space between the buildings and the fence, where some prisoners liked to be alone.

We were locked up at night in the barracks, a long and stuffy room lit by tallow candles. In winter they locked up early, and in the barracks there was a din, laughter, curses and the clang of chains for four hours. There were 250 people constantly in the prison. Each strip of Russia had its representatives here.

Most of the prisoners are civilian convicts, criminals, deprived of all rights, with branded faces. They were sent for periods ranging from 8 to 12 years, and then sent to the settlement in Siberia. Military criminals were sent to short time, and then returned to where they came from. Many of them returned to prison for repeated crimes. This category was called "everlasting". Criminals were sent to the "special department" from all over Russia. They did not know their term and worked more than the rest of the convicts.

December evening I entered this strange house... I had to get used to the fact that I would never be alone. The prisoners did not like to talk about the past. Most are proficient in reading and writing. The grades were distinguished by their multi-colored clothing and differently shaved heads. Most of the convicts were gloomy, envious, conceited, boastful, and resentful people. What was most appreciated was the ability not to be surprised at anything.

Endless gossip and intrigues were conducted in the barracks, but no one dared to rebel against the internal regulations of the prison. There were outstanding characters who obeyed with difficulty. People who committed crimes out of vanity came to the prison. Such newcomers quickly realized that there was no one here to surprise, and fell into the general tone of special dignity that was adopted in the prison. Swearing was elevated to a science, which was developed by incessant quarrels. Strong people did not enter into quarrels, they were reasonable and obedient - it was profitable.

They hated hard labor. Many in the prison had their own business, without which they could not survive. The prisoners were forbidden to have tools, but the authorities turned a blind eye to this. All kinds of crafts met here. Work orders were obtained from the city.

Money and tobacco saved from scurvy, and work saved from crime. Despite this, both work and money were prohibited. Searches were carried out at night, everything forbidden was taken away, so the money was immediately spent on drink.

Anyone who could not do anything became a reseller or a usurer. even government items were accepted on bail. Almost everyone had a chest with a lock, but this did not save them from theft. There were also kissers who sold wine. Former smugglers quickly found use of their skills. There was another permanent income - alms, which were always divided equally.

II. First impressions

I soon realized that the burden of hard labor was that it was forced and useless. In winter, there was little government work. All returned to the prison, where only a third of the prisoners were engaged in their craft, the rest gossiped, drank and played cards.

It was stuffy in the barracks in the mornings. In each barracks there was a prisoner who was called a parashnik and did not go to work. He had to wash the bunks and floors, take out the night tub and bring two buckets of fresh water - for washing and for drinking.

At first they looked at me askance. Former nobles in hard labor are never recognized as their own. We especially got it at work, because we had little strength, and we could not help them. The Polish gentry, of whom there were five people, were disliked even more. There were four Russian noblemen. One is a spy and informer, the other is a parricide. The third was Akim Akimych, a tall, thin eccentric, honest, naive and neat.

He served as an officer in the Caucasus. One neighboring prince, considered peaceful, attacked his fortress at night, but unsuccessfully. Akim Akimych shot this prince in front of his detachment. He was sentenced to death, but the sentence was commuted and sent to Siberia for 12 years. The prisoners respected Akim Akimych for his accuracy and skill. There was no craft that he did not know.

While waiting in the workshop to change the shackles, I asked Akim Akimych about our major. He turned out to be a dishonest and evil person. He regarded the prisoners as his enemies. In prison, they hated him, feared him like the plague, and even wanted to kill him.

Meanwhile, several Kalashnits came to the workshop. Until adulthood, they sold rolls that their mothers baked. Growing up, they sold very different services. This was fraught with great difficulties. It was necessary to choose the time, place, make an appointment and bribe the escorts. Still, I was able to sometimes witness love scenes.

The prisoners dined in shifts. On my first lunch, between the prisoners, the conversation about a certain Gazin came up. The Pole, who was sitting next to him, said that Gazin was selling wine and wasting his earnings on drink. I asked why many of the prisoners looked askance at me. He explained that they are angry with me for being a nobleman, many of them would like to humiliate me, and added that I will face troubles and abuse more than once.

III. First impressions

The prisoners valued money on a par with freedom, but it was difficult to keep it. Either the major took the money, or they stole it. Subsequently, we gave the money for safekeeping to an old Old Believer who came to us from the Starodub settlements.

He was a small, gray-haired old man of sixty, calm and quiet, with clear, bright eyes surrounded by small radiant wrinkles. The old man, along with other fanatics, set fire to the church of the same faith. As one of the ringleaders, he was exiled to hard labor. The old man was a well-to-do bourgeois, he left his family at home, but he went into exile with firmness, considering it "torment for the faith." The prisoners respected him and were sure that the old man could not steal.

It was melancholy in the prison. The prisoners were drawn to wrap up all their capital in order to forget their melancholy. Sometimes a person worked for several months only in order to lose all his earnings in one day. Many of them loved to get themselves bright new clothes and go to the barracks on holidays.

The wine trade was risky but profitable. For the first time, the kissing man himself brought wine into the prison and sold it profitably. After the second and third time, he founded a real trade and found agents and assistants who took risks in his place. The agents were usually squandered revelers.

In the first days of my imprisonment, I became interested in a young prisoner named Sirotkin. He was no more than 23 years old. He was considered one of the most dangerous war criminals. He ended up in prison for killing his company commander, who was always unhappy with him. Sirotkin was friends with Gazin.

Gazin was a Tatar, very strong, tall and powerful, with a disproportionately huge head. In the prison they said that he was a fugitive soldier from Nerchinsk, was exiled to Siberia more than once, and finally ended up in a special department. In prison, he behaved prudently, did not quarrel with anyone and was uncommunicative. It was noticeable that he was clever and cunning.

All the atrocities of Gazin's nature manifested itself when he got drunk. He got into a terrible rage, grabbed a knife and threw himself at people. The prisoners found a way to deal with him. About ten people rushed at him and started beating him until he lost consciousness. Then he was wrapped in a sheepskin coat and carried to the bunk. The next morning he got up healthy and went to work.

Bursting into the kitchen, Gazin began to find fault with me and my friend. Seeing that we decided to be silent, he trembled with rage, grabbed a heavy bread tray and swung. Despite the fact that the murder threatened the entire prison with troubles, everyone quieted down and waited - to such an extent was their hatred of the nobles. As soon as he wanted to lower the tray, someone shouted that his wine had been stolen, and he rushed out of the kitchen.

The whole evening I was occupied with the idea of ​​inequality of punishment for the same crimes. Sometimes crimes cannot be compared. For example, one killed a person just like that, and the other killed, defending the honor of the bride, sister, daughter. Another difference is in the punished people. An educated person with a developed conscience will condemn himself for his crime. The other does not even think about the murder he committed and considers himself right. There are also those who commit crimes in order to get into hard labor and get rid of a hard life in freedom.

IV. First impressions

After the last verification from the authorities in the barracks, there remained an invalid who was watching the order, and the eldest of the prisoners, appointed by the parade-major for good behavior. In our barracks, Akim Akimych turned out to be the senior. The prisoners did not pay attention to the disabled person.

The convict authorities have always treated the prisoners with caution. The prisoners realized that they were afraid, and this gave them courage. The best boss for prisoners is the one who is not afraid of them, and the prisoners themselves are pleased with such trust.

In the evening our barracks took on a homely look. A bunch of revelers sat around the rug for cards. In every barracks there was a prisoner who rented out a rug, a candle, and greasy cards. All this was called "Maidan". A servant at the Maidan stood guard all night and warned about the appearance of a parade-major or sentries.

My seat was on the bunk by the door. Next to me was Akim Akimych. On the left was a handful of Caucasian highlanders convicted of robbery: three Dagestani Tatars, two Lezgins and one Chechen. Dagestani Tatars were siblings. The youngest, Alei, handsome guy with big black eyes, was about 22 years old. They ended up in hard labor for robbing and stabbing an Armenian merchant. The brothers loved Alei very much. Despite the outward softness, Alei had a strong character. He was fair, smart and modest, avoided quarrels, although he knew how to stand up for himself. In a few months I taught him to speak Russian. Alei mastered several crafts, and the brothers were proud of him. With the help of the New Testament, I taught him to read and write in Russian, which earned him the gratitude of his brothers.

Poles in hard labor constituted a separate family. Some of them were educated. An educated person in hard labor must get used to a foreign environment for him. Often the same punishment for everyone becomes ten times more painful for him.

Of all the convicts, the Poles loved only the Jew Isaiah Fomich, who looked like a plucked chicken of a man of about 50, small and weak. He came on a murder charge. It was easy for him to live in hard labor. As a jeweler, he was inundated with work from the city.

There were also four Old Believers in our barracks; several Little Russians; a young convict, 23 years old, who killed eight people; a bunch of counterfeiters and a few gloomy personalities. All this flashed before me on the first evening of my new life among the smoke and soot, with the clang of shackles, amid curses and shameless laughter.

V. First month

Three days later I went to work. At that time, among the hostile faces, I could not discern a single benevolent one. Akim Akimych was the friendliest of all. Next to me was another person whom I got to know well only after many years. It was the prisoner Sushilov, who served me. I also had another servant, Osip, one of the four cooks chosen by the prisoners. The cooks did not go to work, and at any time they could resign from this position. Osip was chosen for several years in a row. He was an honest and meek man, although he came for smuggling. Together with other chefs, he traded in wine.

Osip prepared food for me. Sushilov himself began to wash me, run on various errands and mend my clothes. He could not help but serve someone. Sushilov was a pitiful, unrequited and naturally downtrodden man. The conversation was given to him with great difficulty. He was of medium height and undefined appearance.

The prisoners laughed at Sushilov because he changed on the way to Siberia. To change means to change the name and fate with someone. Usually this is done by prisoners who have a long term in hard labor. They find such nonsense as Sushilov and deceive them.

I looked at the hard labor with eager attention, I was amazed by such phenomena as the meeting with the prisoner A-v. He was from the nobility and reported to our parade-major about everything that was going on in the prison. Having quarreled with his family, A-s left Moscow and arrived in St. Petersburg. To get money, he went to a sneaky denunciation. He was convicted and exiled to Siberia for ten years. Hard labor untied his hands. To satisfy his brutal instincts, he was ready for anything. It was a monster, cunning, intelligent, beautiful and educated.

Vi. First month

I had a few rubles hidden in the binding of the Gospel. This book with money was presented to me in Tobolsk by other exiles. There are people in Siberia who unselfishly help the exiles. In the city where our prison was located, lived a widow, Nastasya Ivanovna. She could not do much because of poverty, but we felt that there, behind the prison, we had a friend.

During those first days I thought about how I would put myself in prison. I decided to do what my conscience dictated. On the fourth day I was sent to dismantle the old state barges. This old material was worth nothing, and the prisoners were sent in order not to sit idly by, which the prisoners themselves well understood.

They set to work listlessly, reluctantly, clumsily. An hour later, the conductor came and announced a lesson, after completing which it would be possible to go home. The prisoners quickly set to work, and went home tired, but satisfied, although they won only half an hour.

I got in the way everywhere, they drove me away almost with abuse. When I stepped aside, they immediately shouted that I was a bad worker. They were happy to make fun of the former nobleman. Despite this, I decided to keep myself as simple and independent as possible, without fear of their threats and hatred.

According to them, I should have behaved like a white-handed nobleman. They would have scolded me for it, but they would have respect for themselves. This role was not for me; I promised myself not to belittle my education or my way of thinking before them. If I began to suck up and be familiar with them, they would think that I am doing it out of fear, and they would treat me with contempt. But I didn't want to close in front of them either.

In the evening I was wandering alone behind the barracks and suddenly I saw Sharik, our cautious dog, rather large, black with white spots, with intelligent eyes and a fluffy tail. I stroked her and gave her bread. Now, returning from work, I hurried behind the barracks with a ball screaming with joy, clasping his head, and a bittersweet feeling ached in my heart.

Vii. New acquaintances. Petrov

I began to get used to it. I no longer wandered around the prison as lost, the curious glances of the convicts did not stop on me so often. I was amazed at the frivolity of the convicts. A free man hopes, but he lives, he acts. The prisoner's hope is of a completely different kind. Even terrible criminals, chained to the wall, dream of walking around the courtyard of the prison.

For my love of work, convicts mocked me, but I knew that work would save me, and did not pay attention to them. The engineering bosses made it easier for the nobles, as people who were weak and inept. Three or four people were appointed to burn and crush alabaster, led by the master Almazov, a stern, dark and lean man in his years, uncommunicative and obese. Another job I was sent to was to turn the grinding wheel in the workshop. If they made something big, another nobleman was sent to help me. This work remained with us for several years.

The circle of my acquaintances gradually began to expand. Prisoner Petrov was the first to visit me. He lived in a special compartment, in the barracks farthest from me. Petrov was of short stature, strong build, with a pleasant broad-cheeked face and a bold look. He was 40 years old. He spoke to me at ease, behaved decently and delicately. This relationship continued between us for several years and never got closer.

Petrov was the most resolute and fearless of all convicts. His passions, like hot coals, were sprinkled with ash and smoldered quietly. He rarely quarreled, but he was not friendly with anyone. He was interested in everything, but he remained indifferent to everything and wandered around the prison idle. Such people show themselves sharply at critical moments. They are not the instigators of the case, but the main executors of it. They are the first to jump over the main obstacle, everyone rushes after them and blindly goes to the last line, where they lay their heads.

VIII. Decisive people. Luchka

There were few decisive people in hard labor. At first I shunned these people, but then I changed my views on even the most terrible murderers. It was difficult to form an opinion about some crimes, there was so much strange in them.

The prisoners loved to boast of their "exploits". Once I heard a story about how prisoner Luka Kuzmich killed one major for his own pleasure. This Luka Kuzmich was a small, slender, young prisoner from the Ukrainians. He was boastful, arrogant, proud, convicts did not respect him and called him Luchka.

Luchka told his story to a stupid and limited, but kind guy, a neighbor in the bunk, prisoner Kobylin. Luchka spoke out loud: he wanted everyone to hear him. This happened during the shipment. With him sat about 12 Ukrainians, tall, healthy, but meek. The food is bad, but the Major turns them around as he pleases. Luchka agitated Ukrainians, demanded a major, and in the morning he took a knife from a neighbor. The major ran in, drunk, shouting. "I am the king, I am the god!" Luchka got closer and stuck a knife in his stomach.

Unfortunately, expressions such as: "I am the king, I and the god" were used by many officers, especially those who came from the lower ranks. They are obsequious to their superiors, but for subordinates they become unlimited overlords. This is very annoying to the prisoners. Every prisoner, no matter how humiliated he may be, demands respect for himself. I saw what action the noble and kind officers performed on these humiliated ones. They, like children, began to love.

For the murder of an officer, Luchka was given 105 lashes. Although Luchka killed six people, no one was afraid of him in prison, although in his heart he dreamed of being known as a terrible person.

IX. Isai Fomich. Bath. Baklushin's story

About four days before Christmas we were taken to the bathhouse. Isai Fomich Bumstein was most happy. It seemed that he did not regret at all that he had ended up in hard labor. He only did jewelry work and lived richly. City Jews patronized him. On Saturdays, he went under escort to the city synagogue and waited for the end of his twelve-year term to get married. There was a mixture of naivety, stupidity, cunning, insolence, innocence, timidity, boastfulness and insolence in him. Isai Fomich served everyone for entertainment. He understood this and was proud of his significance.

There were only two public baths in the city. The first was paid, the other was dilapidated, dirty and cramped. They took us to this bathhouse. The prisoners were glad that they would leave the fortress. In the bath we were divided into two shifts, but, despite this, it was cramped. Petrov helped me to undress - because of the shackles it was difficult. The prisoners were given a small piece of government soap, but right there, in the dressing room, in addition to soap, one could buy sbiten, rolls and hot water.

The bathhouse was like hell. There were about a hundred people crowded into the small room. Petrov bought a seat on a bench from a man, who immediately ducked under the bench, where it was dark, dirty and everything was busy. It all screamed and giggled to the sound of the chains dragging across the floor. Mud poured from all directions. Baklushin brought hot water, and Petrov washed me with such ceremonies, as if I were porcelain. When we got home, I treated him to a kosushka. I invited Baklushin to my place for tea.

Everyone loved Baklushin. He was a tall guy, about 30 years old, with a brave and simple-minded face. He was full of fire and life. Having met me, Baklushin said that he was from the cantonists, served in the pioneers and was loved by some tall people. He even read books. Coming to tea with me, he announced to me that he would soon take place theatrical performance, which the prisoners arranged in the prison on holidays. Baklushin was one of the main instigators of the theater.

Baklushin told me that he served as a non-commissioned officer in a garrison battalion. There he fell in love with a German woman, the washerwoman Louise, who lived with her aunt, and decided to marry her. He expressed a desire to marry Louise and her distant relative, a middle-aged and wealthy watchmaker, German Schultz. Louise was not against this marriage. A few days later it became known that Schultz made Louise swear not to meet with Baklushin, that the German kept them with his aunt in a black body, and that his aunt would meet with Schultz on Sunday in his store to finally agree on everything. On Sunday, Baklushin took a pistol, went to the store and shot Schultz. Two weeks after that, he was happy with Louise, and then he was arrested.

X. Feast of the Nativity of Christ

Finally, the holiday came, from which everyone expected something. In the evening, the disabled who went to the bazaar brought a lot of all kinds of provisions. Even the most frugal prisoners wanted to celebrate Christmas with dignity. On this day, the prisoners were not sent to work, there were three such days a year.

Akim Akimych did not have family memories - he grew up an orphan in someone else's house and from the age of fifteen he went into heavy service. He was not especially religious, so he was preparing to celebrate Christmas not with dreary memories, but with quiet decency. He did not like to think and lived by the rules established forever. Only once in his life did he try to live with his mind - and ended up in hard labor. He deduced from this rule - never to reason.

In the military barracks, where bunks stood only along the walls, the priest held a Christmas service and consecrated all the barracks. Immediately after that, the parade-major and the commandant arrived, whom we loved and even respected. They went around all the barracks and congratulated everyone.

Gradually, the people walked around, but there were much more sober, and there was someone to look after the drunk. Gazin was sober. He intended to go for a walk at the end of the holiday, collecting all the money from the prisoners' pockets. Songs were heard in the barracks. Many walked around with their own balalaikas, and even a choir of eight was formed in a special section.

In the meantime, dusk was beginning. Sadness and melancholy were visible among the drunkenness. The people wanted to have a great holiday cheerfully - and what a hard and sad day it was for almost everyone. It became unbearable and disgusting in the barracks. I was sad and sorry for all of them.

XI. Performance

On the third day of the holiday, a performance took place in our theater. We did not know whether our parade-major knew about the theater. Such a person as the parade-major had to take something away, to deprive someone of the right. The senior non-commissioned officer did not contradict the prisoners, taking their word that everything would be quiet. The poster was written by Baklushin for gentlemen officers and noble visitors who honored our theater with their visit.

The first play was called Filatka and Miroshka rivals, in which Baklushin played Filatka, and Sirotkin played Filatka's bride. The second play was called "Cedril the Glutton". In conclusion, a "pantomime to music" was presented.

The theater was set up in a military barracks. Half of the room was given to the audience, the other half was a stage. The curtain stretched across the barracks was painted oil paint and sewn from canvas. In front of the curtain there were two benches and several chairs for officers and outsiders, which were not translated during the whole holiday. There were prisoners behind the benches, and the tightness there was incredible.

The crowd of spectators, squeezed from all sides, with bliss on their faces awaited the start of the performance. A gleam of childish joy shone on the branded faces. The prisoners were delighted. They were allowed to have fun, forget about the shackles and long years of imprisonment.

Part two

I. Hospital

After the holidays, I fell ill and went to our military hospital, in the main building of which there were 2 prison wards. Sick prisoners announced their illness to a non-commissioned officer. They were recorded in a book and sent with a convoy to the battalion infirmary, where the doctor recorded the really sick in the hospital.

Prescribing drugs and distributing portions were handled by the resident, who was in charge of the prison wards. We were dressed in hospital clothes, and I walked down a clean corridor and found myself in a long, narrow room with 22 wooden beds.

There were few seriously ill patients. To my right lay a counterfeiter, a former clerk, the illegitimate son of a retired captain. He was a stocky guy of 28 years old, intelligent, cheeky, confident in his innocence. He told me in detail about the procedures in the hospital.

After him, a patient from the correctional company came up to me. It was already a gray-haired soldier named Chekunov. He began to serve me, which caused several poisonous ridicule from a consumptive patient by the name of Ustyantsev, who, frightened of punishment, drank a glass of wine infused with tobacco and poisoned himself. I felt that his anger was directed at me rather than at Chekunov.

All diseases, even venereal diseases, were collected here. There were also a few who came just to "rest". The doctors let them in out of compassion. Outwardly, the room was relatively clean, but we did not flaunt the inner cleanliness. The patients got used to it and even believed that it was necessary. The punished with gauntlets were greeted with us very seriously and silently courted the unfortunate. The paramedics knew that they were handing over the beaten into experienced hands.

After the evening visit to the doctor, the ward was locked with a night tub. At night, the prisoners were not allowed out of the wards. This useless cruelty was explained by the fact that the prisoner would go to the toilet at night and run away, despite the fact that there is a window with an iron grating, and an armed sentry accompanies the prisoner to the toilet. And where to run in the winter in hospital clothes. From the shackles of a convict, no illness can save him. For the sick, the shackles are too heavy, and this heaviness aggravates their suffering.

II. Continuation

The doctors went around the wards in the morning. Before them, our resident, a young but knowledgeable doctor, visited the ward. Many doctors in Russia enjoy the love and respect of the common people, despite the general distrust of medicine. When the resident noticed that the prisoner came to take a break from work, he wrote down a nonexistent illness for him and left him lying. The senior doctor was much more severe than the resident, and for this he was respected by us.

Some patients asked to be discharged with their backs not healed from the first sticks in order to get out of court as soon as possible. Habit helped to punish some. The prisoners, with extraordinary good nature, talked about how they were beaten and about those who beat them.

However, not all stories were cold-blooded and indifferent. They talked about Lieutenant Zherebyatnikov with indignation. He was a man of about 30 years old, tall, fat, with ruddy cheeks, white teeth and rolling laughter. He loved to flog and punish with sticks. The lieutenant was a refined gourmet in the executive business: he invented various unnatural things in order to pleasantly tickle his soul swollen with fat.

Lieutenant Smekalov, who was the commander at our prison, was remembered with joy and pleasure. The Russian people are ready to forget any torment for one kind word, but Lieutenant Smekalov gained particular popularity. He was a simple man, even kind in his own way, and we recognized him as one of our own.

III. Continuation

In the hospital, I got a visual representation of all types of punishment. All those punished with gauges were brought to our chambers. I wanted to know all the degrees of sentences, I tried to imagine the psychological state of those going to execution.

If the convict could not stand the prescribed number of blows, then, by the verdict of the doctor, this number was divided into several parts. The prisoners endured the execution itself courageously. I noticed that the rods in a large number- the heaviest punishment. With five hundred rods, a person can be detected to death, and five hundred sticks can be carried without danger to life.

Almost every person has the qualities of an executioner, but they develop unevenly. There are two types of executioners: voluntary and forced. The people experience an unaccountable, mystical fear of a forced executioner.

A forced executioner is an exiled prisoner who became an apprentice to another executioner and was left forever in prison, where he has his own farm and is under guard. The executioners have money, they eat well, they drink wine. The executioner cannot punish weakly; but for a bribe, he promises the victim that he will not beat her very painfully. If his proposal is not agreed, he punishes barbarously.

It was boring to lie in the hospital. The arrival of a newcomer has always produced excitement. They even rejoiced at the madmen who were brought to the test. The defendants pretended to be crazy in order to get rid of the punishment. Some of them, after spending two or three days, calmed down and asked to be discharged. Real madmen were the punishment for the entire ward.

The seriously ill loved to be treated. Bloodletting was accepted with pleasure. Our banks were of a special kind. The paramedic lost or damaged the machine, which cut the skin, and had to make 12 cuts for each can with a lancet.

The most sad time came late in the evening. It was getting stuffy, vivid pictures of the past life were recalled. One night I heard a story that struck me as a feverish dream.

IV. Akulkin husband

Late at night I woke up and heard two whispering among themselves not far from me. The narrator Shishkov was still young, about 30 years old, a civilian prisoner, an empty, flighty and cowardly man of short stature, thin, with restless or stupidly pensive eyes.

It was about the father of Shishkov's wife, Ankudim Trofimych. He was a wealthy and respected old man of 70 years old, had tenders and a large loan, kept three workers. Ankudim Trofimych was married a second time, had two sons and eldest daughter Akulin. Shishkov's friend Filka Morozov was considered her lover. Filka's parents died at that time, and he was going to skip the inheritance and become a soldier. He did not want to marry Akulka. Shishkov then also buried his father, and his mother worked for Ankudim - she baked gingerbread for sale.

Once Filka knocked Shishkov down to smear the gates with tar on Akulka - Filka did not want her to marry an old rich man who wooed her. He heard that there were rumors about Akulka - and backtracked. Mother advised Shishkov to marry Akulka - now no one took her in marriage, and a good dowry was given for her.

Until the wedding, Shishkov drank without waking up. Filka Morozov threatened to break all his ribs, and sleep with his wife every night. Ankudim shed tears at the wedding, he knew that his daughter was giving up for torment. And Shishkov, even before the crown, had a whip with him, and decided to make fun of Akulka so that she knew how to marry with dishonest deception.

After the wedding, they left them with Akulka in the cage. She sits white, not bloody in her face with fear. Shishkov prepared a whip and laid it by the bed, but Akulka turned out to be innocent. Then he knelt in front of her, asked for forgiveness, and vowed to take revenge on Filka Morozov for the shame.

Some time later, Filka offered Shishkov to sell him his wife. To force Shishkov, Filka spread a rumor that he was not sleeping with his wife, because he was always drunk, and his wife was accepting others at that time. Shishkov was offended, and since then he began to beat his wife from morning to evening. Old man Ankudim came to intercede, and then backed down. Shishkov did not allow his mother to interfere; he threatened to kill her.

Filka, meanwhile, completely drunk himself and went into the mercenary to the tradesman, for the eldest son. Filka lived with a bourgeois for his own pleasure, drank, slept with his daughters, dragged the owner by the beard. The tradesman endured - Filka had to go to the soldiers for his eldest son. When they were taking Filka to the soldiers to surrender, he saw Akulka on the way, stopped, bowed to her in the ground and asked for forgiveness for his meanness. Akulka forgave him, and then told Shishkov that now she loves Filka more than death.

Shishkov decided to kill Akulka. At dawn I harnessed a cart, drove with my wife into the woods, to a deaf place, and there I cut her throat with a knife. After that, fear attacked Shishkov, he threw both his wife and the horse, and he ran home to his backside, and hid in the bathhouse. In the evening, Akulka was found dead and Shishkov was found in the bathhouse. And now for the fourth year he has been in hard labor.

V. Summer time

Easter was approaching. Summer works began. The coming spring worried the chained man, gave birth to desires and longing in him. At this time, wandering began throughout Russia. Life in the woods, free and full of adventure, had mysterious charm for those who have experienced it.

One out of a hundred prisoners decides to flee, the other ninety-nine only dream about it. Defendants and long-term prisoners escape much more often. After serving two or three years of hard labor, the prisoner prefers to finish his term and go to the settlement, than to dare to risk and death in case of failure. All these runners come to the prison for the winter by the fall, hoping to escape again in the summer.

My anxiety and anguish grew every day. The hatred that I, a nobleman, aroused in the prisoners, poisoned my life. On Easter, we got one egg and a slice of wheat bread from the bosses. Everything was exactly like at Christmas, only now it was possible to walk and bask in the sun.

Summer jobs turned out to be much more difficult than winter ones. The prisoners built, dug the ground, laid bricks, were engaged in plumbing, carpentry or painting work. I either went to the workshop, or to alabaster, or was a carrier of bricks. I got stronger from work. Physical strength in hard labor is necessary, and I wanted to live after prison.

In the evenings, the prisoners walked in droves around the courtyard, discussing the most ridiculous rumors. It became known that an important general was leaving Petersburg to audit the whole of Siberia. At this time, one incident happened in the prison which did not excite the major, but gave him pleasure. One prisoner in a fight poked another in the chest with an awl.

The name of the prisoner who committed the crime was Lomov. The victim, Gavrilka, was one of the hardened tramps. Lomov was from the wealthy peasants of the K district. All the Lomovs lived in a family, and, in addition to legal matters, were engaged in usury, harboring vagrants and stolen property. Soon the Lomovs decided that they had no government, and began to take more and more risks in various illegal enterprises. Not far from the village they had a large farm, where about six Kyrgyz robbers lived. They were all cut one night. The Lomovs were charged with the murder of their employees. During the investigation and trial, their entire fortune went to pieces, and Lomov's uncle and nephew ended up in our hard labor.

Soon, Gavrilka, a rogue and a tramp, appeared in the prison, who took the blame for the death of the Kirghiz on himself. The Lomovs knew that Gavrilka was a criminal, but they did not quarrel with him. And suddenly Uncle Lomov stabbed Gavrilka with an awl because of the girl. The Lomovs lived in the prison as rich people, for which the major hated them. Lomov was tried, although the wound turned out to be a scratch. A term was added to the offender and passed through a thousand. The major was pleased.

On the second day, upon arrival in the city, the auditor came to our prison. He entered sternly and dignified, a large retinue burst in behind him. The general walked around the barracks in silence, looked into the kitchen, and tasted cabbage soup. They pointed to me: they say, from the nobility. The general nodded his head, and after two minutes he left the prison. The prisoners were blinded, puzzled, and bewildered.

Vi. Convict animals

The purchase of Gnedok amused the prisoners much more than the high visit. In the prison, a horse was relied on for household needs. One fine morning she died. The major ordered to immediately buy a new horse. The purchase was entrusted to the prisoners themselves, among whom were real experts. It was a young, beautiful and strong horse. He soon became the favorite of the entire prison.

The prisoners loved animals, but it was not allowed to breed many livestock and poultry in the prison. In addition to Sharik, two more dogs lived in the prison: Belka and Kultyapka, which I brought home from work as a puppy.

We got geese by accident. They amused the prisoners and even became famous in the city. The whole brood of geese went to work with the prisoners. They always adjoined the largest party and grazed nearby at work. When the party moved back to the prison, they also rose. But despite their loyalty, they were all ordered to be stabbed to death.

The goat Vaska appeared in prison as a small, white goat and became a common favorite. A large goat with long horns grew out of Vaska. He also got into the habit of going to work with us. Vaska would have lived in prison for a long time, but once, returning at the head of the prisoners from work, he caught the eye of the major. Immediately they were ordered to slaughter the goat, sell the skin, and give the meat to the prisoners.

An eagle also lived in our prison. Someone brought him to prison, wounded and exhausted. He lived with us for three months and never left his corner. Lonely and viciously, he expected death, not trusting anyone. In order for the eagle to die free, the prisoners threw it off the rampart into the steppe.

Vii. Claim

It took me almost a year to come to terms with life in prison. Other prisoners could not get used to this life either. Anxiety, fervor and impatience were the most characteristic features of this place.

Daydreaming gave the prisoners a gloomy and gloomy look. They didn't like to flaunt their hopes. Innocence and frankness were despised. And if someone began to dream out loud, then he was rudely upset and ridiculed.

In addition to these naive and simple talkers, everyone else was divided into good and evil, gloomy and light. There were many more gloomy and angry. There was also a group of desperate people, there were very few of them. Not a single person lives without striving for a goal. Having lost the goal and hope, a person turns into a monster, and the goal of all was freedom.

Once, on a hot summer day, all the hard labor began to be built in the prison yard. I didn’t know about anything, but meanwhile hard labor had been dullly agitated for three days. The pretext for this explosion was food, which everyone was unhappy with.

Convicts are quarrelsome, but rarely rise together. However, this time the excitement was not in vain. In such a case, ringleaders always appear. This is a special type of people who are naively confident in the possibility of justice. They are too hot to be cunning and calculating, so they always fail. Instead of the main goal, they often throw themselves on little things, and this ruins them.

There were several ringleaders in our prison. One of them is Martynov, a former hussar, an ardent, restless and suspicious person; the other is Vasily Antonov, smart and cold-blooded, with an insolent look and an arrogant smile; both honest and truthful.

Our non-commissioned officer was frightened. Having built up, the people politely asked him to tell the major that the penal servitude wanted to talk to him. I also went out to build, thinking that some kind of check was taking place. Many looked at me in amazement and angrily mocked me. In the end, Kulikov came up to me, took me by the hand and led me out of the ranks. Puzzled, I went to the kitchen, where there were a lot of people.

In the hallway I met the nobleman T-vsky. He explained to me that if we were there, we would be accused of riot and brought to trial. Akim Akimych and Isai Fomich also did not take part in the unrest. There were all the cautious Poles and several gloomy, harsh prisoners, convinced that nothing good would come of this business.

The major flew in angry, followed by the clerk Dyatlov, who actually managed the prison and had influence on the major, a cunning, but not bad person. A minute later one prisoner went to the guardhouse, then another and a third. The scribe Dyatlov went to our kitchen. Here he was told that they have no complaints. He immediately reported to the major, who ordered to rewrite us separately from the disaffected. The paper and the threat to bring the disaffected to justice worked. Everyone was suddenly happy with everything.

The next day the food improved, albeit not for long. The major began to visit the prison more often and to find disturbances. The prisoners could not calm down for a long time, they were alarmed and puzzled. Many laughed at themselves, as if they were executing themselves for a claim.

That same evening I asked Petrov if the prisoners were angry with the nobles because they did not go out with everyone else. He did not understand what I was trying to achieve. But on the other hand, I realized that I would never be accepted into the partnership. In Petrov's question: "What kind of comrade are you?" - one could hear genuine naivety and simple-hearted bewilderment.

VIII. Comrades

Of the three nobles who were in the prison, I communicated only with Akim Akimych. He was a kind person, he helped me with advice and some services, but sometimes he made me sad with his even, dignified voice.

In addition to these three Russians, eight Poles stayed with us in my time. The best of them were painful and intolerant. There were only three educated people: B-sky, M-c, and old man Zh-c, a former professor of mathematics.

Some of them were sent for 10-12 years. With the Circassians and Tatars, with Isai Fomich, they were affectionate and friendly, but avoided the rest of the convicts. Only one Old Dub Old Believer has earned their respect.

The higher authorities in Siberia treated the noble criminals differently from the rest of the exiles. Following the higher authorities, the lower commanders got used to it. The second category of penal servitude, where I was, was much heavier than the other two categories. The device of this category was military, very similar to the prison companies, about which everyone spoke with horror. The authorities looked at the nobles in our prison more carefully and did not punish them as often as ordinary prisoners.

They tried to make our work easier only once: B-ky and I went to the engineering office as clerks for three whole months. This happened under Lieutenant Colonel G-kov. He was affectionate with the prisoners and loved them like a father. In the very first month upon arrival, G-kov quarreled with our major and left.

We were rewriting the papers, when suddenly the order was issued from the higher authorities to return us to our previous work. Then we went with B-m for two years to one job, most often to a workshop.

Meanwhile, M-cue became more and more sad over the years. He was inspired only by remembering his old and sick mother. Finally, M-tskoy's mother procured forgiveness for him. He went to the settlement and stayed in our city.

Of the rest, two were young people, sent for short periods, poorly educated, but honest and simple. The third, A-Chukovsky, was too simple, but the fourth, B-m, an elderly man, made a bad impression on us. It was a rough, philistine soul, with the habits of a shopkeeper. He was not interested in anything other than his craft. He was a skilled painter. Soon the whole city began to demand B-ma to paint the walls and ceilings. Other comrades were also sent to work with him.

B-m painted the house for our parade-major, who then began to patronize the nobles. Soon the parade-major was put on trial and resigned. After retiring, he sold the estate and fell into poverty. We met him later in a worn-out frock coat. In his uniform he was a god. In a frock coat he looked like a footman.

IX. The escape

Soon after the change of the parade-major, hard labor was abolished and a military prison company was founded in its place. A special department also remained, and dangerous war criminals were sent to it until the opening of the most difficult hard labor in Siberia.

For us, life went on as before, only the bosses changed. A headquarters officer, a company commander and four chief officers on duty in turn were appointed. Instead of the disabled, twelve non-commissioned officers and a commander-in-chief were appointed. Corporals from the prisoners were brought in, and Akim Akimych immediately turned out to be a corporal. All this remained in the commandant's department.

The main thing was that we got rid of the former major. The intimidated look disappeared, now everyone knew that the right would only be punished by mistake instead of the guilty one. The non-commissioned officers turned out to be decent people. They tried not to watch vodka being carried and sold. Like the disabled, they went to the bazaar and brought provisions to the prisoners.

The subsequent years have been erased from my memory. Only a passionate desire for a new life gave me the strength to wait and hope. I reviewed my past life and judged myself severely. I swore to myself that I would not make past mistakes in the future.

Sometimes we had runaways. Two people were running in front of me. After the change of major, his spy A-v was left without protection. He was a daring, decisive, intelligent and cynical man. The prisoner of the special department Kulikov, a middle-aged man, but strong, drew attention to him. They became friends and agreed to flee.

It was impossible to escape without an escort. One of the battalions stationed in the fortress was served by a Pole by the name of Koller, an elderly energetic man. Coming to serve in Siberia, he fled. They caught him and kept him in prison companies for two years. When he was returned to the army, he began to serve zealously, for which he was made a corporal. He was ambitious, arrogant and knew his own worth. Kulikov chose him as a friend. They conspired and set a day.

It was in the month of June. The fugitives arranged so that they, together with the prisoner Shilkin, were sent to plaster the empty barracks. Koller and the young recruit were escorts. After working for an hour, Kulikov and AV told Shilkin that they were going for wine. After a while, Shilkin realized that his comrades had fled, quit his job, went straight to the prison and told everything to the sergeant major.

The criminals were important, messengers were sent to all the volosts to report the fugitives and leave their marks everywhere. They wrote to the neighboring districts and provinces, and sent the Cossacks in pursuit.

This incident broke the monotonous life of the prison, and the escape echoed in all souls. The commandant himself came to the prison. The prisoners behaved boldly, with strict solidity. The prisoners were sent to work under reinforced escort, and in the evenings they were counted several times. But the prisoners behaved decorously and independently. They were all proud of Kulikov and A.

An intensive search continued for a whole week. The prisoners received all the news about the maneuvers of the authorities. Eight days after the escape, they attacked the trail of the fugitives. The next day in the city they began to say that the fugitives had been caught seventy miles from the prison. Finally, the sergeant-major announced that by evening they would be brought directly to the guardhouse at the prison.

At first they all got angry, then they became despondent, and then they began to laugh at those who were caught. Kulikov and A-va were now humiliated to the same extent that they had extolled before. When they were brought in, bound hand and foot, all the hard labor poured out to see what they would do with them. The fugitives were chained and brought to justice. Learning that the fugitives had no other choice but to surrender, everyone began to watch the progress of the case in court cordially.

A-woo was awarded five hundred sticks, Kulikov was given fifteen hundred. Koller lost everything, walked two thousand and was sent somewhere by a prisoner. A-va was punished weakly. In the hospital, he said that now he was ready for anything. Returning to prison after being punished, Kulikov behaved as if he had never been absent from him. Despite this, the prisoners stopped respecting him.

X. Exit from penal servitude

All this happened in the last year of my hard labor. Life was easier for me this year. Between the prisoners, I had many friends and acquaintances. In the city, among the military, I found friends, and I resumed communication with them. Through them I could write home and receive books.

The closer the term of release approached, the more patient I became. Many prisoners congratulated me sincerely and joyfully. It seemed to me that everyone became friendlier to me.

On the day of liberation, I went around the barracks to say goodbye to all the prisoners. Some shook my hand in a comradely manner, others knew that I had acquaintances in the city, that I would go from here to the gentlemen and sit next to them as an equal. They said goodbye to me not as a comrade, but as a master. Some turned away from me, did not answer my goodbye and looked with some kind of hatred.

Ten minutes after the prisoners left for work, I left the prison so that I would never return to it. To unleash the shackles, I was escorted to the smithy not by a convoy with a gun, but by a non-commissioned officer. Our own prisoners untied us. They fussed about, wanted to do everything as best as possible. The shackles fell. Freedom, new life... What a glorious moment!

The impression of the realities of prison or convict life is a fairly common theme in Russian literature, both in poetry and in prose. Literary masterpieces, which embody the pictures of the life of prisoners, belong to the pen of Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Anton Chekhov and other great Russian writers. One of the first to open to the reader pictures of another world of prison, unknown to ordinary people, with its laws and rules, specific speech, his social hierarchy, dared the master of psychological realism - Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky.

Although the work belongs to early creativity great writer, when he was still honing his prose skills, in the story one can already feel the attempts of a psychological analysis of the state of a person who is in critical conditions of life. Dostoevsky not only recreates the realities of prison reality, the author explores the impressions of people from being in prison, their physical and psychological state, the influence of hard labor on the individual assessment and self-control of the heroes by the method of analytical reflection.

Analysis of the work

The genre of the work is interesting. In academic criticism, the genre is defined as a novel in two parts. However, the author himself called it notes, that is, a genre close to memoir-epistolary. The author's memories are not reflections on his fate or events from own life... "Notes from the House of the Dead" is a documentary recreation of pictures of prison reality, which were the result of comprehending what he saw and heard over the four years spent by F.M. Dostoevsky in hard labor in Omsk.

Story style

Dostoevsky's Notes from the House of the Dead are narrative within a narrative. In the introduction, the speech is made on behalf of an unnamed author, who tells about a certain person - the nobleman Alexander Petrovich Goryanchikov.

From the words of the author, the reader becomes aware that Goryanchikov, a 35-year-old man, is living out his life in a small Siberian town K. For the murder of his own wife, Alexander was sentenced to 10 years of hard labor, after which he lives in a settlement in Siberia.

One day the narrator, driving past Alexander's house, saw the light and realized that the former prisoner was writing something. A little later, the narrator found out about his death, and the landlady gave him the papers of the deceased, among which was a notebook with a description of prison memories. Goryanchikov called his creation "Scenes from the House of the Dead." Further elements of the composition of the work represent 10 chapters, revealing the realities of camp life, the narration in which is conducted on behalf of Alexander Petrovich.

The character system of the work is quite diverse. However, it cannot be called a "system" in the true sense of this term. Characters appear and disappear outside of the plot structure and narrative logic. The heroes of the work are all those who surround the prisoner Goryanchikov: neighbors in the barracks, other prisoners, infirmary workers, wardens, military men, residents of the city. Little by little, the narrator introduces the reader to some of the prisoners or camp staff, as if by chance narrating about them. There is evidence of the real existence of some characters, whose names were slightly changed by Dostoevsky.

The main character of the documentary work is Alexander Petrovich Goryanchikov, on whose behalf the story is told. Through his eyes, the reader sees pictures of camp life. Through the prism of his relationship, the characters of the surrounding convicts are perceived, and at the end of his term of imprisonment, the story ends. From the story we learn more about others than about Alexander Petrovich. After all, in fact, what does the reader know about him? Goryanchikov was convicted of the murder of his wife out of jealousy and sentenced to hard labor for 10 years. At the beginning of the story, the hero is 35 years old. He dies three months later. Dostoevsky does not focus maximum attention on the image of Alexander Petrovich, since the story contains two deeper and more important images that can hardly be called heroes.

The work is based on the image of a Russian prison camp. The author describes in detail the life and the outskirts of the camp, its charter and the routine of life in it. The narrator ponders how and why people end up there. Someone deliberately commits a crime in order to escape from worldly life. Many of the prisoners are real criminals: thieves, swindlers, murderers. And someone commits a crime, defending their dignity or the honor of their loved ones, for example, a daughter or sister. Among the prisoners there are also elements that are undesirable to the modern author of power, that is, political prisoners. Alexander Petrovich does not understand how it is possible to combine them all together and punish them practically in the same way.

Dostoevsky gives the name to the image of the camp through the mouth of Goryanchikov - the House of the Dead. This allegorical image reveals the author's attitude to one of the main images. A dead house is a place where people do not live, but exist in anticipation of life. Somewhere deep in the soul, hiding from the ridicule of other prisoners, they cherish the hope of a free, full-fledged life. And some are even deprived of it.

The main work, no doubt, is the Russian people, in all its diversity. The author shows various strata of ethnic Russians, as well as Poles, Ukrainians, Tatars, Chechens, who were united by one fate in the House of Death.

The main idea of ​​the story

Places of deprivation of liberty, especially on domestic soil, represent a special world, closed and unknown to other people. Living an ordinary worldly life, few people think about what it is like a place where criminals are held, the imprisonment of which is accompanied by inhuman physical activity... Perhaps only those who have visited the House of the Dead have an idea of ​​this place. Dostoevsky from 1954 to 1954 was in hard labor. The writer set himself the goal of showing all the features of the House of the Dead through the eyes of a prisoner, which became the main idea of ​​the documentary story.

At first, Dostoevsky was horrified by the thought of what contingent he was among. But the tendency to psychological analysis personality led him to observe people, their condition, reactions, actions. In the first letter after leaving the prison, Fyodor Mikhailovich wrote to his brother that he had not lost the four years spent among real criminals and innocently convicted people. Even if he did not recognize Russia, he did know the Russian people well. As well as perhaps no one recognized him. Another idea of ​​the work is to reflect the state of the prisoner.

Part one

I. Dead House

Our jail stood on the edge of the fortress, at the very rampart. It happened, you look through the cracks of the fence at the light of God: will you see at least something? - and only you will see that the edge of the sky and a high earthen rampart, overgrown with weeds, and back and forth along the rampart, day and night, are pacing the sentries; and then you will think that whole years will pass, and you will just go to look through the cracks of the fence and see the same shaft, the same sentries and the same small edge of the sky, not the sky that is above the prison, but another, distant, free sky. Imagine a large courtyard, two hundred steps in length and one and a half hundred steps in width, all enclosed in a circle, in the form of an irregular hexagon, with a high rear, that is, a fence made of high pillars(fingers), dug deep into the ground, firmly leaning against each other with ribs, fastened with transverse slats and pointed from above: here is the outer fence of the prison. On one side of the fence there is a strong gate, always locked, always guarded day and night by sentries; they were unlocked on demand, for release to work. Behind these gates was a bright, free world, people lived, like everyone else. But on this side of the fence, they imagined that world as some kind of unrealizable fairy tale. It had its own special world, unlike anything else, it had its own special laws, its costumes, its own manners and customs, and a dead house alive, life - like nowhere else, and people are special. It is this particular corner that I begin to describe.

As you enter the fence, you see several buildings inside it. On both sides of the wide courtyard, there are two long one-story log cabins. This is the barracks. Here live prisoners, placed in categories. Then, in the depths of the fence, there is also the same blockhouse: this is a kitchen, divided into two artels; then there is another building where cellars, barns, sheds are placed under one roof. The middle of the courtyard is empty and forms a flat, rather large area. Here prisoners are lined up, there is a check and roll call in the morning, at noon and in the evening, sometimes several more times a day, judging by the suspiciousness of the sentries and their ability to quickly count. Around, between the buildings and the fence, there is still a fairly large space. Here, at the back of the buildings, some of the prisoners, more intimate and gloomy in character, like to walk outside of working hours, closed from all eyes, and think their little thoughts. When I met them on these walks, I loved to gaze at their gloomy, branded faces and guess what they were thinking. There was one exile whose favorite pastime in his free time was to count as fallen. There were a thousand and a half of them, and he had them all in the account and in mind. Each fire meant a day for him; every day he counted out one palette, and thus, by the remaining number of uncounted fingers, he could clearly see how many days he still had to stay in prison before his term of work. He was genuinely glad when he finished some side of the hexagon. For many years he still had to wait; but in prison there was time to learn patience. I once saw how a prisoner who had been in hard labor for twenty years and was finally released into freedom was saying goodbye to his comrades. There were people who remembered how he entered the prison for the first time, young, carefree, not thinking about his crime or his punishment. He came out with a gray-haired old man, with a gloomy and sad face. He silently walked around all of our six barracks. Entering each barracks, he prayed for the icon and then low, in the belt, bowed to his comrades, asking not to commemorate him dashingly. I also remember how one prisoner, formerly a well-to-do Siberian peasant, was once called to the gate in the evening. Six months before that, he received the news that his ex-wife had married, and was deeply saddened. Now she herself drove up to the prison, summoned him and gave him alms. They talked for two minutes, both burst into tears and said goodbye forever. I saw his face when he returned to the barracks ... Yes, in this place one could learn patience.

When it got dark, we were all taken to the barracks, where they were locked up all night. It was always difficult for me to return from the yard to our barracks. It was a long, low and stuffy room, dimly lit by tallow candles, with a heavy, suffocating odor. Now I don’t understand how I survived in it for ten years. On the bunk I had three boards: this was my whole place. On the same bunks, about thirty people were accommodated in one of our rooms. They locked up early in the winter; four hours it was necessary to wait until everyone fell asleep. And before that - noise, din, laughter, curses, the sound of chains, fumes and soot, shaved heads, branded faces, patchwork dresses, everything - cursed, defamed ... yes, a man is tenacious! Man is a being who gets used to everything, and I think this is the best definition of him.

There were only two hundred and fifty of us in the prison - the figure is almost constant. Some came, others finished their sentences and left, others died. And what kind of people were not there! I think every province, every strip of Russia had its representatives here. There were also foreigners, there were several exiles, even from the Caucasian highlanders. All this was divided according to the degree of crimes, and therefore, according to the number of years determined for the crime. It must be assumed that there was no crime that did not have a representative here. The main basis of the entire prison population was made up of civilian exiles (violent convicts, as the prisoners themselves naively said). These were criminals, completely deprived of any rights of the state, cut off from society, with a branded face for the eternal testimony of their rejection. They were sent to work for periods ranging from eight to twelve years and then sent somewhere along the Siberian volosts to settlers. There were also criminals of the military category, not deprived of the rights of the state, as in general in the Russian military prison companies. They were sent for a short time; at the end of them they turned to the same place where they came from, to the soldiers, to the Siberian line battalions. Many of them almost immediately returned back to prison for secondary important crimes, but not for short periods, but for twenty years. This category was called "everlasting". But the "eternal" were still not completely deprived of all the rights of the state. Finally, there was another special category of the most terrible criminals, mostly military ones, quite numerous. It was called the "special department". Criminals were sent here from all over Russia. They themselves considered themselves eternal and did not know the term of their work. According to the law, they were supposed to double and triple the work lessons. They were kept in prison until the opening of the most difficult hard labor in Siberia. “You will be sentenced, but we will go along to hard labor,” they said to other prisoners. I heard that this discharge has been destroyed. In addition, civil order was destroyed at our fortress, and one general military prisoner company was established. Of course, along with this, the authorities also changed. I am describing, therefore, the old days, things long past and past ...

It was a long time ago; I now dream all this, as in a dream. I remember how I entered the prison. It was in the evening, in the month of December. It was already getting dark; people were returning from work; preparing for verification. The mustachioed non-commissioned officer finally opened the doors for me to this strange house, in which I had to stay for so many years, to endure so many such sensations that, without actually experiencing them, I could not have even a rough idea. For example, I would never have imagined: what is terrible and painful in the fact that in all ten years of my hard labor, I will never, not be alone for a single minute? At work, always under escort, at home with two hundred comrades, and never, never - alone! However, did I still have to get used to this!

There were murderers here by chance and murderers by trade, robbers and atamans of robbers. There were just mazuriks and vagabonds-industrialists for the money they found or for the Stolievsky part. There were also those about whom it is difficult to decide: for what, it seems, they could come here? Meanwhile, everyone had their own story, vague and heavy, like the frenzy from yesterday's hops. In general, they spoke little about their past, did not like to talk and, apparently, tried not to think about the past. I knew of them even murderers so funny, so never thoughtful that one could bet that their conscience never told them any reproach. But there were also dark days, almost always silent. In general, rarely did anyone tell his life, and curiosity was out of fashion, somehow out of custom, not accepted. So is it that, from time to time, someone will talk out of idleness, while the other listens calmly and gloomily. No one here could surprise anyone. “We are a literate people!” They often said, with a kind of strange complacency. I remember how one day a robber, intoxicated (in hard labor it was sometimes possible to get drunk), began to tell how he stabbed a five-year-old boy, how he first deceived him with a toy, took him somewhere in an empty barn and there he stabbed him. All the barracks, hitherto laughing at his jokes, cried out as one man, and the robber was forced to shut up; the barracks did not shout out of indignation, but because it was not necessary to talk about it, because it is not customary to talk about it. I will note, by the way, that these people were really literate, and not even in a figurative, but in a literal sense. Probably more than half of them can read and write skillfully. In what other place, where the Russian people gather in large places, would you separate from them a bunch of two hundred and fifty people, half of whom would be literate? Later I heard that someone began to deduce from similar data that literacy is ruining the people. This is a mistake: there are completely different reasons; although one cannot but agree that literacy develops arrogance in a people. But this is not a disadvantage at all. All categories of dress differed: some had half of the jacket dark brown, and the other gray, as well as on the trousers - one leg was gray, and the other was dark brown. Once, at work, the Kalashnitsa girl, who approached the prisoners, looked at me for a long time and then suddenly burst out laughing. “Wow, how not nice!” She shouted, “there was not enough gray cloth, and black cloth was not enough!” There were those who had the whole jacket of one gray cloth, but only the sleeves were dark brown. The head was also shaved in different ways: in some, half of the head was shaved along the skull, in others - across.

At first glance, one could notice some sharp commonality in this whole strange family; even the harshest, most original personalities, who reigned over others involuntarily, tried to fall into the general tone of the entire prison. In general, I will say that all this people - with a few exceptions of inexhaustiblely cheerful people who enjoyed general contempt for this - were gloomy, envious, terribly vain, boastful, touchy and highly formalistic people. The ability not to be surprised at anything was the greatest virtue. Everyone was obsessed with how to behave outwardly. But often the most arrogant look was replaced with the speed of lightning by the most cowardly. It was somewhat true strong people ; they were simple and did not grimace. But a strange thing: of these real strong people, there were a few vain to the last extreme, almost to the point of illness. In general, vanity and appearance were in the foreground. Most were corrupted and terribly disguised. Gossip and gossip were incessant: it was hell, pitch darkness. But no one dared to rebel against the internal regulations and accepted customs of the prison; everyone obeyed. There were characters that were sharply outstanding, submissive with difficulty, but still submissive. Those who came to prison were too overwhelmed, too out of measure, so that in the end they did not commit their crimes by themselves, as if they themselves did not know why, as if in delirium, in a daze; often out of vanity, excited to the highest degree. But with us they were immediately besieged, in spite of the fact that some, before arriving in the prison, were the terror of entire villages and cities. Looking around, the newcomer soon noticed that he was in the wrong place, that there was no one to surprise him, and he was noticeably resigned and fell into the general tone. This general tone was formed on the outside from some special dignity, which was imbued with almost every inhabitant of the prison. Precisely, in fact, the title of convict, resolved, was some rank, and even an honorary one. No signs of shame or remorse! However, there was also some kind of outward humility, so to speak, official, some kind of calm reasoning: "We are a lost people," they said, "we did not know how to live in freedom, now break the green street, check the ranks." - "I did not obey my father and mother, listen now to the drum skin." - "I didn't want to sew with gold, now hit the stones with a hammer." All this was said often, both in the form of moralizing and in the form of ordinary sayings and sayings, but never seriously. These were all just words. It is unlikely that even one of them confessed inwardly to his lawlessness. Try someone who is not a convict to reproach the prisoner with his crime, to elect him (although, however, not in the Russian spirit to reproach the criminal) - there will be no end to the curses. And what were they all masters of swearing! They swore exquisitely, artistically. Swearing was elevated to them as a science; they tried to take it not so much with an offensive word as with an offensive meaning, spirit, idea - and this is more refined, more poisonous. Continuous quarrels further developed this science between them. All these people worked out of pressure - consequently, they were idle, consequently, they were corrupted: if they had not been corrupted before, then they were corrupted in hard labor. They all gathered here not by their own will; they were all strangers to each other.

"Damn three bast shoes, before he gathered us into one heap!" - they said to themselves; and therefore gossip, intrigue, slanderous women, envy, quarrels, anger were always in the foreground in this pitch life. No woman was able to be such a woman as some of these murderers. I repeat, there were strong people among them, characters, accustomed to breaking and commanding all their lives, tempered, fearless. These were somehow involuntarily respected; for their part, although they were often very jealous of their glory, they generally tried not to be a burden to others, did not enter into empty curses, behaved with extraordinary dignity, were judicious and almost always obedient to their superiors - not out of principle obedience, not from a state of duty, but as if under some kind of contract, realizing mutual benefits. However, they were treated with caution. I remember how one of these prisoners, a fearless and decisive man, known to his superiors for his brutal inclinations, was once called to punishment for some crime. It was a summer day, it was a non-working day. The headquarters officer, the closest and immediate commander of the prison, himself came to the guardhouse, which was at our very gates, to be present at the punishment. This major was some kind of fatal creature for the prisoners; he drove them to the point that they trembled him. He was insanely strict, "rushed at people," as the convicts said. Most of all, they were afraid in him of his penetrating, lynx gaze, from which it was impossible to hide anything. He saw somehow without looking. Entering the prison, he already knew what was going on at the other end of it. The prisoners called him eight-eyed. His system was false. He only embittered the already embittered people with his furious, evil actions, and if there had not been a commandant over him, a noble and reasonable man, who sometimes died out of his wild antics, then he would have done great troubles with his management. I don't understand how he could have ended up safely; he retired alive and well, although, incidentally, he was put on trial.

The prisoner turned pale when he was called. As a rule, he silently and decisively lay down under the cane, silently endured the punishment and got up after the punishment as if disheveled, calmly and philosophically looking at the failure that had happened. However, they always dealt with him carefully. But this time, for some reason, he considered himself right. He turned pale and, quietly from the convoy, managed to slip a sharp English boot knife into his sleeve. Knives and all sorts of sharp tools were terribly forbidden in prison. Searches were frequent, unexpected and serious, the punishment was cruel; but since it is difficult to find a thief when he decides to hide something especially, and since knives and tools were always a necessity in the prison, they were not translated, despite the searches. And if they were selected, then new ones were immediately started up. All the penal servitude rushed to the fence and with a sinking heart looked through the slits of the fingers. Everyone knew that Petrov this time would not want to lie under the cane and that the major had come to an end. But at the most decisive moment our major got into a droshky and left, entrusting the execution of the execution to another officer. “God himself saved!” The prisoners said later. As for Petrov, he calmly endured the punishment. His anger faded with the Major's departure. The prisoner is obedient and submissive to a certain extent; but there is an extreme that should not be crossed. By the way: nothing could be more curious than these strange outbursts of impatience and obstinacy. Often a person suffers for several years, resigns himself, endures the most severe punishments and suddenly breaks through on some little thing, on some trifle, almost for nothing. On the other hand, one might even call him crazy; and so they do.

I have already said that for several years I have not seen between these people the slightest sign of remorse, not the slightest painful thought about their crime, and that most of them internally consider themselves completely right. It is a fact. Of course, vanity, bad examples, youth, false shame are largely the reason. On the other hand, who can say that he tracked down the depths of these lost hearts and read in them the secret from the whole world? But it was possible, at such a time, to notice, catch, catch at least something in these hearts that would testify to inner longing, to suffering. But this was not, positively not. Yes, crime, it seems, cannot be meaningful from data, ready-made points of view, and its philosophy is somewhat more difficult than it is believed. Of course, prison and the system of forced labor do not correct the criminal; they only punish him and provide society from further attempts by the villain on his peace of mind. In a criminal, the prison and the most intense hard labor develop only hatred, a thirst for forbidden pleasures and terrible frivolity. But I am firmly convinced that the famous secret system also achieves only a false, deceptive, external goal. It sucks the life juice from a person, enervates his soul, weakens it, frightens her, and then the morally withered mummy, half-insane is presented as a model of correction and repentance. Of course, a criminal who rebelled against society hates him and almost always considers himself right and his guilty. In addition, he has already suffered punishment from him, and through this he almost considers himself purified, avenged. Finally, one can judge from such points of view that one will almost have to acquit the criminal himself. But, despite all sorts of points of view, everyone will agree that there are crimes that are always and everywhere, according to all kinds of laws, from the beginning of the world are considered indisputable crimes and will be considered such as long as a person remains a person. It was only in prison that I heard stories about the most terrible, the most unnatural deeds, the most monstrous murders, told with the most irrepressible, with the most childish laugh. One patricide especially does not leave my memory. He was from the nobility, served and was with his sixty-year-old father something like a prodigal son. His behavior was completely dissolute, he got into debt. Father limited him, persuaded him; but the father had a house, there was a farm, money was suspected, and - the son killed him, thirsting for an inheritance. The crime was tracked down only a month later. The killer himself filed a complaint with the police that his father had disappeared to no one knows where. He spent this whole month in the most depraved way. Finally, in his absence, the police found the body. In the courtyard, along its entire length, there was a groove for the drainage of sewage, covered with boards. The body lay in this groove. It was dressed and tucked away, the gray head was cut off, put to the body, and the killer put a pillow under the head. He did not confess; was deprived of the nobility, rank and exiled to work for twenty years. All the time that I lived with him, he was in the most excellent, in the most cheerful frame of mind. He was an eccentric, frivolous, eminently unreasonable person, although not at all a fool. I have never noticed any particular cruelty in him. The prisoners despised him not for a crime, which was not even mentioned, but for nonsense, for not knowing how to behave. In conversations, he sometimes thought of his father. Once, talking to me about a healthy constitution, hereditary in their family, he added: "Here is my parent, so he did not complain of any illness until his death." Such brutal insensitivity is, of course, impossible. This is a phenomenon; here is some kind of lack of constitution, some kind of bodily and moral deformity, not yet known to science, and not just a crime. Of course, I did not believe this crime. But people from his city, who should have known all the details of his history, told me his whole business. The facts were so clear that it was impossible not to believe.

The prisoners heard him shouting one night in his sleep: "Hold him, hold him! Cut off his head, head, head! .."

The prisoners almost all talked at night and raved. Swearing, thieves' words, knives, axes most often came to them deliriously on their tongue. "We are a beaten people," they said, "our insides are beaten off, that's why we scream at night."

State serf hard labor was not an occupation, but an obligation: the prisoner worked out his lesson or served the legal hours of work and went to prison. The work was looked upon with hatred. Without his own special, his own occupation, to which he would be devoted with all his mind, with all his calculations, a man in prison could not live. And in what way could all this people, developed, having lived a lot and wishing to live, forcibly brought together here in one heap, forcibly cut off from society and from normal life, could get along here normally and correctly, by their own will and willingness? From idleness alone, here such criminal qualities would develop in him, of which he had not even known before. Without labor and without legal, normal property, a person cannot live, he becomes corrupted, turns into a beast. And therefore everyone in prison, due to natural need and some sense of self-preservation, had his own skill and occupation. The long summer day was almost entirely filled with government work; on the short night there was hardly time to sleep. But in winter the prisoner, according to the regulations, as soon as it got dark, should already be locked up in prison. What to do during long, boring hours winter evening? And therefore, almost every barracks, despite the ban, turned into a huge workshop. Labor itself, occupation was not prohibited; but it was strictly forbidden to have with you, in prison, tools, and without this work was impossible. But they worked quietly, and it seems that the authorities in other cases did not look at it very intently. Many of the prisoners came to the prison without knowing anything, but learned from others and then went free as good artisans. There were shoemakers, shoemakers, tailors, carpenters, locksmiths, carvers, and goldsmiths. There was one Jew, Isai Bumstein, a jeweler, he is also a usurer. They all worked and earned a penny. Work orders were obtained from the city. Money is minted freedom, and therefore for a person who is completely deprived of freedom, it is ten times more expensive. If they just bryat in his pocket, he is already half comforted, even though he could not spend them. But money can always and everywhere be spent, especially since the forbidden fruit is twice as sweet. And in penal servitude one could even have wine. Pipes were strictly banned, but everyone smoked. Money and tobacco saved from scurvy and other diseases. Work saved from crime: without work, the prisoners would eat each other like spiders in a bottle. Despite the fact, both work and money were prohibited. Often at night, sudden searches were made, everything forbidden was taken away, and - no matter how money was hidden, nevertheless sometimes the detectives came across. That is partly why they were not taken care of, but soon got drunk; that is why wine was also brought into the prison. After each search, the guilty one, in addition to being deprived of his entire fortune, was usually painfully punished. But, after each search, shortcomings were immediately replenished, new things were immediately started up, and everything went on as before. And the authorities knew about this, and the prisoners did not grumble about the punishment, although such a life was similar to the life of those who settled on Mount Vesuvius.

Those who did not have the skill traded in a different way. There were quite original ways. Some traded, for example, by buying them alone, and sometimes such things were sold that it would not even have occurred to anyone outside the prison walls not only to buy and sell them, but even to consider them as things. But the hard labor was very poor and extremely industrial. The last rag was in value and went into some business. Due to poverty, money in prison had a completely different price than in freedom. For great and difficult work, they were paid in pennies. Some successfully traded with usury. The prisoner, worn out and broke, carried his last things to the usurer and received from him some copper money at terrible interest. If he did not redeem these things on time, then they were immediately and mercilessly sold; Usury flourished to such an extent that even government inspection things were accepted on bail, such as government linen, shoemaking goods, etc. - things that every prisoner needed at any moment. But with such mortgages, another turn of the matter happened, not entirely unexpected, however: the one who had pledged and received the money immediately, without further ado, went to the senior non-commissioned officer, the closest head of the prison, informed about the mortgage of inspection things, and they were immediately taken away from the usurer back, even without a report to the higher authorities. It is curious that at the same time sometimes there was not even a quarrel: the usurer silently and gloomily returned what followed, and even seemed to himself expect that it would be so. Perhaps he could not help but admit to himself that in the place of the mortgagee he would have done so. And therefore, if sometimes he swore later, then without any malice, and so only to clear the conscience.

In general, everyone stole from each other terribly. Almost everyone had their own chest with a lock for storing government items. This was allowed; but the chests did not save. I think you can imagine what skillful thieves there were. I have one prisoner, a sincerely devoted person to me (I say this without any stretch), stole a Bible, the only book that was allowed to have in hard labor; he confessed this to me that very day, not out of remorse, but pitying me, because I had been looking for her for a long time. There were kissers who sold wine and quickly got rich. I will speak about this sale especially sometime; she's pretty awesome. In the prison there were many who came for contraband, and therefore there is nothing to be surprised at how, during such inspections and convoys, wine was brought to the prison. By the way: smuggling, by its nature, is some kind of special crime. Is it possible, for example, to imagine that money, profit, for another smuggler play a secondary role, are in the background? And yet it happens that way. The smuggler works out of passion, by vocation. This is partly a poet. He risks everything, goes to terrible danger, cheats, invents, gets out; sometimes even acts on some kind of inspiration. This passion is as strong as gambling. I knew one prisoner in prison, colossal in appearance, but so meek, quiet, humble that it was impossible to imagine how he ended up in prison. He was so gentle and easygoing that he did not quarrel with anyone during his stay in prison. But he was from the western border, came for smuggling and, of course, could not bear it and set off to bring wine. How many times he was punished for this, and how he was afraid of the rods! And the very smuggling of wine brought him the most insignificant income. Only one entrepreneur was enriched from wine. The freak loved art for art. He was whiny like a woman and how many times, after being punished, he swore and swore not to carry contraband. With courage, he sometimes overcame himself for a whole month, but at last he still could not stand it ... Thanks to these individuals, the wine did not become scarce in the prison.

Finally, there was another income, although it did not enrich the prisoners, but it was constant and beneficial. This is alms. The upper class of our society has no idea how the merchants, the bourgeoisie and all our people care about the "unfortunate". Alms are almost continuous and almost always in bread, cakes and rolls, much less often in money. Without these donations, in many places, it would be too difficult for the prisoners, especially the defendants, who are held much more strictly than those on remand. The donation is religiously divided by the prisoners equally. If there is not enough for everyone, then the rolls are cut evenly, sometimes even into six parts, and each prisoner will certainly get his own piece. I remember the first time I received a donation. This was soon after my arrival at prison. I was returning from work in the morning alone, with an escort. A mother and daughter walked towards me, a girl of about ten, pretty as an angel. I've seen them before. The mother was a soldier, a widow. Her husband, a young soldier, was on trial and died in the hospital, in the prison ward, while I was sick there too. His wife and daughter came to say goodbye to him; both cried terribly. Seeing me, the girl blushed and whispered something to her mother; she stopped at once, found a quarter of a kopeck in the bundle and gave it to the girl. She rushed to run after me ... "Here, 'unfortunate', take Christ for the sake of a pretty penny!" she shouted, running ahead of me and thrusting a coin into my hands. I took her penny, and the girl returned to her mother completely satisfied. I kept this penny for a long time.

In the remote regions of Siberia, among the steppes, mountains or impenetrable forests, occasionally come across small cities, with one, many with two thousand inhabitants, wooden, nondescript, with two churches - one in the city, the other in a cemetery - cities that look more like good a village near Moscow than a city. They are usually very well equipped with police officers, assessors and all other subaltern ranks. In general, in Siberia, despite the cold, it is extremely warm to serve. People live simple, illiberal; the order is old, strong, consecrated for centuries. Officials who justly play the role of the Siberian nobility are either natives, inveterate Siberians, or immigrants from Russia, mostly from capitals, seduced by an off-set salary, double runs and seductive hopes in the future. Of these, those who know how to solve the riddle of life almost always remain in Siberia and take root in it with pleasure. Subsequently, they bear rich and sweet fruits. But others, a frivolous people who do not know how to solve the riddle of life, will soon get bored with Siberia and ask themselves longingly: why did they come to it? They are impatiently serving their legal term of service, three years, and after it has expired they immediately bother about their transfer and return home, scolding Siberia and laughing at it. They are wrong: not only from the official, but even from many points of view, one can be blissful in Siberia. The climate is excellent; there are many remarkably wealthy and hospitable merchants; there are many extremely sufficient foreigners. The young ladies bloom with roses and are moral to the last extreme. Game flies through the streets and stumbles upon the hunter itself. An unnatural amount of champagne is drunk. The caviar is amazing. The harvest happens in other places sampyteen ... In general, the land is blessed. You just need to know how to use it. In Siberia, they know how to use it.

In one of such cheerful and self-satisfied towns, with the sweetest population, the memory of which will remain indelible in my heart, I met Alexander Petrovich Goryanchikov, a settler who was born in Russia as a nobleman and landowner, who later became a second-class convict for the murder of his wife. and, after the expiration of the ten-year term of hard labor determined by him by law, who humbly and silently lived out his life in the town of K. as a settler. He, in fact, was assigned to one suburban volost, but he lived in the city, having the opportunity to earn at least some food in it by teaching children. In Siberian cities, teachers from exiled settlers are often found; they do not disdain. They teach mainly French, which is so necessary in the field of life and about which in the remote regions of Siberia they would have had no idea. For the first time I met Alexander Petrovich in the house of an old, honored and hospitable official, Ivan Ivanovich Gvozdikov, who had five daughters, of different ages, who showed excellent promise. Alexander Petrovich gave them lessons four times a week, thirty kopecks in silver per lesson. His appearance interested me. He was an extremely pale and thin man, not yet old, about thirty-five, small and frail. He was always dressed very cleanly, in a European style. If you spoke to him, then he looked at you extremely intently and attentively, with strict courtesy listening to your every word, as if pondering it, as if you asked him a problem with your question or wanted to extort some secret from him, and, finally, he answered clearly and briefly, but weighing every word of his answer to such an extent that you suddenly felt awkward for some reason and, finally, you yourself were glad at the end of the conversation. I then asked Ivan Ivanitch about him and learned that Goryanchikov lived impeccably and morally, and that otherwise Ivan Ivanitch would not have invited him for his daughters; but that he is a terrible unsociable, hides from everyone, is extremely learned, reads a lot, but speaks very little and that in general it is rather difficult to talk to him. Others argued that he was positively insane, although they found that, in essence, this was not yet such an important shortcoming, that many of the honorary members of the city were ready to kindness Alexander Petrovich in every possible way, that he could even be useful, write requests, and so on. It was believed that he should have decent relatives in Russia, maybe not even the last people, but they knew that from his very exile he had stubbornly cut off all relations with them - in a word, he was hurting himself. In addition, we all knew his story, they knew that he killed his wife in the first year of his marriage, that he killed out of jealousy and reported himself on himself (which greatly facilitated his punishment). Such crimes are always looked upon as misfortunes and are regretted. But, despite all this, the eccentric stubbornly kept away from everyone and appeared in people only to give lessons.

At first I didn’t pay much attention to him, but, I don’t know why, he gradually began to interest me. There was something mysterious about him. There was not the slightest opportunity to talk to him. Of course, he always answered my questions, and even with the air as if he considered it his primary duty; but after his answers I somehow felt weary about asking him longer; and on his face, after such conversations, one could always see some kind of suffering and fatigue. I remember walking with him one fine summer evening from Ivan Ivanovich. Suddenly I thought of inviting him to smoke a cigarette for a minute. I cannot describe the horror expressed on his face; he was completely lost, began to mutter some incoherent words, and suddenly, glancing angrily at me, rushed to opposite side... I was even surprised. Since then, meeting with me, he looked at me as if with some kind of fear. But I did not quit; I was drawn to him, and a month later, for no reason at all, I went to Goryanchikov's. Of course, I acted stupidly and indelicately. He lodged on the very edge of the city, with an old bourgeois woman who had a daughter who was sick in consumption, and that one had an illegitimate daughter, a child of about ten, a pretty and cheerful little girl. Alexander Petrovich was sitting with her and teaching her to read the minute I entered his room. Seeing me, he was so confused, as if I had caught him in some crime. He was completely at a loss, jumped up from his chair and looked at me with all his eyes. We finally sat down; he closely followed my every gaze, as if in each of them he suspected some special mysterious meaning. I guessed that he was suspicious to the point of madness. He looked at me with hatred, almost asking: "But will you soon leave here?" I spoke to him about our town, about current news; he kept silent and smiled maliciously; it turned out that he not only did not know the most ordinary, well-known city news, but was not even interested in knowing them. Then I started talking about our land, about its needs; he listened to me in silence and looked so strangely into my eyes that I finally felt ashamed of our conversation. However, I almost pissed him off with new books and magazines; I had them in my hands, just from the post office, I offered them to him still uncut. He gave them an eager glance, but immediately changed his mind and declined the offer, responding with lack of time. Finally I took leave of him, and as I walked away from him, I felt that some unbearable weight had fallen from my heart. I was ashamed and it seemed extremely stupid to pester a person who sets his main task as his main task - to hide as far as possible from the whole world. But the deed was done. I remember that I hardly noticed any books at his place, and therefore it was unfairly said about him that he reads a lot. However, passing once or twice, very late at night, past its windows, I noticed a light in them. What did he do, sitting until dawn? Didn't he write? And if so, what exactly?

Circumstances removed me from our town for three months. Returning home in the winter, I learned that Alexander Petrovich had died in the fall, died in solitude, and had never even called a doctor to him. He was almost forgotten in the town. His apartment was empty. I immediately made the acquaintance of the deceased's mistress, intending to find out from her; what was her tenant especially engaged in, and did he write anything? For two kopecks, she brought me a whole basket of papers left over from the deceased. The old woman admitted that she had already spent two notebooks. She was a sullen and silent woman, from whom it was difficult to get anything worthwhile. She could tell me nothing new about her tenant. According to her, he almost never did anything and for months did not open books and did not take a pen in his hands; on the other hand, he walked up and down the room for whole nights, thinking something, and sometimes talking to himself; that he was very fond of and very caressed her granddaughter, Katya, especially since he learned that her name was Katya, and that on Katherine's day he went to serve a requiem for someone every time. The guests could not stand; I only left the yard to teach children; he even looked askance at her, the old woman, when, once a week, she came to clean up his room a little, and almost never said a single word with her for three whole years. I asked Katya: does she remember her teacher? She looked at me in silence, turned to the wall and began to cry. Therefore, this man could at least force someone to love himself.

In the Soviet Union, there were many objectionable musical groups- they tried to discredit or ban them, but they, of course, continued to appear. One of these was the "Notes of a Dead Man" group, formed in Kazan in the mid-80s by Vitaly Kartsev, a fan of martial arts, and Vladimir Guskov, a physicist with honors.

Vitaly became the vocalist and was responsible for all the lyrics, Vladimir became the guitarist and took up the backing vocals. Around the same time, a rock club was emerging in the Kazan Youth Center, and it was there that the friends found the rest of the band. They were joined by a drummer, and later - a PR manager Andrey Anikin, amazed by the energy of Vitaly's self-expression and his poems "on the topic of the day." In the same club they met Vladimir Burmistrov - also a drummer, but in the group he successfully performed as a "percussionist". And the fifth member of the ZMCH was Vitaly's old friend - bassist Viktor Shurgin. So, having completed the composition, the ZMCH stepped on the path of a rebellious rock group. It was hard work - they had no permanent place for rehearsals, no sensible instruments, no connections in the musical get-together. Nevertheless, in the field, in one day, the first album of the ZMCH group "Incubator of Fools" in 1986 was recorded on a reel-to-reel tape recorder in the utility room.

Before the appearance of the ZMCH, Vitaly Kartsev had been engaged in martial arts and martial arts for years - Eastern philosophy in general had a very strong influence on him. And from his personality and worldview, it was passed on to the work of the group - the very name "Notes of a Dead Man" was inspired by the poems of the Japanese poet Zen master Sido Bunan: "Live like a dead man", and the music developed in a certain integral direction with elements of post-punk, rock and psychedelics. Vitaly's fascination with Eastern teachings is firmly felt in all constituent groups - abstract texts about the search for life value, mixed with a painful, sometimes mournful sound, associatively resemble the esotericism of Asia.

Dead Man's Notes, 1989

In the same 1986, they performed at a rock festival in the House of Pioneers of the Soviet District, where they were noticed by TV presenter Shamil Fattakhov and invited to participate in the “versus” of those times - the musical television program “Duel”. Appearing on the big screen, ZMCH did not go unnoticed with their political allusions in their songs. According to Kartsev, an order was given from above to merge the group, and in the second part of the program, the ZMCH lost and dropped out of the show. Recalling that period, he talked about the sent judges: “The first thing we played on this program was HamMillionia - with a hint of our society. And the second - "Powerless Contemplator" - was about the fact that one person is powerless to change something in this world mired in dirty political games. The performance was noticed, and Shamil received an order from above: to make another transfer to crush us. On the second program, letters were read out on the air: allegedly people from the districts wrote that this was unacceptable and they did not like this kind of music. And there were also experts who were sent in ”.

ZMCH were remarkable for their amazing fertility - only in 1988 they recorded two albums. The first is "Children of Communism", and the second "Exhumation" was recorded overnight in Moscow, at the Ostankino television studio. Such efficiency amazed both musician friends and fans, who did not have time to evaluate the previous album, as the new one was already released. But Kartsev does not dare to take responsibility for the quality of music: “Everyone was surprised: how? And so that our musicians were first-class - they took everything on the fly. Now groups are written for a lot of money in good studios, they sit for months, and the output is often still shit. We, of course, may also have shit, but at least we did it quickly", - he recalls after more than 20 years. The album "Exhumation" is notable for its strong politicization, rebellious spirit and protest against officials and the political system that reigns in last years the existence of the USSR, but at the same time in the lyrics there are also moments of despair when the author speaks of the lost hopes that were placed on Soviet society in vain.

ZMCH regularly went on small tours in the regions and continued to write music, despite the fact that all members of the group had a life outside the group - Vitaly, for example, studied at the law faculty of Kazan University and continued to practice martial arts. All the performances of the ZMCH in small towns were accompanied by discontent of local officials and Komsomol members, but they continued anyway. Having gained sufficient popularity for the Kazan group, their music became interesting to directors and radio stations - their compositions were used as soundtracks in the short films "Wanderer in the Bulgars" and "Afghanistan", and the song "Children of Communism" sounded on BBC radio. Of course, now, in the realities of the XXI century, it is hard to call it a great success, but the young group from Kazan, which was engaged in music for the sake of music, did not need more.

In 1987, they changed the line-up, changing the guitarist and drummer: two brothers joined the group - Alexander (guitar and vocals) and Eugene (bass and backing vocals) Gasilovs, and Vladimir Burmistrov as drummer. And the former drummer Andrei Anikin began to perform those tasks that are now considered the sphere of PR management - he organized performances, negotiated the inclusion of the group in the program of various festivals, made contacts with the owners of recording studios and did other things necessary for the musical group. And he did a great job - ZMCH performed at festivals in different cities (Moscow "Rock for Democracy", Leningrad "Aurora", Barnaul "Rock-Asia", Samara "The Baddest"), on TV programs and in the Moscow House of Culture, recording album by album.

Their complete discography is impressive - over the 10 years of their existence, they have released 10 albums, literally one each year. At the same time, there are compositions that have not been included in any of the works. Many of the albums were recorded in the shortest possible time - they recorded "The Science of Celebrating Death" in 1990 at Andrei Tropillo's St. Petersburg studio in three to four days. The 1992 album "Plea (Empty Heart)" became an important element in the life of the group - it was with him that ZMCH became the first Kazan group to sound at the Melodiya company, releasing the album on vinyl. Now the disc is considered a rarity and is only in private collections of the most ardent fans, who, however, sometimes can sell any thing for a fairly large amount.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

In the last years of the group's existence, Kartsev combined music and academic activities, be it studying at the university or teaching. Until 1994, in between tours in Russia, he left for Europe, where he taught qigong, bagua, returned to Russia and went on tour again.

In their texts, the theme of mysticism, the dead, graves and other components of the cemetery is often traced: “Today I am very brave, I played on the trumpet, all the neighbors on the grave applauded me”- in the song "Brave Dead" Vitaly appears as an example of a deceased person, and in "Master of Silence" he declares that "There is no friend safer than death"... But in addition to thinking about the abstract, ZMCH often turn to politics and the social order that surrounds them, for which they turned out to be objectionable to the ruling party. For example, in the song "Incubator of Fools", they sing about a system that “Breeds turkeys so that theykilledmuzzles, otherwise there will be no work for those who guard peace and success - the main cooks, the main parasites " clearly referring the listener to the realities of Soviet reality. But the general message of ZMCH's creativity almost always leaves the listener with a feeling of hopelessness and despair. In one of the lines of "Trouble", Vitaly summarizes that "Today is better than yesterday, and tomorrow, too, from a new line the mean games of being and the thrill of life at a dead center." And this line is typical for all the lyrics of the ZMCH, and the arguments about the paucity of life and mental death haunt all the work of the group.

When listening to the ZMCH archive, a modern listener will find not a single flaw, but taking into account all the conditions of the group's existence, it is easy to forgive. One cannot fail to note their fertility and efficiency: 10 albums, and the compositions reach 10 minutes in length and are filled with completely different sounds and instruments that create the general impression of either a religious ceremony or a funeral procession.

The ZMCH project was closed not because of a loss of interest, not because of the quarrels of the participants and not because of changes in the country, as some believe, but because of the death of his younger brother Vitaly Kartsev, which he does not like to spread and talk about. Even during the existence of the group, he did not abandon martial arts classes, and after the disbanding of the collective he went deeper into the study even more, while the other members remained in the musical sphere, just in other positions. Looking back, we can say that the ZMCH left their mark on the Kazan rock movement and entered the galaxy of the best representatives of the Kazan wave of the 80s and early 90s.