Dostoevsky's notes from a lunatic asylum. "Notes from the House of the Dead" Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Fedor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky

Notes from dead house

Part one

Introduction

In the remote regions of Siberia, among the steppes, mountains or impenetrable forests, occasionally come across small towns, with one, many with two thousand inhabitants, wooden, nondescript, with two churches - one in the city, the other in the cemetery - cities that look more like a good village near Moscow than a city. They are usually very adequately equipped with police officers, assessors and all the rest of the subaltern rank. In general, in Siberia, despite the cold, it is extremely warm to serve. People live simple, illiberal; orders are old, strong, consecrated for centuries. Officials who rightly play the role of the Siberian nobility are either natives, hardened Siberians, or visitors from Russia, mostly from the capitals, seduced by the salary that is not set off, double runs and tempting 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 with anguish: why did they come to it? They impatiently serve 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 her. They are wrong: not only from official, but even from many points of view, one can be blessed in Siberia. The climate is excellent; there are many remarkably rich and hospitable merchants; many extremely sufficient foreigners. Young ladies bloom with roses and are moral to the last extreme. The game flies through the streets and stumbles upon the hunter itself. Champagne is drunk unnaturally much. Caviar is amazing. Harvest happens in other places fifteen times ... 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 these cheerful and self-satisfied towns, with the sweetest people, 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 exile convict for the murder of his wife and, after the expiration of a ten-year term of hard labor determined for him by law, he humbly and inaudibly 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 get at least some kind of livelihood in it by teaching children. In Siberian cities one often comes across teachers from exiled settlers; they are not shy. They teach primarily French, so necessary in the field of life and about which without them in the remote regions of Siberia they would have 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, different years who showed great promise. Alexander Petrovich gave them lessons four times a week, thirty silver kopecks a lesson. His appearance intrigued me. It was extremely pale and skinny person, still not old, about thirty-five, small and frail. He was always dressed very cleanly, in a European way. If you spoke to him, he looked at you extremely intently and attentively, listening with strict politeness to your every word, as if pondering it, as if you had asked him a task 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 uncomfortable for some reason and, finally, you yourself rejoiced at the end of the conversation. I then asked Ivan Ivanovich about him and found out that Goryanchikov lives impeccably and morally, and that otherwise Ivan Ivanovich would not have invited him for his daughters; but that he is terribly unsociable, hiding from everyone, extremely learned, reads a lot, but speaks very little, and that in general it is quite difficult to get into conversation with him. Others claimed that he was positively insane, although they found that, in fact, this was not such an important shortcoming, that many of the honorary members of the city were ready to show kindness to 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 last people, but they knew that from the very exile he stubbornly cut off all communication with them - in a word, he harmed himself. In addition, everyone here knew his story, they knew that he had killed his wife in the first year of his marriage, killed him out of jealousy and himself denounced himself (which greatly facilitated his punishment). The same crimes are always looked upon as misfortunes and regretted. But, in spite of all this, the eccentric stubbornly avoided everyone and appeared in public only to give lessons.

I didn't pay attention to him at first. special attention but, I don't know why, little by little he began to interest me. There was something mysterious about him. There was no way to talk to him. Of course, he always answered my questions, and even with an air as if he considered this his first duty; but after his answers I somehow found it hard to question 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. It suddenly occurred to me to invite him over for a minute to smoke a cigarette. I cannot describe the horror expressed on his face; he was completely lost, began to mutter some incoherent words, and suddenly, looking angrily at me, rushed to run in the opposite direction. I was even surprised. Since then, when meeting with me, he looked at me as if with some kind of fear. But I did not let up; something drew me to him, and a month later, for no apparent reason, I myself went to Goryanchikov. Of course, I acted stupidly and indelicately. He lodged on the very edge of the city, with an old bourgeois woman who had a sick, consumptive daughter, and that illegitimate daughter, a child of ten years old, a pretty and cheerful girl. Alexander Petrovich was sitting with her and teaching her to read the minute I went in to see him. When he saw me, he became so confused, as if I had caught him in some kind of 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 glance, as if he suspected some special mysterious meaning in each of them. I guessed that he was suspicious to the point of madness. He looked at me with hatred, almost asking: “Will you be leaving here soon?” I talked to him about our town, current news; he remained 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 region, about its needs; he listened to me in silence and looked into my eyes so strangely that I finally felt ashamed of our conversation. However, I almost teased him with new books and magazines; I had them in my hands, fresh from the post office, and I offered them uncut to him. He gave them a greedy look, but immediately changed his mind and declined the offer, responding with lack of time. Finally I said goodbye to him and, leaving him, I felt that some unbearable weight had been lifted from my heart. I was ashamed and it seemed extremely stupid to pester a person who, in fact, supplies his main task- as far as possible to hide from the whole world. But the deed was done. I remember that I hardly noticed his books at all, and, therefore, it was unfairly said about him that he reads a lot. However, driving twice, very late at night, past his windows, I noticed a light in them. What did he do, sitting up until dawn? Did he write? And if so, what exactly?

PART ONE

INTRODUCTION

In the remote regions of Siberia, among the steppes, mountains or impenetrable forests, occasionally come across small towns, 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 a good suburban village than in the city. They are usually very adequately equipped with police officers, assessors and all the rest of the subaltern rank. In general, in Siberia, despite the cold, it is extremely warm to serve. People live simple, illiberal; orders are old, strong, consecrated for centuries. Officials who rightly play the part of the Siberian nobility are either natives, hardened Siberians, or strangers from Russia, mostly from the capitals, seduced by the salary that is not set off, double runs and tempting 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 with anguish: why did they come to it? They impatiently serve 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 her. They are wrong: not only from official, but even from many points of view, one can be blissful in Siberia. The climate is excellent; there are many remarkably rich and hospitable merchants; many extremely sufficient foreigners. Young ladies bloom with roses and are moral to the last extreme. The game flies through the streets and stumbles upon the hunter itself. Champagne is drunk unnaturally much. Caviar is amazing. Harvest happens in other places by itself-fifteen ... 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 these cheerful and self-satisfied towns, with the sweetest people, 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 exile convict for the murder of his wife and, after the expiration of a ten-year term of hard labor determined for him by law, he humbly and inaudibly 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 get at least some kind of livelihood in it by teaching children. In Siberian cities one often comes across teachers from exiled settlers; they are not shy. They teach mainly the French language, which is so necessary in the field of life and which without them in the remote regions of Siberia would have 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 years, who showed great promise. Alexander Petrovich gave them lessons four times a week, thirty silver kopecks a lesson. His appearance intrigued 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 way. If you spoke to him, he looked at you extremely intently and attentively, listening with strict politeness to your every word, as if pondering it, as if you had asked him a task 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 uncomfortable for some reason and, finally, you yourself rejoiced at the end of the conversation. I then asked Ivan Ivanovich about him and found out that Goryanchikov lives impeccably and morally, and that otherwise Ivan Ivanovich would not have invited him for his daughters; but that he is terribly unsociable, hiding from everyone, extremely learned, reads a lot, but speaks very little, and that in general it is quite difficult to get into conversation with him. Others claimed that he was positively insane, although they found that, in fact, this was not such an important shortcoming, that many of the honorary members of the city were ready to show kindness to Alexander Petrovich in every possible way, that he could even be useful, write requests and so on. It was believed that he must have decent relatives in Russia, maybe not even the last people, but they knew that from the very exile he stubbornly cut off all relations with them - in a word, he hurt himself. In addition, everyone here knew his story, they knew that he had killed his wife in the first year of his marriage, killed him out of jealousy and himself denounced himself (which greatly facilitated his punishment). The same crimes are always looked upon as misfortunes and regretted. But, in spite of all this, the eccentric stubbornly avoided everyone and appeared in public only to give lessons.

At first I did not pay much attention to him, but, I do not know why, he gradually began to interest me. There was something mysterious about him. There was no way to talk to him. Of course, he always answered my questions, and even with an air as if he considered this his first duty; but after his answers I somehow found it hard to question 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. It suddenly occurred to me to invite him over for a minute to smoke a cigarette. I cannot describe the horror expressed on his face; he was completely lost, began to mutter some incoherent words, and suddenly, looking angrily at me, rushed to run in the opposite direction. I was even surprised. Since then, when meeting with me, he looked at me as if with some kind of fear. But I did not let up; something drew me to him, and a month later, for no apparent reason, I myself went to Goryanchikov. Of course, I acted stupidly and indelicately. He lodged on the very edge of the city, with an old bourgeois woman who had a sick, consumptive daughter, and that illegitimate daughter, a child of ten years old, a pretty and cheerful girl. Alexander Petrovich was sitting with her and teaching her to read the minute I went in to see him. When he saw me, he became so confused, as if I had caught him in some kind of 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 glance, as if he suspected some special mysterious meaning in each of them. I guessed that he was suspicious to the point of madness. He looked at me with hatred, almost asking: "Will you be leaving here soon?" I talked to him about our town, current news; he remained 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 region, about its needs; he listened to me in silence and looked into my eyes so strangely that I finally felt ashamed of our conversation. However, I almost teased him with new books and magazines; I had them in my hands, fresh from the post office, and I offered them uncut to him. He gave them a greedy look, but immediately changed his mind and declined the offer, responding with lack of time. Finally I said goodbye to him and, leaving him, I felt that some unbearable weight had been lifted from my heart. I was ashamed and it seemed extremely stupid to pester a man who sets his main task - to hide as far as possible from the whole world. But the deed was done. I remember that I hardly noticed his books at all, and, therefore, it was unfairly said about him that he reads a lot. However, driving twice, very late at night, past his windows, I noticed a light in them. What did he do, sitting up until dawn? Did he write? And if so, what exactly?

Circumstances removed me from our town for three months. Returning home already in the winter, I learned that Alexander Petrovich died in the autumn, died in seclusion and never even called a doctor to him. The town has almost forgotten about him. His apartment was empty. I immediately made the acquaintance of the mistress of the dead man, intending to find out from her; What was her lodger particularly busy with, and did he write anything? For two kopecks, she brought me a whole basket of papers left over from the deceased. The old woman confessed that she had already used up two notebooks. She was a gloomy and silent woman, from whom it was difficult to get anything worthwhile. She had nothing new to tell me about her tenant. According to her, he almost never did anything and for months did not open a book and did not take a pen in his hands; but whole nights he paced up and down the room and kept thinking something, and sometimes talking to himself; that he was very fond of and very fond of her granddaughter, Katya, especially since he found out that her name was Katya, and that on Catherine's day every time he went to someone to serve a memorial service. Guests could not stand; he went out from the yard only to teach children; he even looked askance at her, the old woman, when she, once a week, came at least a little to tidy up his room, and almost never said a single word to her for three whole years. I asked Katya: does she remember her teacher? She looked at me silently, turned to the wall and began to cry. So, this man could at least make someone love him.

I took his papers away and sorted through them all day. Three-quarters of these papers were empty, insignificant shreds or student exercises from copybooks. But then there was one notebook, rather voluminous, poorly written and incomplete, perhaps abandoned and forgotten by the author himself. It was a description, albeit incoherent, of a ten-year hard labor life, endured by Alexander Petrovich. In places this description was interrupted by some other story, some strange, terrible memories sketched unevenly, convulsively, as if under some kind of compulsion. I re-read these passages several times and almost convinced myself that they were written in madness. But the hard labor notes - "Scenes from the House of the Dead", as he himself calls them somewhere in his manuscript, seemed to me not entirely uninteresting. Absolutely new world, hitherto unknown, the strangeness of other facts, some special notes about the perished people, carried away me, and I read something with curiosity. Of course, I could be wrong. On trial I choose first two or three chapters; Let the public judge...

DEAD HOUSE

Our prison stood on the edge of the fortress, at the very ramparts. It happened that you looked through the cracks of the fence at the light of day: would 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, sentries pace; and you will immediately think that whole years will pass, and you will come up in the same way to look through the cracks of the fence and see the same rampart, 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 paces long and one and a half hundred paces wide, all surrounded by a circle, in the form of an irregular hexagon, with a high back, that is, a fence of high pillars (palms), dug deep into the ground, firmly leaning against each other with ribs, fastened with transverse strips and pointed at the top: this is the outer fence of the prison. In one of the sides of the fence there are strong gates, 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, that world was imagined as some kind of unrealizable fairy tale. It had its own special world, unlike anything else, it had its own special laws, its own costumes, its own manners and customs, and a dead house alive, life like nowhere else, and special people. 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 two long one-story log cabins stretch. These are the barracks. Here live prisoners, placed by category. Then, in the depths of the fence, there is still the same log house: this is a kitchen, divided into two artels; further on there is a building where cellars, barns, sheds are placed under one roof. The middle of the yard is empty and makes up a flat, fairly large area. Prisoners line up here, check and roll call take place in the morning, at noon and in the evening, sometimes even several times a day, judging by the suspiciousness of the guards and their ability to quickly count. Around, between the buildings and the fence, there is still quite a large space. Here, on the backs of the buildings, some of the prisoners, more unsociable and gloomy in character, like to walk around after hours, closed from all eyes, and think their little thought. Meeting them during these walks, I liked to peer into their gloomy, branded faces and guess what they were thinking. There was one exile whose favorite pastime in free time, it was considered Pali. There were a thousand and a half of them, and he had them all in his account and in mind. Each fire meant a day for him; every day he counted one finger, and thus, by the remaining number of fingers not counted, he could clearly see how many days he still had to stay in prison before the deadline for work. He was sincerely glad when he finished any side of the hexagon. He had to wait for many more years; but in prison there was time to learn patience. I once saw a convict saying goodbye to his comrades, who had been in hard labor for twenty years and was finally released. 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 a gray-haired old man, with a gloomy and sad face. Silently he went around all our six barracks. Entering each barracks, he prayed to the image and then bowed low, to the waist, to his comrades, asking them not to commemorate him dashingly. I also remember how once a prisoner, formerly a prosperous Siberian peasant, was once called to the gate towards evening. Six months before this, he received the news that his ex-wife was married, and he was deeply saddened. Now she herself drove up to the prison, called him and gave him alms. They talked for about two minutes, both burst into tears and said goodbye forever. I saw his face when he returned to the barracks... Yes, one could learn patience in this place.

When it got dark, we were all taken to the barracks, where we were locked up for the whole night. It was always difficult for me to return from the yard to our barracks. It was a long, low, stuffy room, dimly lit by tallow candles, with a heavy, suffocating smell. I do not understand now how I survived in it for ten years. On the bunk I had three boards: that was my whole place. On the same bunk, about thirty people were accommodated in one of our rooms. In winter they locked up early; I had to wait four hours for everyone to fall asleep. And before that - noise, din, laughter, curses, the sound of chains, smoke and soot, shaved heads, branded faces, patchwork dresses, everything - cursed, defamated ... yes, a tenacious person! 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 prison - the figure is almost constant. Some came, others finished their sentences and left, others died. And what people were not here! 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 such crime that would not have had its representative here. The main foundation of the entire prison population was the exile-convict ranks of the civil (hard-labor, as the prisoners themselves naively pronounced). They were criminals, completely deprived of any rights of state, cut off chunks from society, with a branded face for eternal evidence of their rejection. They were sent to work for terms of eight to twelve years and then sent somewhere in the Siberian volosts to be settlers. There were criminals and a military category, not deprived of the rights of the state, as in general in Russian military prison companies. They were sent to short time; at the end of them, they turned back to the same place they came from, into soldiers, into Siberian linear battalions. Many of them almost immediately returned to prison for secondary important crimes, but not for short periods, but for twenty years. This category was called "always". But the "permanent ones" were still not completely stripped of all status rights. Finally, there was another special category of the most terrible criminals, mainly military ones, quite numerous. It was called "special department". Criminals were sent here from all over Rus'. They themselves considered themselves eternal and did not know the term of their work. They were required by law to double and triple their work lessons. They were kept at the prison until the opening of the most difficult hard labor in Siberia. "You've got a term, and we'll get along with hard labor," they said to other prisoners. I heard that this category has been destroyed. In addition, civil order was also destroyed at our fortress, and one general military prisoner company was opened. Of course, with this, the leadership also changed. I am describing, therefore, antiquity, things long past and past ...

It was a long time ago; I dream of all this now, 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; prepared to be trusted. 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, endure so many such sensations, about which, without actually experiencing them, I could not even have an approximate idea. For example, I could never imagine: what is terrible and painful in the fact that in all ten years of my penal servitude I will never, not for a single minute be alone? At work, always under escort, at home with two hundred comrades, and never, not once - alone! However, I still had to get used to this!

There were casual killers and killers by trade, robbers and chieftains of robbers. There were just Mazuriks and vagrants-industrialists on found money or in the Stolevskaya part. There were also those about whom it is difficult to decide: for what, it seems, they could come here? Meanwhile, everyone had his own story, vague and heavy, like the fumes from yesterday's hops. In general, they spoke little about their past, did not like to talk about it, and, apparently, tried not to think about the past. I even knew of them killers so cheerful, so never thinking that it was possible to bet on a bet, that their conscience never reproached them. But there were also dark days, almost always silent. In general, few people told about their lives, and curiosity was not in fashion, somehow not in the custom, not accepted. So perhaps, occasionally, someone will talk from idleness, while the other listens coolly and gloomily. No one here could surprise anyone. "We are a literate people!" - they often said, with some strange self-satisfaction. I remember how once one robber, drunk (it was sometimes possible to get drunk in hard labor), began to tell how he stabbed a five-year-old boy, how he first deceived him with a toy, led him somewhere into an empty shed and stabbed him there. The whole barracks, hitherto laughing at his jokes, screamed as one man, and the robber was forced to be silent; the barracks did not cry out of indignation, but like this, because it was not necessary to talk about it, because it is not customary to talk about it. By the way, I note that these people were really literate and not even figuratively, but literally. Probably more than half of them could read and write. In what other place, where the Russian people gather in large places, will you separate from them a bunch of two hundred and fifty people, of which half would be literate? I heard later 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 the people. But this is by no means a disadvantage. All categories differed in dress: some had half of the jacket dark brown, and the other gray, and on the pantaloons - one leg was gray and the other dark brown. Once, at work, a Kalashny girl who approached the prisoners looked at me for a long time and then suddenly burst out laughing. “Fu, how nice it is!” she shouted, “and there was not enough gray cloth, and there was not enough black cloth!” There were also those in whom the whole jacket was 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 a certain sharp commonality in this whole strange family; even the sharpest, most original personalities who reigned over others involuntarily, and they tried to get into the general tone of the whole prison. In general, I will say that all this people - with a few exceptions of inexhaustibly cheerful people who enjoyed universal contempt for this - were a gloomy, envious people, terribly vain, boastful, touchy and in the highest degree formalist. The ability to be surprised at nothing was the greatest virtue. Everyone was obsessed with how to behave outwardly. But often the most arrogant look with the speed of lightning was replaced by the most cowardly. Was somewhat true strong people; those were simple and did not grimace. But a strange thing: of these real strong people there were several vain to the last extreme, almost to the point of illness. In general, vanity, appearance were in the foreground. Most were corrupted and terribly mean. Gossip and gossip were incessant: it was hell, pitch darkness. But no one dared to rebel against the internal charters and accepted customs of the prison; everyone obeyed. There were characters that stood out sharply, obeyed with difficulty, with effort, but nevertheless obeyed. Those who came to the prison were too presumptuous, too jumped out of the measure in the wild, so that in the end they committed their crimes as if not of their own accord, 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 here they were immediately besieged, despite the fact that some, before arriving in prison, were the horror of entire villages and cities. Looking around, the newcomer soon noticed that he had landed in the wrong place, that there was no longer anyone to surprise, and he noticeably humbled himself and fell into the general tone. This general tone was composed from the outside of some special dignity, which was imbued with almost every inhabitant of the prison. As if, in fact, the title of convict, decided, was some kind of rank, and even an honorary one. No sign of shame or remorse! However, there was also some kind of outward humility, so to speak official, some kind of calm reasoning: "We lost people, - they said, - did not know how to live in freedom, now break the green street, check the ranks. "-" Did not obey your father and mother, now obey the drum skin. "-" I did not want to sew with gold, now beat the stones with a hammer. "All this it was often said, both in the form of moralizing and in the form of ordinary sayings and sayings, but never seriously. All these were only words. It is unlikely that at least one of them confessed internally to his lawlessness. Try whoever is not a convict to reproach a prisoner for his crime, scold him ( although, however, it is not in the Russian spirit to reproach a criminal) - there will be no end to swearing. And what masters of swearing they all were! They swore subtly, artistically. offensive word, how much offensive meaning, spirit, idea - and this is more subtle, more poisonous. Continuous quarrels between them further developed this science. All this people worked under duress, - consequently, they were idle, consequently, they became corrupted: if they had not been corrupted before, then they were corrupted in hard labor. They all gathered here not of their own free will; they were all strangers to each other.

"The devil took off three bast shoes before he gathered us in one heap!" - they said to themselves; and therefore gossip, intrigue, women's slander, envy, strife, anger were always in the foreground in this pitch-black life. No woman was able to be such a woman as some of these murderers. I repeat, there were strong people among them, characters who were accustomed all their lives to break and command, hardened, 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 reasonable and almost always obedient to their superiors - not out of principle obedience, not out of a state of duty, but as if under some kind of contract, recognizing mutual benefits. However, they were treated with caution. I remember how one of these prisoners, a fearless and resolute man, known to the authorities for his bestial inclinations, was called once for punishment for some crime. The day was summer, it's time for non-working. The staff officer, the nearest and immediate chief of the prison, came himself 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 brought them to the point that they trembled him. He was insanely strict, "rushed at people," as the convicts used to say. What they feared most in him was his penetrating, lynx-like gaze, from which nothing could be concealed. He saw without looking. Entering the prison, he already knew what was happening at the other end of it. The prisoners called him eight-eyed. His system was wrong. He only embittered already embittered people with his furious, evil deeds, and if there had not been a commandant over him, a noble and reasonable man, who sometimes moderated his wild antics, he would have caused great trouble with his administration. I don't understand how he could end well; he retired alive and well, although, however, he was put on trial.

The prisoner turned pale when he was called. As a rule, he silently and resolutely lay down under the rods, silently endured the punishment and got up after the punishment as disheveled, calmly and philosophically looking at the misfortune that had happened. However, he was always treated with caution. But this time he thought he was right for some reason. He turned pale and, quietly away from the escort, managed to stick a sharp English shoe knife into his sleeve. Knives and all kinds of sharp tools were terribly forbidden in prisons. The searches were frequent, unexpected and serious, the punishments were cruel; but since it is difficult to find it with a thief when he decides to hide something especially, and since knives and tools were a constant necessity in prison, they were not transferred despite the searches. And if they were selected, then new ones were immediately started. All hard labor rushed to the fence and with a sinking heart looked through the cracks of the fingers. Everyone knew that Petrov would not want to go under the rod this time, and that the major had come to an end. But at the most decisive moment, our major got into the droshky and left, entrusting the execution of the execution to another officer. “God himself saved!” the prisoners later said. As for Petrov, he calmly endured the punishment. His anger passed with the departure of the major. 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 endures for several years, humbles himself, endures the most severe punishments and suddenly breaks through on some little thing, on some trifle, almost for nothing. On another view, one might even call him crazy; yes they do.

I have already said that for several years I did not see between these people the slightest sign of repentance, not the slightest painful thought about my crime, and that most of one of them internally considers himself absolutely right. It is a fact. Of course, vanity, bad examples, youthfulness, false shame are largely the cause of this. On the other hand, who can say that he has tracked down the depth of these lost hearts and read in them the secret of the whole world? But after all, it was possible, at such a young age, to notice at least something, to catch, to catch in these hearts at least some trait that would testify to inner longing, to suffering. But it wasn't, it wasn't positive. Yes, crime seems to be incomprehensible from given, ready-made points of view, and its philosophy is somewhat more difficult than it is believed. Of course, prisons and a system of forced labor do not correct the criminal; they only punish him and ensure society from further attempts by the villain on his peace. In the criminal, prison and the most intensified hard labor develop only hatred, a thirst for forbidden pleasures, and terrible frivolity. But I am firmly convinced that the famous cell system also achieves only a false, deceptive, external goal. It sucks the life juice out of a person, energizes his soul, weakens it, frightens it, and then a morally withered mummy, she presents a half-mad man as a model of correction and repentance. Of course, a criminal who rebels against society hates it and almost always considers himself right and him guilty. In addition, he has already suffered punishment from him, and through this he almost considers himself cleansed, getting even. Finally, one can judge from such points of view that it will almost be necessary to justify the criminal himself. But, in spite of various points of view, everyone will agree that there are such crimes that always and everywhere, according to various laws, have been considered indisputable crimes since the beginning of the world and will be considered such as long as man remains a man. Only in prison have I heard stories of the most terrible, most unnatural deeds, of the most monstrous murders, told with the most uncontrollable, most childlike laughter. I especially remember one parricide. He was from the nobility, served and was with his sixty-year-old father something like prodigal son. His behavior was completely dissolute, he got into debt. His 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 found only a month later. The killer himself filed a statement with the police that his father had disappeared to no one knows where. He spent the 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 ditch for the drain of sewage, covered with boards. The body lay in this groove. It was dressed and removed, the gray-haired head was cut off, attached to the body, and the killer placed 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 I lived with him, he was in the most excellent, cheerful frame of mind. He was an eccentric, frivolous, unreasonable person in the highest degree, although not a fool at all. I never noticed any particular cruelty in him. The prisoners despised him not for a crime that was not even mentioned, but for stupidity, for not knowing how to behave. In conversations, he sometimes recalled his father. Once, speaking 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; there is some lack of constitution, some 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 all his 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! Chop off his head, head, head! .. "

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

State hard labor serf labor was not an occupation, but a duty: the prisoner worked out his lesson or served his legal hours of work and went to jail. Work was viewed with hatred. Without his special, his own occupation, to which he would be devoted with all his mind, with all his calculation, a person in prison could not live. And in what way could all this people, developed, well-advanced and desiring to live, forcibly brought here into one heap, forcibly torn off from society and from normal life, could get along here normally and correctly, by their own will and desire? From mere idleness here such criminal qualities would have developed in him, of which he had not had any idea before. Without labor and without legitimate, 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; V short night barely had time to sleep. But in winter, the prisoner, according to the situation, as soon as it gets 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. Actually work, occupation was not prohibited; but it was strictly forbidden to have tools with you in prison, and without this work was impossible. But they worked quietly, and it seems that in other cases the authorities did not look at it very closely. Many of the prisoners came to prison without knowing anything, but learned from others and then went free as good artisans. There were shoemakers, and shoemakers, and tailors, and carpenters, and locksmiths, and carvers, and gilders. There was one Jew, Isai Bumshtein, a jeweler, who is also a usurer. They all worked and got a penny. Work orders were obtained from the city. Money is minted freedom, and therefore for a person completely deprived of freedom, it is ten times more expensive. If they only jingle 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 hard labor one could even have wine. Pipes were strictly forbidden, but everyone smoked them. Money and tobacco saved from scurvy and other diseases. Work also saved from crime: without work, the prisoners would eat each other like spiders in a flask. Even though both work and money were forbidden. Often, sudden searches were made at night, everything forbidden was taken away, and no matter how the money was hidden, the detectives still sometimes came across. This is partly why they did not take care, but soon got drunk; that is why wine was also planted in prison. After each search, the culprit, in addition to losing his entire fortune, was usually punished painfully. But, after each search, shortcomings were immediately replenished, new things were immediately started, and everything went on in the old way. And the authorities knew about this, and the prisoners did not grumble at the punishment, although such a life was similar to the life of those who settled on Mount Vesuvius.

Who did not have skill, hunted in a different way. There were ways quite original. Others made a living, for example, by outbidding, and sometimes such things were sold that it would not have occurred to someone outside the walls of the prison not only to buy and sell them, but even to consider them things. But hard labor was very poor and extremely industrial. The last rag was valuable and was used in some business. Due to poverty, money in prison had a completely different price than in freedom. For a large and complex work paid pennies. Some were successful in usury. The prisoner, wound up and ruined, carried his last belongings to the usurer and received from him several copper money at terrible rates. If he did not redeem these things on time, then they were immediately and ruthlessly sold; usury prospered to such an extent that even state inspection things were accepted on bail, such as: state underwear, shoe goods, etc. - things that every prisoner needs at any moment. But with such pledges, another turn of affairs happened, which, however, was not entirely unexpected: the one who pledged and received the money immediately, without long conversations, went to the senior non-commissioned officer, the nearest head of the prison, reported on the pawn of viewing things, and they were immediately taken from moneylender back, even without a report to the higher authorities. It is curious that sometimes there was not even a quarrel: the usurer silently and gloomily returned what was due, and even seemed to himself expecting it to be so. Perhaps he could not but admit to himself that in the place of the pawnbroker he would have done the same. And therefore, if he cursed sometimes later, then without any malice, but only to clear his conscience.

In general, everyone stole from each other terribly. Almost everyone had their own chest with a lock for storing government items. It was allowed; but the chests did not save. I think you can imagine what skillful thieves were there. I have one prisoner, a person sincerely devoted to me (I say this without any exaggeration), stole the Bible, the only book that was allowed to have in hard labor; he himself confessed this to me the same day, not out of repentance, but pitying me, because I had been looking for her for a long time. There were kissers who sold wine and quickly enriched themselves. About this sale I will say someday especially; she's pretty awesome. There were many people in the prison who came for smuggling, and therefore it is not surprising how, with 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 a smuggler play a secondary role, stand in the background? In the meantime, this is exactly what happens. The smuggler works out of passion, by vocation. It's partly a poet. He risks everything, goes into terrible danger, cunning, inventing, extricating himself; sometimes even acts on some kind of inspiration. It is a passion as strong as a card game. I knew a prisoner in the prison, who was colossal in appearance, but so meek, quiet, humble that it was impossible to imagine how he ended up in the prison. He was so mild-mannered and accommodating that he did not quarrel with anyone throughout his stay in prison. But he was from the western border, he came for smuggling and, of course, could not resist and set off to carry wine. How many times he was punished for this, and how he was afraid of the rod! Yes, and the very carrying of wine brought him the most insignificant income. Only one entrepreneur enriched himself from wine. The eccentric loved art for art's sake. He was whiny like a woman, and how many times, after punishment, he swore and swore not to wear contraband. With courage, he sometimes overcame himself for a whole month, but in the end he still could not stand it ... Thanks to these personalities, the wine did not become scarce in prison.

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

Alexander Goryanchikov was sentenced to 10 years hard labor for the murder of his wife. The "Dead House", as he called the prison, housed about 250 prisoners. There was a special order here. Some tried to make money with their craft, but the authorities took away all the tools after searches. Many asked for charity. With the proceeds, you could buy tobacco or wine to somehow brighten up existence.

The hero often thought that someone was exiled for being cold-blooded and brutal murder, and the same term was given to a man who killed a man, trying to protect his daughter.

In the very first month, Alexander happened to see a completely different people. There were also smugglers, and robbers, and scammers, and Old Believers. Many boasted of their crimes, wishing for the glory of fearless criminals. Goryanchikov immediately decided that he would not go against his conscience, like many, trying to make his life easier. Alexander was 1 of 4 nobles who got here. Despite his contemptuous attitude towards himself, he did not want to grovel or complain, and wanted to prove that he was able to work.

Behind the barracks, he found a dog and often came to feed his new friend Sharik. Soon acquaintances with other prisoners began, however, he tried to avoid especially cruel murderers.

Before Christmas, the prisoners were taken to the bathhouse, which everyone was very happy about. On the holiday, the townspeople brought gifts to the prisoners, and the priest consecrated all the cells.

Having fallen ill and ended up in the hospital, Goryanchikov saw with his own eyes what corporal punishment practiced in prison leads to.

During the summer, the prisoners rebelled over prison food. After that, the food became a little better, but not for long.

Several years have passed. The hero had already come to terms with many things and was firmly convinced not to make any more past mistakes. Every day he became more humble and patient. On the last day, Goryanchikov was taken to a blacksmith, who removed the hated shackles from him. Ahead was waiting for freedom and a happy life.

A picture or drawing of Notes from the House of the Dead

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Part one

Introduction

In the remote regions of Siberia, among the steppes, mountains or impenetrable forests, one occasionally comes across small towns, 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 a good suburban village than in the city. They are usually very adequately equipped with police officers, assessors and all the rest of the subaltern rank. In general, in Siberia, despite the cold, it is extremely warm to serve. People live simple, illiberal; orders are old, strong, consecrated for centuries. Officials who rightly play the role of the Siberian nobility are either natives, hardened Siberians, or visitors from Russia, mostly from the capitals, seduced by the salary that is not set off, double runs and tempting 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 with anguish: why did they come to it? They impatiently serve 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 her. They are wrong: not only from official, but even from many points of view, one can be blessed in Siberia. The climate is excellent; there are many remarkably rich and hospitable merchants; many extremely sufficient foreigners. Young ladies bloom with roses and are moral to the last extreme. The game flies through the streets and stumbles upon the hunter itself. Champagne is drunk unnaturally much. Caviar is amazing. Harvest happens in other places fifteen times ... 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 these cheerful and self-satisfied towns, with the sweetest people, 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 exile convict for the murder of his wife, and, after the expiration of a ten-year term of hard labor determined for him by law, he humbly and inaudibly lived out his life in the town of K. as a settler. He was actually assigned to one suburban volost; but he lived in the city, having the opportunity to get at least some livelihood in it by teaching children. In Siberian cities one often comes across teachers from exiled settlers; they are not shy. They teach mainly the French language, which is so necessary in the field of life and which without them in the remote regions of Siberia would have 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 years who showed great promise. Alexander Petrovich gave them lessons four times a week, thirty silver kopecks a lesson. His appearance intrigued 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 way. If you spoke to him, he looked at you extremely intently and attentively, listened to your every word with strict politeness, as if pondering it, as if you had asked him a task with your questions 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 uncomfortable for some reason and, finally, you yourself rejoiced at the end of the conversation. I then asked Ivan Ivanovich about him and found out that Goryanchikov lives impeccably and morally, and that otherwise Ivan Ivanovich would not have invited him for his daughters, but that he is terribly unsociable, hiding from everyone, extremely learned, reads a lot, but speaks very little. and that in general it is quite difficult to talk to him. Others claimed that he was positively insane, although they found that in essence this was not such an important shortcoming, that many of the honorary members of the city were ready to show kindness to Alexander Petrovich in every possible way, that he could even be useful, write requests and so on. It was believed that he must have decent relatives in Russia, maybe not even the last people, but they knew that from the very exile he stubbornly cut off all relations with them - in a word, he hurt himself. In addition, everyone here knew his story, they knew that he had killed his wife in the first year of his marriage, killed him out of jealousy and himself denounced himself (which greatly facilitated his punishment). The same crimes are always looked upon as misfortunes and regretted. But, in spite of all this, the eccentric stubbornly avoided everyone and appeared in public only to give lessons.

I didn't pay much attention to him at first; but, I don't know why, he gradually began to interest me. There was something mysterious about him. There was no way to talk to him. Of course, he always answered my questions, and even with an air as if he considered this his first duty; but after his answers I somehow found it hard to question him longer; and on his face after such conversations there was always some kind of suffering and fatigue. I remember I was walking with him one fine summer evening from Ivan Ivanovich. It suddenly occurred to me to invite him over for a minute to smoke a cigarette. I cannot describe the horror expressed on his face; he was completely lost, began to mutter some incoherent words, and suddenly, looking angrily at me, rushed to run in the opposite direction. I was even surprised. Since then, when meeting with me, he looked at me as if with some kind of fear. But I did not let up; something drew me to him, and a month later, for no apparent reason, I myself went to Goryanchikov. Of course, I acted stupidly and indelicately. He lodged on the very edge of the city, with an old bourgeois woman who had a sick, consumptive daughter, and that illegitimate daughter, a child of ten years old, a pretty and cheerful girl. Alexander Petrovich was sitting with her and teaching her to read the minute I went in to see him. When he saw me, he became so confused, as if I had caught him in some kind of 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 glance, as if he suspected some special mysterious meaning in each of them. I guessed that he was suspicious to the point of madness. He looked at me with hatred, almost asking: “Will you be leaving here soon?” I talked to him about our town, current news; he remained 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 region, about its needs; he listened to me in silence and looked into my eyes so strangely that I finally felt ashamed of our conversation. However, I almost teased him with new books and magazines; they were in my hands, fresh from the post office, I offered them to him not yet cut. He gave them a greedy look, but immediately changed his mind and declined the offer, responding with lack of time. Finally, I said goodbye to him and, leaving him, I felt that some unbearable weight had been lifted from my heart. I was ashamed and it seemed extremely stupid to pester a person who, precisely, sets his main task - to hide as far as possible from the whole world. But the deed was done. I remember that I hardly noticed his books at all, and, therefore, it was unfairly said about him that he reads a lot. However, driving twice, very late at night, past his windows, I noticed a light in them. What did he do, sitting up until dawn? Did he write? And if so, what exactly?

Circumstances removed me from our town for three months. Returning home already in the winter, I learned that Alexander Petrovich died in the autumn, died in seclusion and never even called a doctor to him. The town has almost forgotten about him. His apartment was empty. I immediately got acquainted with the mistress of the deceased, intending to find out from her: what was her tenant especially doing and did he write anything? For two kopecks, she brought me a whole basket of papers left over from the deceased. The old woman confessed that she had already used up two notebooks. She was a gloomy and silent woman, from whom it was difficult to get anything worthwhile. She could tell me nothing particularly new about her tenant. According to her, he almost never did anything and for months did not open a book and did not take a pen in his hands; but whole nights he paced up and down the room and kept thinking something, and sometimes talking to himself; that he was very fond of and very fond of her granddaughter, Katya, especially since he found out that her name was Katya, and that on Catherine's day every time he went to someone to serve a memorial service. Guests could not stand; he went out from the yard only to teach children; he even looked askance at her, the old woman, when she, once a week, came at least a little to tidy up his room, and almost never said a single word to her for three whole years. I asked Katya: does she remember her teacher? She looked at me silently, turned to the wall and began to cry. So, this man could at least make someone love him.

I took his papers away and sorted through them all day. Three-quarters of these papers were empty, insignificant shreds or student exercises from copybooks. But then there was one notebook, rather voluminous, poorly written and incomplete, perhaps abandoned and forgotten by the author himself. It was a description, albeit incoherent, of a ten-year hard labor life, endured by Alexander Petrovich. In places this description was interrupted by some other story, some strange, terrible memories sketched unevenly, convulsively, as if under some kind of compulsion. I re-read these passages several times and almost convinced myself that they were written in madness. But the penitentiary notes - "Scenes from the House of the Dead," as he himself calls them somewhere in his manuscript, seemed to me not entirely uninteresting. A completely new world, hitherto unknown, the strangeness of other facts, some special notes about the perished people carried me away, and I read something with curiosity. Of course, I could be wrong. On trial I choose first two or three chapters; Let the public judge...

I. Dead house

Our prison stood on the edge of the fortress, at the very ramparts. It happened that you looked through the cracks of the fence at the light of day: would 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 sentries are walking back and forth along the rampart day and night, and you immediately think that whole years will pass, and you will just go to look through the cracks of the fence and you will see the same rampart, the same sentries, and the same little edge of the sky, not the sky that is above the prison, but another, distant, free sky. Imagine a large courtyard, two hundred paces long and one and a half hundred paces wide, all surrounded by a circle, in the form of an irregular hexagon, with a high back, that is, a fence of high pillars (palms), dug deep into the ground, firmly leaning against each other with ribs, fastened with transverse strips and pointed at the top: this is the outer fence of the prison. In one of the sides of the fence there are strong gates, 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, that world was imagined as some kind of unrealizable fairy tale. It had its own special world, unlike anything else; it had its own special laws, its own costumes, its own manners and customs, and a dead house alive, life like nowhere else, and special people. 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 stretch two long one-story log cabins. These are the barracks. Here live prisoners, placed by category. Then, in the depths of the fence, there is still the same log house: this is a kitchen, divided into two artels; further on there is a building where cellars, barns, sheds are placed under one roof. The middle of the yard is empty and makes up a flat, fairly large area. Prisoners line up here, check and roll call take place in the morning, at noon and in the evening, sometimes even several times a day, judging by the suspiciousness of the guards and their ability to quickly count. Around, between the buildings and the fence, there is still quite a large space. Here, on the backs of the buildings, some of the prisoners, more unsociable and gloomy in character, like to walk around after hours, closed from all eyes, and think their little thought. Meeting them during these walks, I liked to peer into their gloomy, branded faces and guess what they were thinking. There was one exile whose favorite pastime in his free time was counting pali. There were a thousand and a half of them, and he had them all in his account and in mind. Each fire meant a day for him; every day he counted one finger, and thus, by the remaining number of fingers not counted, he could clearly see how many days he still had to stay in prison before the deadline for work. He was sincerely glad when he finished any side of the hexagon. He had to wait for many more years; but in prison there was time to learn patience. I once saw a convict say goodbye to his comrades, who had been in hard labor for twenty years and was finally released. 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 a gray-haired old man, with a gloomy and sad face. Silently he went around all our six barracks. Entering each barracks, he prayed to the image and then bowed low, to the waist, to his comrades, asking them not to commemorate him dashingly. I also remember how once a prisoner, formerly a prosperous Siberian peasant, was once called to the gate towards evening. Six months before this, he received the news that his ex-wife was married, and he was deeply saddened. Now she herself drove up to the prison, called him and gave him alms. They talked for about two minutes, both burst into tears and said goodbye forever. I saw his face when he returned to the barracks... Yes, one could learn patience in this place.

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

There were only two hundred and fifty of us in prison - the figure is almost constant. Some came, others finished their sentences and left, others died. And what people were not here! 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 such crime that would not have had its representative here. The main basis of the entire prison population was the exile-hard labor ranks of the civil ( strongly hard labor, as the prisoners themselves naively pronounced). They were criminals, completely deprived of any rights of state, cut off chunks from society, with a branded face for eternal evidence of their rejection. They were sent to work for terms of eight to twelve years and then sent somewhere in the Siberian volosts to be settlers. There were criminals and a military category, not deprived of the rights of the state, as in general in Russian military prison companies. They were sent for short periods; at the end of them, they turned back to the same place they came from, into soldiers, into Siberian linear battalions. Many of them almost immediately returned back to prison for secondary important crimes, but not for a short time, but for twenty years. This category was called "always". But the "permanent ones" were still not completely deprived of all the rights of the state. Finally, there was another special category of the most terrible criminals, mainly military ones, quite numerous. It was called "special department". Criminals were sent here from all over Rus'. They themselves considered themselves eternal and did not know the term of their work. They were required by law to double and triple their work lessons. They were kept at the prison until the opening of the most difficult hard labor in Siberia. “You have a term, and we are long in hard labor,” they said to other prisoners. I heard later that this category was destroyed. In addition, civil order was also destroyed at our fortress, and one general military prisoner company was opened. Of course, with this, the leadership also changed. I am describing, therefore, antiquity, things long past and past ...

It was a long time ago; I dream of all this now, 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; prepared to be trusted. The mustachioed non-commissioned officer finally opened the doors to this strange house in which I had to stay for so many years, to endure so many such sensations, about which, without actually experiencing them, I could not even have an approximate idea. For example, I could never imagine: what is terrible and painful in the fact that in all ten years of my penal servitude I will never, not for a single minute be alone? At work, always under escort, at home with two hundred comrades, and never, never once! However, I still had to get used to this!

There were casual killers and killers by trade, robbers and chieftains of robbers. There were just Mazuriks and vagrants-industrialists on found money or in the Stolevskaya part. There were also those about whom it was difficult to decide: for what, it seems, they could come here? Meanwhile, everyone had his own story, vague and heavy, like the fumes from yesterday's hops. In general, they spoke little about their past, did not like to talk about it, and, apparently, tried not to think about the past. I even knew of them killers so cheerful, so never thinking that it was possible to bet on a bet, that their conscience never reproached them. But there were also gloomy faces, almost always silent. In general, few people told about their lives, and curiosity was not in fashion, somehow not in the custom, not accepted. So unless, occasionally, someone will talk from idleness, while the other listens coolly and gloomily. No one here could surprise anyone. “We are a literate people!” they often said with a sort of strange self-satisfaction. I remember how once one robber, drunk (it was sometimes possible to get drunk in hard labor), began to tell how he stabbed a five-year-old boy, how he first deceived him with a toy, led him somewhere into an empty barn, and stabbed him there. The whole barracks, hitherto laughing at his jokes, screamed as one man, and the robber was forced to be silent; the barracks screamed not from indignation, but because didn't have to talk about it speak; because talking about it not accepted. By the way, I note that these people were really literate and not even figuratively, but literally. Probably more than half of them could read and write. In what other place, where the Russian people gather in large masses, will you separate from them a bunch of two hundred and fifty people, of which half would be literate? I heard later 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 the people. But this is by no means a disadvantage. All the ranks differed in dress: some of them had half of the jacket dark brown and the other gray, as well as on pantaloons - one leg was gray and the other dark brown. Once, at work, a Kalashny girl who approached the prisoners looked at me for a long time and then suddenly burst out laughing. “Ugh, how nice! she shouted, “and the gray cloth was missing, and the black cloth was missing!” There were also those whose entire jacket was 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 a certain sharp commonality in this whole strange family; even the sharpest, most original personalities who reigned over others involuntarily, and they tried to get into the general tone of the whole prison. In general, I will say that all this people, with a few exceptions of inexhaustibly cheerful people who enjoyed universal contempt for this, were a people gloomy, envious, terribly vain, boastful, touchy and extremely formalist. The ability to be surprised at nothing was the greatest virtue. Everyone was obsessed with how to behave outwardly. But often the most arrogant look with the speed of lightning was replaced by the most cowardly. There were some truly strong people; those were simple and did not grimace. But a strange thing: of these real, strong people, there were several vain to the last extreme, almost to the point of illness. In general, vanity, appearance were in the foreground. Most were corrupted and terribly mean. Gossip and gossip were incessant: it was hell, pitch darkness. But no one dared to rebel against the internal charters and accepted customs of the prison; everyone obeyed. There were characters that stood out sharply, obeyed with difficulty, with effort, but nevertheless obeyed. Those who came to the prison were too presumptuous, too jumped out of the measure in the wild, so that in the end they committed their crimes as if not of their own accord, 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 in our country they were immediately besieged, despite the fact that some, before arriving in prison, were the horror of entire villages and cities. Looking around, the newcomer soon noticed that he had landed in the wrong place, that there was no longer anyone to surprise, and he imperceptibly resigned himself, and fell into the general tone. This general tone was made up from the outside of some special, personal dignity, which was imbued with almost every inhabitant of the prison. As if, in fact, the title of convict, decided, was some kind of rank, and even an honorary one. No sign of shame or remorse! However, there was also some outward humility, so to speak official, some kind of calm reasoning: “We are a lost people,” they said, “we didn’t know how to live in freedom, now break the green light, check the ranks.” - "You did not obey your father and mother, now obey the drum skin." “I didn’t want to sew with gold, now beat the stones with a hammer.” All this was often said, both in the form of moralizing and in the form of ordinary sayings and sayings, but never seriously. All these were just words. It is unlikely that at least one of them confessed inwardly his lawlessness. Try someone who is not a convict to reproach a prisoner for his crime, scold him (although, however, it is not in the Russian spirit to reproach a criminal) - there will be no end to curses. And what were they all masters of swearing! They swore subtly, artistically. Cursing was elevated to a science among them; they tried to take it not so much with an offensive word as with an offensive meaning, spirit, idea - and this is more subtle, more poisonous. Continuous quarrels between them further developed this science. All this people worked under duress, consequently they were idle, consequently corrupted: if they had not been corrupted before, then they were corrupted in penal servitude. They all gathered here not of their own free will; they were all strangers to each other.

“The devil took down three bast shoes before he gathered us together!” they said to themselves; and therefore gossip, intrigue, women's slander, envy, strife, anger were always in the foreground in this pitch-black life. No woman was able to be such a woman as some of these murderers. I repeat, there were strong people among them, characters who were accustomed all their lives to break and command, hardened, 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 reasonable and almost always obedient to their superiors - not from the principle of obedience , not from the consciousness of duties, 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 resolute man, known to the authorities for his bestial inclinations, was called once for punishment for some crime. The day was summer, it's time for non-working. The staff officer, the nearest and immediate chief of the prison, came himself 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 brought them to the point that they trembled at him. He was insanely strict, "rushed at people," as the convicts used to say. What they feared most in him was his penetrating, lynx-like gaze, from which nothing could be concealed. He saw without looking. Entering the prison, he already knew what was happening at the other end of it. The prisoners called him eight-eyed. His system was wrong. He only embittered already embittered people with his furious, evil deeds, and if there had not been a commandant over him, a noble and reasonable man, who sometimes moderated his wild antics, he would have caused great trouble with his administration. I don't understand how he could end well; he retired alive and well, although, however, he was put on trial.

The prisoner turned pale when he was called. As a rule, he silently and resolutely lay down under the rods, silently endured the punishment and got up after the punishment, as if disheveled, calmly and philosophically looking at the misfortune that had happened. However, he was always treated with caution. But this time he thought he was right for some reason. He turned pale and, quietly away from the escort, managed to stick a sharp English shoe knife into his sleeve. Knives and all kinds of sharp tools were terribly forbidden in prison. The searches were frequent, unexpected and serious, the punishments were cruel; but since it is difficult to find a thief when he decided to hide something especially, and since knives and tools were a constant necessity in prison, then, despite the searches, they were not transferred. And if they were selected, then new ones were immediately started. All hard labor rushed to the fence and with a sinking heart looked through the cracks of the fingers. Everyone knew that Petrov would not want to go under the rod this time, and that the major had come to an end. But at the most decisive moment, our major got into the 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 passed with the departure of the major. 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 endures for several years, humbles himself, endures the most severe punishments, and suddenly breaks through on some little thing, on some trifle, for almost nothing. On another view, one might even call him crazy; yes they do.

I have already said that for several years I did not see the slightest sign of repentance among these people, not the slightest painful thought about their crime, and that most of them inwardly consider themselves completely right. It is a fact. Of course, vanity, bad examples, youthfulness, false shame are largely the cause of this. On the other hand, who can say that he has tracked down the depths of these lost hearts and read in them what is hidden from the whole world? But after all, it was possible, at such a young age, to notice at least something, to catch, to catch in these hearts at least some trait that would testify to inner longing, to suffering. But it wasn't, it wasn't positive. Yes, crime, it seems, cannot be comprehended from given, ready-made points of view, and its philosophy is somewhat more difficult than it is believed. Of course, prisons and a system of forced labor do not correct the criminal; they only punish him and ensure society from further attempts by the villain on his peace. In the criminal, prison and the most intensified hard labor develop only hatred, a thirst for forbidden pleasures, and terrible frivolity. But I am firmly convinced that the famous cell system achieves only a false, deceptive, external goal. It sucks the life juice out of a person, energizes his soul, weakens it, frightens it, and then a morally withered mummy, she presents a half-mad man as a model of correction and repentance. Of course, a criminal who rebels against society hates it and almost always considers himself right and him guilty. In addition, he has already suffered punishment from him, and through this he almost considers himself cleansed, getting even. Finally, one can judge from such points of view that it will almost be necessary to justify the criminal himself. But, in spite of various points of view, everyone will agree that there are such crimes that always and everywhere, according to various laws, have been considered indisputable crimes since the beginning of the world and will be considered such as long as man remains a man. Only in prison have I heard stories of the most terrible, most unnatural deeds, of the most monstrous murders, told with the most uncontrollable, most childlike laughter. I especially remember one parricide. 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. His 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 found only a month later. The killer himself filed an announcement with the police that his father had disappeared to no one knows where. He spent the 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 ditch for the drain of sewage, covered with boards. The body lay in this groove. It was dressed and removed, the gray-haired head was cut off, attached to the body, and the killer placed 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 I lived with him, he was in the most excellent, cheerful frame of mind. He was an eccentric, frivolous, unreasonable person in the highest degree, although not a fool at all. I never noticed any particular cruelty in him. The prisoners despised him not for a crime that was not even mentioned, but for stupidity, for not knowing how to behave. In conversations, he sometimes recalled his father. Once, speaking to me about a healthy constitution, hereditary in their family, he added: “Here my parent

. ... break the green street, check the ranks. - The expression has a meaning: to pass through the formation of soldiers with gauntlets, receiving a number of blows on the bare back determined by the court.

Headquarters officer, closest and immediate chief of the prison... - It is known that the prototype of this officer was V. G. Krivtsov, the parade-major of the Omsk prison. In a letter to his brother dated February 22, 1854, Dostoevsky wrote: “Platz Major Krivtsov is a scoundrel, of which there are few, a petty barbarian, a quarrel, a drunkard, everything that can only be imagined disgusting.” Krivtsov was dismissed, and then put on trial for abuse.

. ... commandant, a noble and reasonable man ... - The commandant of the Omsk fortress was Colonel A. F. de Grave, according to the memoirs of the senior adjutant of the Omsk corps headquarters N. T. Cherevin, "the kindest and most worthy person."

Petrov. - In the documents of the Omsk prison there is a record that the prisoner Andrey Shalomentsev was punished "for resisting the parade-major Krivtsov while punishing him with rods and uttering the words that he would certainly do something to himself or slaughter Krivtsov." This prisoner, perhaps, was the prototype of Petrov, he came to hard labor "for breaking the epaulette from the company commander."

. …famous cell system… – Single cell system imprisonment. The question of organizing solitary prisons in Russia on the model of the London prison was put forward by Nicholas I himself.

. ... one parricide ... - The prototype of the nobleman-“paricide” was D.N. Ilyinsky, about whom seven volumes of his court case have come down to us. Outwardly, in terms of events and plot, this imaginary “paricide” is the prototype of Mitya Karamazov in latest novel Dostoevsky.

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

Although the work belongs to early work great writer, when he was still honing his prose skill, in the story one can already feel attempts at 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, using the method of analytical display, explores the impressions of people from being in prison, their physical and psychological condition, the influence of hard labor on the individual assessment and self-control of the heroes.

Analysis of the work

Interesting genre. In academic criticism, the genre is defined as a story in two parts. However, the author himself called it notes, that is, a genre close to memoir-epistolary. The author's memoirs are not reflections on his fate or events from own life. “Notes from the House of the Dead” is a documentary recreation of prison reality, which was the result of comprehension of 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 is a story within a story. The introduction speaks on behalf of the nameless 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 man of 35, is living his life in the small Siberian town of 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.

Once the narrator, passing by Alexander's house, saw the light and realized that the former prisoner was writing something. Somewhat 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 are 10 chapters, revealing the realities of camp life, the narration in which is conducted on behalf of Alexander Petrovich.

The system of characters in the work is quite diverse. However, the "system" in true meaning this term cannot be named. Characters appear and disappear outside plot structure and logic of the story. The heroes of the work are all those who surround the prisoner Goryanchikov: neighbors in the barracks, other prisoners, employees of the infirmary, guards, military men, residents of the city. Little by little, the narrator introduces the reader to some of the prisoners or camp staff, casually talking about them. There is evidence of the real existence of some characters whose names were somewhat changed by Dostoevsky.

The main character of the documentary work is Alexander Petrovich Goryanchikov, on whose behalf the narration is being conducted. 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, what does the reader really know about him? Goryanchikov was convicted of killing 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. Three months later, he dies. Dostoevsky does not focus maximum attention on the image of Alexander Petrovich, since there are two deeper and more important images in the story that can hardly be called heroes.

At the heart of the work is the image of a Russian camp for convicts. The author describes in detail the life and outskirts of the camp, its charter and routine of life in it. The narrator reflects on 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, protecting their dignity or the honor of their loved ones, for example, daughters or sisters. There are among the prisoners and objectionable modern author power elements, that is, political prisoners. Alexander Petrovich does not understand how they can be united all of them together and punished almost equally.

Dostoevsky gives a name to the image of the camp through Goryanchikov - Dead House. This allegorical image reveals the attitude of the author 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 life. And some don't even have it.

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

The main idea of ​​the story

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

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