The House of the Dead

ease. Though they knew they were perfectly right about the complaint, as they were proved to be in the sequel, yet they felt rather as though they had cut themselves off from their mates, as though they had betrayed their comrades to the major. Another man who was in the kitchen was Yolkin, the Siberian peasant condemned for false coinage who had carried off Kulikov’s practice as a vet in the town. The Starodubovsky Old Believer was there too. The cooks to a man had remained in the kitchen, probably convinced that they constituted part of the prison management, and consequently that it was not seemly for them to act in opposition to it.

“Almost all have gone out except these, though,” I observed hesitatingly to M.

“What, is it true?” muttered B.

“We should have run a hundred times more risk than they do if we went out, and why should we? Je haïs ces brigands. And can you imagine for a moment that their complaint will have any effect? Why should we meddle in this foolishness?”

“Nothing will come of it,” put in another convict, a stubborn and exasperated old man. Almazov who was present made haste to agree with him, saying:

“Except that fifty of them will get a flogging nothing will come of it.”

“The major has come!” shouted someone, and all rushed eagerly to the windows.

The major flew up, spiteful and infuriated, flushed and wearing spectacles. Mutely but resolutely he went up to the front row. On such occasions he was really bold and never lost his presence of mind. Besides, he was almost always half drunk. Even his greasy forage cap with the orange band on it, and his dirty silver epaulettes had a sinister aspect at this moment. He was followed by Dyatlov, the clerk, a very important person, who in reality governed everyone in the prison, and even had an influence over the major; he was a sly man, very cunning, but not a bad fellow. The convicts liked him. He was followed by our sergeant, who had evidently just come in for a fearful wigging, and was expecting something ten times worse later on. Behind him were three or four guards, not more. The convicts, who had been standing with their caps off ever since they had sent the sergeant to fetch the major, now all drew themselves up, and pulled themselves together; every man of them shifted from one leg to the other and then they all stood mute and rigid, waiting for the first word or rather for the first shout of the major.

It followed promptly; at his second word the major bawled at the top of his voice, almost squealed in fact; he was in a violent fury. From the windows we could see him running along the front rank, rushing up to the men, questioning them. But it was too far off for us to hear his questions or the convict’s replies. We could only hear him shouting shrilly:

“Mutineers!⁠ ⁠… Beating!⁠ ⁠… Ringleaders! You are a ringleader? You are a ringleader?” he shouted, pouncing on somebody.

No answer was audible. But a minute later we saw a convict leave the general body and walk towards the guardhouse. A minute later another followed him in the same direction, then a third.

“All under arrest! I’ll teach you! Whom have you got there in the kitchen?” he squealed seeing us at the open windows. “All come here! Drive them here at once!”

The clerk Dyatlov came to us in the kitchen. In the kitchen he was told that we had no complaint to make. He returned at once and reported to the major.

“Ah, they haven’t!” he repeated two notes lower, obviously relieved. “No matter, send them all here!”

We went out. I felt rather ashamed of coming out. And indeed we all walked with hanging heads.

“Ah, Prokofyev! Yolkin, too. Is that you, Almazov? Stand here, stand here all together,” the major said to us in a soft but hurried voice, looking at us amicably. “M., you are here, too⁠ ⁠… Make a list of them, Dyatlov! Dyatlov, make a list at once of those who are satisfied and those who are dissatisfied; every one of them and bring the list to me. I’ll put you all⁠ ⁠… under arrest. I’ll teach you, you rascals!”

The list had an effect.

“We are satisfied!” a grating voice said suddenly from the crowd of the dissatisfied, but he spoke rather hesitatingly.

“Ah, you are satisfied! Who’s satisfied? Those who are satisfied, come forward.”

“We are satisfied, we are satisfied,” several voices chimed in.

“Satisfied? Men, you’ve been led astray. So there have been agitators working upon you. So much the worse for them!”

“Good God, what’s happening!” said a voice in the crowd.

“Who’s that, who shouted?” roared the major, rushing in the direction from which the voice came. “Is that you, Rastorguyev? You shouted? To the guardhouse!”

Rastorguyev, a tall, puffy-faced young fellow, stepped out and walked at once towards the guardhouse. It was not he who had spoken, but, as he had been pitched upon, he went.

“You don’t know when you are well off!” the major howled after him. “Ah, you fat-face! I’ll find you all out! Those who are satisfied, step forward!”

“We are satisfied, your honour!” murmured some dozens of gloomy voices; the rest remained stubbornly silent. But that was enough for the major. It was evidently to his advantage to end the scene as quickly as possible, and to end it somehow pacifically.

“Ah, now all are satisfied!” he said hurriedly. “I saw that⁠ ⁠… I knew it. It’s the work of agitators! There must be agitators among them!” he went on, addressing Dyatlov. “We must go into that more carefully. But now⁠ ⁠… now it’s time for work. Beat the drum!”

He was present himself at the telling off of convicts to their different tasks. The convicts dispersed in mournful silence to their work, glad at any rate to be out of his sight as soon as possible. But after they had gone, the major at