Invalid diet was not provided specially; the cooks had to arrange for that as best they could, and make it as varied as was compatible with economy. During my time there was no severe illness, and special diet was only needed for those who were delicate or who suffered from some chronic ailment. The question who was to be given invalid fare was decided by Prybylyev[[87]]—one of our number who acted as our medical adviser, and who showed much skill in that capacity, though at home he had only been a veterinary surgeon. His fame in the art of healing became widespread, and afterwards when he was living out of prison he was consulted by many people, though there were three qualified physicians in the neighbourhood.
The helpers in the kitchen generally either knew nothing whatever of the culinary art or else preferred rough work. I fulfilled both conditions, and never made anything of actual cooking; my duties consisted in carrying water, chopping wood, taking water and charcoal for the samovar to the different rooms, apportioning the food in the wooden bowls out of which we ate, washing up, attending to the stoves, and cleaning the kitchen. Everybody working in the kitchen got rather larger portions of food than the others: that was an ancient custom.
Besides the head-man, who had charge of our larder, a special “bread-dispenser” was appointed, whose office it was to cut up the loaves and divide them among the different rooms; he had also to collect all scraps and crumbs that were left, and send them on to our comrades in the penal settlement,[[88]] where they were used to feed a horse and a couple of cows which belonged to the artèl.
The “poultry-keeper” was another of our officials. We kept in the yard a number of fowls which we cherished most carefully, and they were a great amusement to us, especially when a brood of chickens appeared or when the young cockerels showed fight.
Two other comrades were “bath-keepers”; had to see to the cleaning of the steam-bath, etc., and—like all our “officials”—were excused from kitchen work.
Finally, there was the very important post of librarian, which ranked next to that of stàrosta, and, like it, was decided by ballot, while the other dignitaries generally chose their own offices. In the course of years our library had attained quite imposing dimensions; it was composed partly of books brought by the inmates, partly of those sent to us as gifts. Nearly all branches of knowledge were represented in it, but particularly history, mathematics, and natural science; there were also books in almost every European language, including the classics. Two enormous cupboards in the corridor contained this treasure, but the greater part of it was usually in the hands of eager readers. The custodian had to look after the binding and mending of the books, in which he found many willing helpers. The tools and materials used were of the most primitive description; we had no pasteboard, for instance, and had to contrive some by pasting paper together. My travelling companion, Tchuikov, proved a first-rate librarian, not only invariably remembering what books each person had borrowed, but being always able to tell the whereabouts of any particular article or treatise in our files of newspapers. He was to the last always re-elected librarian.
Housework in the rooms was likewise done by strict rule; according to our turns we had to be on duty twice a day, seeing to the stoves, carrying the unsavoury wooden tubs in and out at night and in the morning, and so on. Our rooms were kept scrupulously clean and neat, and every fortnight there was a tremendous thorough cleaning; the boards were scrubbed with hot water, beds aired, tables and benches washed in the yard. We were very particular about proper ventilation, and observed all hygienic precautions most carefully; each man used the steam-bath once a week, and each washed his own clothes—not one of our easiest jobs.
Remembering that most of us were students fresh from the universities, or at any rate had hitherto had little practical acquaintance with domestic labour, and taking into account external circumstances generally and the scanty supply of materials, I think we might fairly pride ourselves on the practical and efficient organisation of our household affairs. Of course our system was liable to modification in details if necessary, but the principles on which it was based were fixed and unchangeable.
That our life must have had much in it irksome in the extreme and hard to bear is only too evident; living in such constant and close intimacy for years with the same set of people must necessarily lead to all kinds of petty rubs and differences; all the more because the forced inactivity was such a strain to the nerves of many. These were evils not in our power entirely to avert.
In the middle of each room hung a lamp with a dark shade—lamps that we had ourselves provided. Our table was narrow and long, so that a number of persons necessarily sat where the light was very poor, insufficient for work of any kind; and this, of course, was a misfortune for everyone, as those condemned to idleness disturbed the more advantageously placed who wanted to study. Even had there not been this drawback, serious concentration of mind would have been difficult in a small room wherein were congregated sixteen men of very different temperaments and inclinations. The needful quiet could rarely be obtained, for it would have been impossible to enforce silence during the long winter evenings; on the contrary, when one sat down to work at night tongues were loosened, and there began a constant hubbub of chatter and laughter. Anyone who was really bent on earnest study had to devise a special plan: he became what we called a “Sirius.” This meant that as soon as it became dusk he went to bed till midnight, and then, while the rest were asleep, got up and worked till dawn, when Sirius rises above the horizon; after which he lay down for another two hours’ rest. It needed an overwhelming desire for learning and considerable powers of endurance to become a “Sirius”; it was difficult to rest when the comrades were chattering and making a noise all around one, and when one had at last managed to get off to sleep, it seemed immediately time to wake up again. The dividing of the night’s rest is not an easy thing to stand; in spite of my efforts I could never accustom myself to it; yet there were some among us—though not many—who were numbered among the “Siriuses” all the time I was at Kara. Yatzèvitch, and two others of whom I shall have more to say, Kalyushny and Adrian Mihailov, kept to this mode of life during that whole period.