No work was ever more difficult to accomplish. Siberia, that mysterious land which was then only mentioned with extreme caution, must be freely described. It was, too, a former political prisoner who now undertook to walk over these burning coals and brave this cruel press-censure. He was successful; and he made us realize what exquisite refinement of suffering a man of the upper class, thrown amid such surroundings, was capable of enduring.
He gives us the biography of such a man, who had been through many years of hard labor, the penalty of some small crime. This man, who is, in reality, no other than Dostoyevski himself, occupies himself in psychological studies of these unfortunates, aiming constantly to show the divine spark always existing even in the most degraded. Many of them relate the story of their lives to him; with some he seeks to know nothing of their past, but contents himself with describing their moral natures in his broad, vague manner, which is also common to all the great Russian writers. These portraits, with their indistinct outlines, melting as into the grayness of the early dawn, recall Henner’s portraits when compared with those of Ingres. The language, too, which Dostoyevski purposely employs, of a popular type, is marvellously well fitted for his purpose.
The greater part of these natures belong to a type of character which Dostoyevski seems peculiarly to enjoy analyzing; those natures which are subject to attacks of caprice, almost amounting to sudden or temporary insanity. In a romance of his, called “The Idiot,” he quotes an example of this kind, which he declares to be strictly true:—“Two peasants, of middle age and friends of long standing, arrived at an inn. Neither of them was at all intoxicated. They took their tea and ordered a bedroom, which they shared together. One of them had noticed that within the last few days his companion had worn a silver watch, which he never had seen him wear before. The man was no thief; he was an honest man, and, moreover, in very comfortable circumstances for a peasant. But this watch so struck his fancy that he conceived a most inordinate desire to possess it, which he could not repress. He seized a knife, and, as soon as his friend’s back was turned, he approached him noiselessly, raised his eyes to heaven, crossed himself, and devoutly murmured this prayer: ‘Lord, forgive me, through Jesus Christ!’ He then killed his friend with as much ease as he would a sheep, and took the watch.”
Those persons who conceive a desire, when on the top of a high tower, to throw themselves into the abyss below, he says are often of a mild, peaceable, and quite ordinary type. Some natures apparently enjoy the anticipation of the horror they can inspire in others, and, in a fit of desperation, seem to court punishment as a solution of their condition of mind. Sometimes in these attacks of madness is mingled a vein of asceticism. Dostoyevski introduces an instance of this kind in “Crime and Punishment,” which illustrates the strange sense which the Russian peasant attaches to the idea of punishment, sought for itself, for its propitiatory virtue:—
“This prisoner was quite different from all the rest. He was a little pale thin man, about 60 years of age. I was struck with his appearance the first time I saw him, there was so much calmness and repose about him. I particularly liked his eyes, which were clear and intelligent. I often talked with him, and have seldom met with so kindly a nature, so upright a soul. He was expiating in Siberia an unpardonable crime. In consequence of several conversions in his parish, a movement towards the old orthodoxy, the government, wishing to encourage these good tendencies, had an orthodox church built. This man, together with a few other fanatics, determined to ‘resist for his faith’s sake,’ and set fire to the church. The instigators of the crime were all condemned to hard labor in Siberia. He had been a very successful tradesman at the head of a flourishing business. Leaving his wife and children at home, he accepted his sentence with firmness, in his blindness considering his punishment as a ‘witness to his faith.’ He was mild and gentle as a child, and one could not but wonder how he could have committed such a deed. I often conversed with him on matters of faith. He yielded up none of his convictions, but never in argument betrayed the least hatred or resentment; nor did I ever discover in him the least indication of pride or braggadocio. In the prison he was universally respected, and did not show a trace of vanity on this account. The prisoners called him ‘our little uncle,’ and never disturbed him in any way. I could realize what sway he must have had over his companions in the faith.
“In spite of the apparent courage with which he bore his fate, a secret constant pain, which he tried to hide from all eyes, seemed at times to consume him. We slept in the same dormitory. I waked one morning at four o’clock, and heard what sounded like stifled sobbing. The old man was sitting on the porcelain stove reading in a manuscript prayer-book. He was weeping bitterly, and I heard him murmur from time to time: ‘O Lord! do not forsake me! Lord, give me strength! My little children, my dearest little ones, we shall never see each other again!’ I felt such inexpressible pity for him!”
I must also translate a terrible piece of realism, the death of Mikhailof: “I knew him but slightly; he was a young man about twenty-five years of age, tall, slender, and had a remarkably fine form. He belonged to the section in which the worst criminals were placed, and was always extremely reticent and seemed very sad and depressed. He had literally wasted away in prison. I remember that his eyes were very fine, and I know not why his image so often comes before me. He died in the afternoon of a fine, clear, frosty day. I remember how the sun shone obliquely through our greenish window-panes, thickly covered with frost. The bright shaft of sunlight shone directly upon this poor unfortunate, as he lay dying. Though he might have been unconscious, he had a hard struggle, the death agony lasting many hours. He had recognized no one since morning. We tried to relieve his suffering, which evidently was intense; he breathed with great difficulty, with a rattling sound, and his chest labored heavily. He threw off all his coverings and tore his shirt, as if the weight of it was insupportable. We went to his aid and took the shirt off. That emaciated body was a terrible sight, the legs and arms wasted to the bone, every rib visible like those of a skeleton. Only his chains and a little wooden cross remained upon him. His wasted feet might almost have escaped through the rings of the fetters.
“For a half-hour before his death all sounds ceased in our dormitory, and no one spoke above a whisper, and all moved as noiselessly as possible. Finally his hand, wavering and uncertain, sought the little cross, and tried to tear it off, as if even that was too heavy a weight and was stifling him. They took it away, and ten minutes after he expired. They went to inform the guard, who came and looked indifferently upon the corpse, then went to call the health officer, who came immediately, approached the dead man with a rapid step which resounded in the silent chamber, and with a professional air of indifference, assumed for the occasion, felt his pulse, made a significant gesture as if to say that all was over, and went out. One of the prisoners suggested that the eyes should be closed, which was done by one of the others, who also, seeing the cross lying on the pillow, took it up, looked at it, and put it around Mikhailof’s neck; then he crossed himself. The face was already growing rigid, the mouth was half open, showing the handsome white teeth under the thin lips, which closely adhered to the gums. Finally, the second officer of the guard appeared in full uniform and helmet, followed by two soldiers. He slowly advanced, looking hesitatingly at the solemn circle of prisoners standing about him. When he drew near the body, he stopped short as if nailed to the spot. The spectacle of this wasted, naked form in irons evidently shocked him. He unfastened his helmet, took it off, which no one expected of him, and crossed himself reverentially. He was a gray-haired veteran officer, and a severe disciplinarian. One of the soldiers with him seemed much affected, and, pointing to the corpse, murmured as he left: ‘He, too, once had a mother!’ These words, I remember, shot through me like an arrow…. They carried away the corpse, with the camp bed it lay upon; the straw rustled, the chains dragged clanking against the floor, breaking the general silence. We heard the second officer in the corridor sending some one for the blacksmith. The corpse must be unfettered….”
This gives an example of Dostoyevski’s method, showing his persistence in giving all the minutiæ of every action. He shows us, how, sometimes, among these tragic scenes, kind souls come to bring consolation to the exiles, as in the case of a widow who came daily to bring little gifts or a bit of news, or at least to smile upon the wretched creatures. “She could give but little, for she was very poor; but we prisoners felt that we had at least, close by the walls of our prison, one being wholly devoted to us,—and that was something.”
On opening this book, the key-note from the very beginning has a tone so melancholy, so harrowing, that you wonder how long the author can continue in this vein, and how he can ever manage the gradation into another. But he is successful in this, as those will see who have the courage to go on as far as the chapter on corporal punishments, and the description of the hospital, to which the prisoners afterwards come to recover from the effects of these chastisements. It is impossible to conceive of sufferings more horrible than these, or more graphically portrayed.