He will condemn himself for his crime more mercilessly, more pitilessly than the most terrible law. And here next to him is another man, who will not think even once of the murder he has committed all the while he is in prison. He even considers himself in the right. And there are some who commit murders on purpose, so as to get to hard labor and thus rid themselves of an even harder life in freedom. There he lived in the last degree of humiliation, never ate his fill, and worked for his entrepreneur from morning till night; at hard labor the work is easier than at home, there is more than enough bread, and such as he never saw before; on holidays there is beef, there are alms, there is the possibility of earning a kopeck or two. And the company? Crafty, cunning, all-knowing folk. And so he looks at his comrades with respectful amazement; he has never seen the like; he considers them the best society there could be. Can the punishment of these two be felt in the same way? But, anyhow, why occupy oneself with insoluble problems? There’s the drum, it’s time for the barracks.

IV

First Impressions

The last head count began. After this head count, the barracks were locked, each with its own padlock, and the prisoners remained shut in till daybreak.

The head count was carried out by a sergeant and two soldiers. Sometimes the prisoners were lined up in the yard for it and the guards officer would come. But most often the whole ceremony took place informally in the barracks. So it was this time. The counters frequently made mistakes, counted wrong, left and then came back. At last the poor guards came up with the desired figure and locked the barrack. It held some thirty prisoners packed rather tightly on the bunks. It was too early to sleep. Each of them obviously had to busy himself with something.

Of authorities, only the one invalid I mentioned earlier was left in the barrack. In each barrack there was also a senior prisoner, appointed by the major himself—for good conduct, of course. It very often happened that the senior prisoners in their turn were caught at some serious mischief; then they were whipped, immediately demoted to the juniors, and replaced by others. The senior in our barrack turned out to be Akim Akimych, who, to my surprise, not infrequently shouted at the prisoners. The prisoners usually responded to him with mockery. The invalid was smarter than he and did not interfere in anything, and if he ever did happen to open his mouth, it was more out of propriety, for the sake of a clear conscience. He sat silently on his cot, mending his boot. The prisoners paid almost no attention to him.

On that first day of my prison life I made an observation and later became convinced that it was right. Namely, that all the non-prisoners, whoever they might be, from those directly involved with the prisoners, such as convoy soldiers, guards, down to everyone in general who had anything to do with prison life, had a somehow exaggerated view of the prisoners. As if they were nervously expecting every moment that a prisoner might throw himself at them with a knife. But the most remarkable thing was that the prisoners themselves were aware that they were feared, and it obviously gave them a sort of bravado. Yet for prisoners the best superior is precisely one who is not afraid of them. And in general, despite the bravado, prisoners themselves like it much better when they are trusted. They can even be won over that way.