they had no proper idea where those villages were, how
long their banishment had lasted, or what it had been for. Yet compared with
the native Yakuts, even such men were intelligent higher beings. The Yakuts,
with their women and families, reached to depths of ugliness, filth, and
stupidity that A.J. had hardly believed possible for beings classifiable as
mankind. Their total vocabulary did not comprise more than a hundred or so
sounds, hardly to be called words. In addition to physical unpleasantness
(many were afflicted with a loathsome combination of syphilis and leprosy),
they were abominable thieves and liars; indeed, their only approach to virtue
was a species of dog- like attachment to anyone who had established himself
as their master. With a little of the most elementary organisation they could
have murdered all the exiles and plundered the huts, but they lacked both the
initiative and the virility. Life to them was but an unending struggle of
short summers and long winters, of snow and ice, blizzard and thaw, of
fishing in the icy pools and trapping small animals for flesh and fur, of
lust, disease, and occasional gluttony. They had never seen a tree, and knew
timber only as material providentially floated down to them on the
spring-time floods. Even when he had picked up their rudimentary language,
A.J. could not interest them by any talk of the outer they were incapable of
imagination, and the only thing that stirred them to limited excitement was
the kerosene-lamp, which, after some experimenting, he made to burn with
certain kinds of fish-oil.
Now especially he had cause to be grateful to Savanrog, the enterprising
and sympathetic prison-guard at the Gontcharnaya. For the luggage, packed
according to the latter’s instructions, included all kinds of things
that A.J. would never have thought of for himself, but which now were found
to be especially useful. With them, and with the miscellaneous articles he
had purchased in Irkutsk, he was not badly equipped. He had his twelve books,
chosen apparently at random from his shelves in Petersburg; the only one he
would have thought of selecting himself was a translation of Don
Quixote , but the others soon grew to be odd but no less faithful
companions. One was a school text-book in algebra, another an out-of-date
year- book; another was Dickens’s Great Expectations —of
course in Russian. Mr. Pumblechook and Joe Gargery became the friends of all
his waking and sleeping dreams, and before them alone he could relax and
smile.
Besides his few books his luggage contained several other things never
seen in Russkoe Yansk before. He had a watch and a clinical thermometer, a
few bottles and jars of simple medicines, and a pair of scissors; he had also
(he was sure) the only boot-trees north of the Arctic Circle. The police in
Petersburg, with typical inconsequence, had packed them inside a pair of
field- boots.
Oddly, perhaps, the time did not seem to pass very slowly. There was
always so much to be done—the mere toil of getting food, of repairing
and improving the hut, of keeping himself well clothed to withstand the
almost inconceivable cold. He did a little amateur doctoring whenever he
found anything he fancied he could cure amidst that nightmare of disease and
degradation. He made notes, without enthusiasm, yet somehow because he felt
he must, about the customs and language of the natives. He even tried to
teach the least stupid of the Russians to learn the Russian alphabet. And
whenever, during the long winter, or while day after day of blizzard kept him
a prisoner in the hut, he felt pangs of loneliness or disappointment piercing
to his soul, he would slip into a coma of insensibility and wait. The waiting
was not often for long. When, after the grey night of winter, the sunlight
showed again over the frozen earth, at first so very timidly, he welcomed it
with a smile that no one saw. Sometimes at midsummer he
long their banishment had lasted, or what it had been for. Yet compared with
the native Yakuts, even such men were intelligent higher beings. The Yakuts,
with their women and families, reached to depths of ugliness, filth, and
stupidity that A.J. had hardly believed possible for beings classifiable as
mankind. Their total vocabulary did not comprise more than a hundred or so
sounds, hardly to be called words. In addition to physical unpleasantness
(many were afflicted with a loathsome combination of syphilis and leprosy),
they were abominable thieves and liars; indeed, their only approach to virtue
was a species of dog- like attachment to anyone who had established himself
as their master. With a little of the most elementary organisation they could
have murdered all the exiles and plundered the huts, but they lacked both the
initiative and the virility. Life to them was but an unending struggle of
short summers and long winters, of snow and ice, blizzard and thaw, of
fishing in the icy pools and trapping small animals for flesh and fur, of
lust, disease, and occasional gluttony. They had never seen a tree, and knew
timber only as material providentially floated down to them on the
spring-time floods. Even when he had picked up their rudimentary language,
A.J. could not interest them by any talk of the outer they were incapable of
imagination, and the only thing that stirred them to limited excitement was
the kerosene-lamp, which, after some experimenting, he made to burn with
certain kinds of fish-oil.
Now especially he had cause to be grateful to Savanrog, the enterprising
and sympathetic prison-guard at the Gontcharnaya. For the luggage, packed
according to the latter’s instructions, included all kinds of things
that A.J. would never have thought of for himself, but which now were found
to be especially useful. With them, and with the miscellaneous articles he
had purchased in Irkutsk, he was not badly equipped. He had his twelve books,
chosen apparently at random from his shelves in Petersburg; the only one he
would have thought of selecting himself was a translation of Don
Quixote , but the others soon grew to be odd but no less faithful
companions. One was a school text-book in algebra, another an out-of-date
year- book; another was Dickens’s Great Expectations —of
course in Russian. Mr. Pumblechook and Joe Gargery became the friends of all
his waking and sleeping dreams, and before them alone he could relax and
smile.
Besides his few books his luggage contained several other things never
seen in Russkoe Yansk before. He had a watch and a clinical thermometer, a
few bottles and jars of simple medicines, and a pair of scissors; he had also
(he was sure) the only boot-trees north of the Arctic Circle. The police in
Petersburg, with typical inconsequence, had packed them inside a pair of
field- boots.
Oddly, perhaps, the time did not seem to pass very slowly. There was
always so much to be done—the mere toil of getting food, of repairing
and improving the hut, of keeping himself well clothed to withstand the
almost inconceivable cold. He did a little amateur doctoring whenever he
found anything he fancied he could cure amidst that nightmare of disease and
degradation. He made notes, without enthusiasm, yet somehow because he felt
he must, about the customs and language of the natives. He even tried to
teach the least stupid of the Russians to learn the Russian alphabet. And
whenever, during the long winter, or while day after day of blizzard kept him
a prisoner in the hut, he felt pangs of loneliness or disappointment piercing
to his soul, he would slip into a coma of insensibility and wait. The waiting
was not often for long. When, after the grey night of winter, the sunlight
showed again over the frozen earth, at first so very timidly, he welcomed it
with a smile that no one saw. Sometimes at midsummer he
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