Back in Paris, I also learn that Soviet forces have massed on the Polish border and are threatening to invade. War, too, between Iraq and Iran, undoubtedly over the oil route.
Late summer, the sky is blue, transparent, God may be looking at me.
The Life Sentence
A Missing Passage from “The House of the Dead”
Fyodor Dostoevsky
—Translated from Russian by Peter Constantine
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY’S Notes from the House of the Dead is a major work of psychological insight, a rich tapestry of the inner life struggles of a procession of characters banished to the harsh conditions of a nineteenth-century Siberian prison camp. Fiction and memoir are interwoven, insofar as Dostoevsky himself experienced life in such a prison camp from 1850 to 1854.
“The Life Sentence” was not incorporated in the published text of Notes from the House of the Dead. It was found among the papers of Alexander Milyukov, a friend of the Dostoevsky family, and was first published in the complete works of Dostoevsky, Polnoe Sobranie Sochinenii (Leningrad, 1972). It appears here for the first time in English.
IN OUR PRISON barracks, Fyodor Mikhailovitch said, there was a young prisoner, a passive, quiet and uncommunicative man. I kept my distance from him for a long time—I didn’t know how long he had been at hard labor, or why he had landed in the special section reserved for men convicted of the worst crimes. He had a good reputation with the prison authorities because of his exemplary conduct, and the convicts liked him for his gentleness and servility. We gradually became closer, and one day, as we were returning from labor, he told me the story behind his exile. He had been a serf in a province near Moscow, and this is how he ended up in Siberia.
“Our village, Fyodor Mikhailovitch,” he began, “is big and prosperous. Our squire was a widower, not yet old—I wouldn’t say he was evil, but befuddled and debauched with the female sex I would say. We had no love for him. Anyway, I decided to get married: I needed a woman to run my house, and there was a girl I loved. We came to an understanding, we got permission from the manor, and they married us. And as me and my bride left the church and were going home, we went by the squire’s estate, and suddenly six or seven of his men came at us, grabbed my wife and dragged her off to the manor. I ran after them, but some men threw themselves on me. I yelled, I fought, but they tied my hands with straps and I couldn’t break loose. Well, so they made off with my wife and dragged me to my hut, and threw me all tied up onto my sleeping bench, with two guards outside. I tossed all night, and late next morning they brought my bride back and untied me. I got up, and she threw herself on the table, crying with misery. ‘Don’t torment yourself!’ I tell her. ‘It is not your fault that you fell into sin!’ From that day on I kept thinking and thinking how I could repay the squire for fondling my wife. I sharpened my ax in the shed, so sharp you could slice bread with it, and carried it hidden so no one would see it. It might well be that the other peasants saw me hanging around the estate and realized I was up to no good, but no one cared. No one had much love for our squire. But for a long time I couldn’t get at him—he was with guests or with his lackeys. It was very hard. And I felt a stone in my heart that I couldn’t pay him back for his evil deed. The bitterest thing of all was seeing my wife’s misery. Well, so one evening I was walking behind the manor garden. I look—and there’s the squire, walking down the path all alone, not seeing me. The garden fence was a low balustrade with a trellis. I let the squire walk ahead a ways, and then jumped over it. I pulled out my ax, stepped on the grass so he wouldn’t hear me and crept up behind him. I got really close, and grabbed the ax with both hands. I wanted the squire to see who had come for his blood, so I coughed on purpose. He turned, saw it was me, and I threw myself at him, bringing the ax down on his head … Wham! Here you go! This is for having loved her! Brains and blood came spattering out. He fell without a gasp. And I went to the police station and declared that this and that had happened. So they grabbed me and beat me and sent me here with a twelve-year sentence.”
“But you’re in the special section for convicts with life sentences!”
“The life sentence at hard labor, Fyodor Mikhailovitch, is for a completely different matter!”
“What was it?”
“I finished off the captain!”
“What captain?”
“The one in charge of the chain gang. It was clearly his fate. I was marching in a chain gang—that was the summer after I had settled things with the squire. It was in the province of Perm. The chain gang was huge. The day was blistering hot and the march went on and on. We were collapsing in the baking sun, we were worn to death. The soldiers in the convoy were barely moving their feet, while we, who weren’t used to the chains, suffered terribly. Not everyone was strong—some were old, others hadn’t had a crust of bread in their mouths all day. On this march no villagers came to the roadside to give us even a bite to eat. All we got was some water once or twice. How we made it the Lord only knows. So when we arrived at one of the camps some of the men just fell to the ground. I can’t say I was finished, just really hungry. On forced marches in those days the chain gangs were fed. But here, we look and nothing’s set up yet. And the prisoners start saying: ‘What! They’re not going to feed us? We have no more strength, we’re skin and bones! We’re sitting here, we’re lying here, and no one’s even throwing us a piece of food!’ My feelings were hurt. I was hungry, but felt even worse for the old and the sick. ‘Will we be getting some food soon?’ we ask the soldiers.—‘You have to wait!’ they tell us. ‘We haven’t got the order yet.’ So tell me, Fyodor Mikhailovitch, was this fair? A clerk was walking through the barracks and I said to him: ‘Why don’t they give us food?’—‘You can wait!’ he answers. ‘You won’t die!’—‘But look,’ I tell him. ‘Everyone is at the end of their rope, marching all day in this heat! Give us something to eat now!’—‘We can’t!’ he says. ‘The captain has guests, and they’re having breakfast. When they’re finished, I guess he’ll give the order!’—‘Will that be soon?’—‘When he’s eaten his fill and picked his teeth, then he’ll come out!’—‘What’s this?’ I say. ‘He’s resting, and we’re dying like dogs?’—‘Hey! How dare you raise your voice to me!’—‘I’m not raising my voice to you I answer, ‘I’m just saying that we have sick men who can barely move!’—‘You’re trying to start a brawl! I’m going to tell the captain!’—‘I’m not trying to start a brawl!’ I tell him. ‘And you can report to the captain whatever you want!’ Some of the prisoners began complaining and someone started swearing at the officers. The clerk flew into a rage. ‘You’re a troublemaker!’ he shouts at me. ‘The captain will take care of you!’ He left. I was seized by a fury that I cannot describe. I knew this would end badly. I had a pocket knife for which I had traded my oVeralls with a convict in Nizhni Novgorod, and I don’t remember now how I slid it from under my shirt into my sleeve. I look up, and I see an officer come out of the barracks, his mug all red, his eyes looking like they’re about to pop—he must have been drinking. And that damn clerk behind him. ‘Where’s the troublemaker!’ the captain shouted, and came right at me. ‘So you’re the one making trouble?’—‘No, sir, I’m not making trouble. It’s just that I’m worried for the others—do we have to starve to death? Neither the Lord nor the Czar has decreed it should be so.’ He flies at me, shouting: ‘How dare you, you nobody! I’ll show you what’s decreed for scum like you! Call the soldiers!’ And I have my pocket knife in my sleeve and hold it ready. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson!’ he shouts.—‘Sir, you’ll teach me? There’s nothing you can teach me! I don’t need your teaching to know myself!’ I told him that to spite him, to get him even angrier so he would come closer. He won’t be able to hold back, I think to myself. Well, I was right. He clenched his fists and ran at me. I jumped and whammed my knife into his belly and slashed it right up to his throat. He keeled over like a log. That was that. His unfairness towards the convicts had re
ally maddened me. It was for this captain, Fyodor Mikhailovitch, that I ended up in this special section for life.”
Antonia Pozzi, 1932
Twelve Poems
Antonia Pozzi
—Translated from Italian with an afterword by Lawrence Venuti
LYING
Now the gentle
annihilation
swimming backwards
sun in the face—brain
steeped in red
through tight lids—.
That evening in bed
the same
position the dreamy
bright pupils
dilated drink
the blanc
soul
of night.
—Santa Margherita, 19 June 1929
OMEN
The last light fades
on the poplars’
clasped hands—
the shadow
shivers with cold and
waiting
behind us
slipped around our arms
making
us
more alone—
The last light falls
on linden branches—
in the sky
the poplars’
fingers
ringed with stars—
Something drops
from above
toward the shivering shadow—
something cuts the dark
a gleam—may be
something not yet—
someone who will be
tomorrow—
a creature
of our grief—
—Milano, 15 November 1930
SWOON
November didn’t
return:
but at noon
the sparrows
cry
on the soaked branches
as if wishing
night
Somebody forgot
to fix
the weights
in the clock:
the bird says
cuckoo
just twice
stops on its porch
to watch
the pendulum
jerks
to a halt.
Now
I can’t tell
time.
—21 February 1935
ABSENCE
I sought your face
behind gates.
But the house
was anchored in a gulf
of silences
the curtains fell
limp between
empty arcades,
dead sails.
Offshore
the lake
fled
debouched
from the unreal mountains,
gray-green waves
on the stairs
withdrawing
from the stone.
In a slow drift
beneath the rapt
sky,
the boat
vast
and pale:
we eyed
the red circle growing
on the shore
azaleas,
mute clusters.
—Monate, 5 May 1935
FLIGHT
The narcissus leans
a fresh face
into the breeze.
Child’s hands
abrupt
hedges
grasp at gates.
Breath-blown
in my run:
glimpses of things
rubbished—useless
bridges—deafening
abyss
devouring me.
—10 May 1935
THE HEIGHTS
Wisteria bloomed
slowly
over us.
The last boat
crossed the mountain lake.
At dusk
I gathered purple petals
in my apron
when the gate banged
the way back plunged
into darkness.
—11 May 1935
OCTOBER
This nocturne
liquid
over the pebbles
collapse
of a dead season.
Languorous
coal fires in the mountains
and a weak gleam
freezes
in the fountain.
Dawn eyes
the last
flocks
descending
dogs, horses
a faint dust
over the ridge
discomposed.
—Pastuio, 30 September 1935
THAW
Now the voided
road
suspends us
from its lights:
borne by airy graves,
while words
avoid
distant waters
down below.
Tomorrow
we will reach a sluice:
melting
wary
of cracks,
snow.
Easing
down my face
regains
its warmth:
when
the soft soil flowers
in me
the grace
of your lips.
—10 December 1935
ENVOI
The crags rose
winged
with terror
on the sleigh’s
great flight:
and the red sun sank
in a horse’s shadow
over the ridge
of fir trees.
Then faint
guitar chords,
choruses
soft, broken
beyond the peaks
raced with the sunset
over the hollow
tinkling canter.
At evening
the last pink hand—
a stone—
beckoned above
saluting:
and pale
in the violet air
prayed to the stars.
Slowly in the night
the rivers
away.
—Misurina, 11 January 1936
MAY DEATH WISH
A mountain
cloister
of leaves
redeems
the laughter
of blue flowers.
Stop, pale
sun
nail
to the ground
these temples
downed
in moss
translate the weight
to eternal
vernal.
—May 1936
SEPTEMBER EVENING
Snow mountain air
fills the village
with bells
flings open doors
to the gaunt
late
hay:
when the children
hang
on the carts
brushing the warm
paths in the valley
transparencies
of bright
houses.
Then the winge
reaches me
from the shadow
gypsies
camped by the roads.
—Pasturo, 13 September 1937
PAN
A patch of sun
danced with me
tepid on the brow,
the wind still rustling
the farthest leaves.
He came later
alone: the foam
of these waves
blood
and a hammering of bells in the dark
deep in the dark
through violent whirlpools
through silent red jabs—
at the ripping.
Afte
rward
the ants stitched
a living black thread
in the grass
near the hair
and on my—
on your
dewy face
a butterfly
parted
its wings.
—27 February 1938
***
AFTERWORD
VERSIONS OF ANTONIA
Antonia Pozzi was born in Milan in 1912. During the 1930s she was the friend of leading Italian poets and critics, philosophers and publishers. She wrote a thesis on Flaubert, as well as an essay on Aldous Huxley. In 1937 she began teaching, but her fragile health deteriorated. In December of 1938 her body was found on the outskirts of the city, in the snow. She had drugged herself and contracted pneumonia. She died the next day. The official report listed the cause of death as “a sudden attack.” Among her papers was found a set of notebooks that contained over three hundred poems. Written between 1929 and 1938, the poems are what she called “my secret diary.” Their existence was known only to her closest childhood friends, particularly two women to whom she sent manuscript copies.