Part 30 (2/2)

”To whom? Why, the 'spector (_Inspector_) who's coming.”

”What 'spector?”

”It's true, pals, a 'spector is coming soon,” said a youthful convict, who had got some sort of knowledge, had read the ”d.u.c.h.esse de la Valliere,” or some book of that sort, and who had been Quartermaster in a regiment; a bit of a wag, whom, as a man of information, the convicts held in a sort of respect. Without paying the least attention to the exciting debate, he goes straight to the cook, and asks him for some liver. Our cooks often deal in victuals of that kind; they used to buy a whole liver, cut it in pieces, and sell it to the other convicts.

”Two kopecks' worth, or four?” asks cook.

”A four-kopeck cut; I'll eat, the others shall look on and long,” says this convict. ”Yes, pals, a general, a real general, is coming from Petersburg to 'spect all Siberia; it's so, heard it at the Governor's place.”

This news produces an extraordinary effect. For a quarter of an hour they ask each other who this General can be? what's his t.i.tle? whether his grade is higher than that of the Generals of our town? The convicts delight in discussing ranks and degrees, in finding out who's at the head of things, who can make the other officials crook their backs, and to whom he crooks his own; so they get up an argument and quarrel about their Generals, and rude words fly about, all in honour of these high officers--fights, too, sometimes. What interest can _they_ possibly have in it? When one hears convicts speaking of Generals and high officials one gets a measure of their intelligence as they were while still in the world before the prison days. It cannot be concealed that among our people, even in much higher circles, talk about generals and high officials is looked upon as the most serious and refined conversation.

”Well, you see, they _have_ sent our Major to the right about, don't ye?” observes Kva.s.soff, a little, rubicund, choleric, small-brained fellow, the same who had announced the supersession of the Major.

”We'll just grease their palm for them,” this, in staccato tones from the morose old fellow in the corner who had finished his sour cabbage soup.

”I should think he would grease their palms, by Jove,” says another; ”he has stolen money enough, the brigand. And, only think, he was only a regimental Major before he came here. He's feathered his nest. Why, a little while ago he was engaged to the head priest's daughter.”

”But he didn't get married; they turned him off, and that shows he's poor. A pretty sort of fellow to get engaged! He's got nothing but the coat on his back; last year, Easter time, he lost all he had at cards.

Fedka told me so.”

”Well, well, pals, I've been married myself, but it's a bad thing for a poor devil; taking a wife is soon done, but the fun of it is more like an inch than a mile,” observes Skouratoff, who had just joined in the general talk.

”Do you fancy we're going to amuse ourselves by discussing _you_?” says the ex-quartermaster in a superior manner. ”Kva.s.soff, I tell you you're a big idiot! If you fancy that the Major can grease the palm of an Inspector-General you've got things finely muddled; d'ye fancy they send a man from Petersburg just to inspect your Major? You're a precious dolt, my lad; take it from me that it is so.”

”And you fancy because he's a General he doesn't take what's offered?”

said some one in the crowd in a sceptical tone.

”I should think he did indeed, and plenty of it whenever he can.”

”A dead sure thing that; gets bigger, and more, and worse, the higher the rank.”

”A General _always_ has his palm greased,” says Kva.s.soff, sententiously.

”Did _you_ ever give them money, as you're so sure of it?” asks Baklouchin, suddenly striking in, in a tone of contempt; ”come, now, did you ever see a General in all your life?”

”Yes.”

”Liar!”

”Liar, yourself!”

”Well, boys, as he _has_ seen a General, let him say _which_. Come, quick about it; I know 'em all, every man jack.”

”I've seen General Zibert,” says Kva.s.soff in tones far from sure.

”Zibert! There's no General of that name. That's the General, perhaps, who was looking at your back when they gave you the cat. This Zibert was, perhaps, a Lieutenant-Colonel; but you were in such a fright just then, you took him for a General.”

”No! Just hear me,” cries Skouratoff, ”for I've got a wife. There was really a General of that name, a German, but a Russian subject. He confessed to the Pope, every year, all about his peccadilloes with gay women, and drank water like a duck, at least forty gla.s.ses of Moskva water one after the other; that was the way he got cured of some disease. I had it from his valet.”

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