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religious ceremonies and to school duries. I did not hear of any conferences, admonitions, etc.17
During Lent the convicts prepare for Holy Communion. They are allowed three days to accommodate all the con- victs. When the chained convicts or those living in the Voye- vodsk and Due prisons prepare for the Sacrament, the church is encircled by sentries. They say this produces a dispiriting impression. The unskilled laborers among the convicts usually do not attcnd church bccause they take advantage of the holy days to rcst, make repairs or go berry- picking. The local churches are small, and somehow it has become customary only for those who are dressed in the garb of frec men to go to church. Only the "clean" people go there.
\X'hen I was at Alexandrovsk the front half of the church at Mass was occupied by officials and their families. Then followed a mixed row of soldiers' and guards' wives and free womcn with thcir children. Then came guards and soldicrs, and bchind all thesc along the walls were thc sct- tlers drcsscd in city clothcs and thc convict clerks. Can a convict with a shaved hcad and onc or more stripes down his back, wearing shacklcs or with a ball and chain around his feet, go to church if hc so desircs? I asked onc of the priests and he answered, "I don't know."
Thc settlers prepare for the Sacrament, get married and baptizc their childrcn in churches if they are living close enough to a church. Priests visit distant settlements to see that thc cxilcs kcep rhe fast and pcrform other duties. Father Irakly had "vicars" in Vcrkhny Armudan and in Malo-Tymovo; these were the convicts Voronin and Yako- venko, who rcad the lauds on Sundays. \'V'hen Father Irakly arrived at a settlement to conduct services, a peasant went up and down the strcct shouting at the top of his voice, "Comc for prayers!" When thcre is no church or chapel, serviccs are held in cells or in huts.
One evening while I was living in Alexandrovsk the local priest, Father Yegor, visited me and after staying a short while he left to conduct a marriage ceremony at the church. And I accompanied him. The candelabrum was already being lit and the choristers were standing in the choir, their faces expressing indifference as they waited for the bridal couple. There were many women, both convict and free, and they kept glancing impatiently at the door. A whisper was heard. Somebody at the door waved his hand and whispered excitedly, "They're driving up!" The singers began to clear their throats. A wave of people were pushed back to clear the door, someone yelled, and finally the bridal couple entered. He was a convict typesetter, twenty- five years old, wearing a jacket with a hard collar bent at the edges and a white tie. The convict woman, three or four years older, wore a blue dress with white lace and a flower in her hair. They laid a kerchief on the rug. The groom stepped on it first. The best men, who were type- setters, also wore white ties. Father Yegor came down from the altar and leafed through the book on the lectern for a long time. "Blessed be our God . . ." he sang, and the marriage ceremony started.
When the priest placed wreaths on the groom and bride and begged God to wed them in glory and honor, the faces of all the women who were present expressed tenderness and joy, and it seemed that they had forgotten that the ceremony was taking place in a prison church, in penal servitude, far, far from home. The priest said to the bridegroom, "Exalt yourself, bridegroom, as did Abra- ham. . . ." The church emptied after the wedding and the air was filled with the scent of burning candles, and the guard hastened to extinguish them, and melancholy set in. We went out on the steps. Rain! Near the church a crowd of people stood in the darkness and two springless carriages waited outside the church. In one sat the bride and bridegroom, the second was empty.
"Father, please!" voices were calling, and scores of hands stretched out toward Father Yegor as if to seize him.
"Please! Honor us!"
Father Yegor settled down in the carriage and they drove him to the home of the bride and groom.
On September 8, a holy day, I was leaving the church after Mass with a young official, and just then a corpse was brought in on a stretcher. It was carried by four ragged convicts with coarse, livid faces resembling our own city beggars. They were followed by two more ragged men, who formed the reserve, and by a woman with two children and a gloomy Georgian, Kelbokiani, who was dressed in a free man's clothing (he was a clerk and they called him Prince). They were all obviously in a hurry, afraid of miss- ing the priest at church. \Y/e learned from Kelbokiani that the deceased was a free woman named Lyalikova whose husband, a settler, had gone to Nikolayevsk. She had rwo children, and now Kelbokiani, who had been living in Lyalikova's quarters, did not know what to do with the children.
My companion and I had nothing to do, so we went ahead to the cemetery, not waiting for the funeral service to end. The cemetery is a verst from the church, behind the Slobodka and close to the sea on a high steep hill. \Y/hen we were climbing the hill the funeral cortege was already catching up with us. Obviously only rwo or three minutes were required to sing the service. From the summit we could sec the coffin jogging on the stretcher, and the little boy, who was being led by the woman, was holding back and pulling away from her.
From one side there is a broad view of the post and the surrounding country, from thc other side the sea, calm and shimmering in thc sunlight. There are many graves and crosses on the hill. Here you will find two large crosses side by side. They are thc graves of Mitsul and the guard Selivanov, who was killed by a prisoner. The small crosses standing over the graves of convicts are all exactly the same and all are silent. They will remember Mitsul for a while, but nobody will find it necessary to remember all the dead who are lying under the little crosses, those who have murdered, who tried to escape, who clanged their chains. Perhaps only somewhere in the Russian steppe around a campfire or in the forest will an old wagon driver begin telling a story out of boredom about the crimes com- mitted by so-and-so in their village. The listener, staring into the darkness, shudders, a night bird will suddenly shriek—and this is the only way he will be remembered. The cross which indicates where a convict medical assistant lies buried bears the verses:
Pauer-by! May thij verse remind you
That all in time under the jky, etc.
And at the end there is the line:
Forgive me, my friend, until that joyful morning!
Y. Fedorov
The newly dug grave was one quarter filled with water. The convicts, puffing and panting, their faces perspiring, loudly discussed something which had nothing to do with the funeral. Finally they carried up the coffin to the edge of the grave. The coffin was made of boards hastily nailed together and unpainted.
"Well?" said one.
They quickly dropped the coffin, which plopped into the water. Clods of clay knocked against the lid, the coffin shuddered, water splashed, and the convicts working with their shovels continued their own discussions. Kelbokiani looked at us perplexedly, stretching out his hands and com- plaining helplessly.
"What shall I do with the children? I'm saddled with them! I went to the warden and begged him to give me a woman, but he won't give me one!"