“Oh, why should you have kicked up a dust?” he answered, as if trying to enter into my meaning: “you have a table to yourselves, you fellows.” “Oh, well, there are some of you, not nobles, who don’t eat the regulation food, and who went in with you. We ought to back you up, we’re in the same place; we ought to be comrades.” “Oh, I _say_. Are you our comrades?” he asked, with unfeigned astonishment. I looked at him; it was clear that he had not the least comprehension of my meaning; but I, on the other hand, entered only too thoroughly into his. I saw now, quite thoroughly, something of which I had before only a confused idea; what I had before guessed at was now sad certainty. It was forced on my perceptions that any sort of real fellowship between the convicts and myself could never be; not even were I to remain in the place as long as life should last. I was a convict of the “special section,” a creature for ever apart. The expression of Petroff when he said, “are we comrades, how can that be?” remains, and will always remain before my eyes. There was a look of such frank, naïve surprise in it, such ingenuous astonishment that I could not help asking myself if there was not some lurking irony in the man, just a little spiteful mockery. Not at all, it was simply meant. I was not their comrade, and could not be; that was all. Go you to the right, we’ll go to the left! your business is yours, ours is ours. I really fancied that, after the mutiny, they would attack us mercilessly so far as they dared and could, and that our life would become a hell. But nothing of the sort happened; we did not hear the slightest reproach, there was not even an unpleasant allusion to what had happened, it was all simply passed over. They went on teasing us as before when opportunity served, no more. Nobody seemed to bear malice against those who would not join in, but remained in the kitchens, or against those who were the first to cry out that they had nothing to complain of. It was all passed over without a word, to my exceeding astonishment. FOOTNOTES: [7] An insulting phrase which is untranslatable. [8] French in the original Russian. CHAPTER VIII. MY COMPANIONS As will be understood, those to whom I was most drawn were people of my own sort, that is, those of “noble” birth, especially in the early days; but of the three ex-nobles in the place, who were Russians, I knew and spoke to but one, Akim Akimitch; the other two were the spy A--v, and the supposed parricide. Even with Akim I never exchanged a word except when in extremity, in moments when the melancholy on me was simply unendurable, and when I thought I really never should have the chance of getting close to any other human being again.