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Title: Sixteen years in Siberia: Some experiences of a Russian
revolutionist

Author: L. G. Deich

Translator: Helen Chisholm

Release date: February 7, 2017 [eBook #54129]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIXTEEN
YEARS IN SIBERIA: SOME EXPERIENCES OF A RUSSIAN
REVOLUTIONIST ***

Transcriber’s Note:
Footnotes have been collected at the end of the text, and are
linked for ease of reference.
The position of each full-page illustration has been changed
to fall upon a paragraph break.
Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected.
Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for
details regarding the handling of any textual issues
encountered during its preparation.
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information, and is added to the public domain.

Leo. Deutsch.

SIXTEEN YEARS IN SIBERIA
SOME EXPERIENCES OF A
RUSSIAN REVOLUTIONIST

First Edition October, 1903
Reprinted December, 1903
Reprinted February, 1904

SIXTEEN YEARS IN SIBERIA
SOME EXPERIENCES OF A
RUSSIAN REVOLUTIONIST
BY LEO DEUTSCH
TRANSLATED BY HELEN CHISHOLM

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

THIRD IMPRESSION

NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & CO.
1904

Printed in Great Britain

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

The author of the following narrative is a leader in the Russian
revolutionary movement. The German transliteration of his name is given
here as being the form he himself uses in Western Europe; but he is called
“Deuc” in the English version of Stepniak’s Underground Russia, which
was translated from the Italian, retaining the Italian transliteration of names.
A more exact rendering of the Russian would be Deitch, the “ei”
pronounced somewhat as in the English word “rein.”
George Kennan’s valuable work, Siberia and the Exile System, the fruit
of investigations carried on under circumstances of much difficulty and
even danger, has made its many English and American readers acquainted
with the true conditions of life among Russian political prisoners and exiles.
The story given in the present volume of the painful and tragic events that
took place in the political prisons at Kara after Mr. Kennan had left the
Russian Empire was written to him by, among others, a friend resident in
Kara at the time, whose letter he published in his book. In it are also to be
found additional particulars concerning the earlier or later history of many
persons whose names occur in the following pages; and it thus throws an
interesting light on Mr. Deutsch’s story, which is told so quietly, with such
an absence of sensationalism, that it is sometimes necessary to read
between the lines in order to grasp fully the terrible realities of the situation.
It may, perhaps, be useful to readers unfamiliar with the history of the
Russian revolutionary movement if I give here a rough sketch of its
development, and of its position at the present time.
From the first consolidation of the Empire under the Tsars in the latter
half of the sixteenth century, Russian despotism has consistently regarded
with apprehension and disfavour all manifestation of independent thought
among its subjects. There has never been a time when those bold enough to
indulge in it, even in what English people would consider a very mild form,
were not liable to persecution, and this traditional attitude of repression and

coercion had the inevitable result. Even early in the eighteenth century
secret societies had come into being, but these were mostly of the various
religious sects or of the Freemasons. When they began to assume a political
character they were at first confined entirely to the upper classes, and took
the form of revolts organised among the military, the last and most
important being that of the Decabrists (or Decembrists), who attempted to
overthrow the monarchy on the occasion of Nicholas I.’s accession in 1825.
Liberal views were to a certain extent fostered by Alexander I. (1801-
1825), who at one time openly talked of granting a Constitution. Russians
who visited Western Europe, officers in the Napoleonic campaigns, and
others, had “brought France into Russia,” had made the French language
fashionable, and thus had opened a way for the importation of new
philosophical, scientific, and political literature, eagerly appreciated by the
developing acuteness of the Russian mind. Literary influence, even the
purely romantic, has throughout ranged itself on the side of liberty, Pushkin
heading the poets and Gogol the novelists. Indeed, one may safely say that
up to the present day nearly every Russian author of any note has been
implicated—some to a greater, some to a less degree--in the revolutionary
movement, and has suffered for the cause.
Alexander I. in his later years, and his successor Nicholas I., fell back on
a reactionary policy. Even Freemasonry was prohibited, mere literary
societies of the early forties were considered seditious, and their members
were punished with imprisonment and death. There now sprang up political
secret societies, whose dream was of a federal republic, or at least of a
constitutional monarchy.
The accession of Alexander II. in 1855 strengthened the hopes of the
reformers. The study of political and social questions became the fashion;
while professors, students, and the “intellectuals” of the upper and middle
classes warmly engaged in the “underground” movement. With this period
are associated such names as those of Herzen, Bakounin, and
Tchernishevsky, whose writings were the inspiration of the party, and even
influenced for a time the Tsar himself. But the emancipation of the serfs, on
February 19th, 1861, bitterly disappointed those who had hoped great
things of the new monarch, and who saw from the way in which this and
other liberal measures were emasculated by officials, to whom the drafting
of them was entrusted by the Tsar, how futile it was to expect any effective
reform as a grace from an autocrat. The reform movement, now definitely

socialistic, speedily took on a revolutionary character, and culminated in the
active sympathy and support given to the Polish revolt of 1863.
Alexander II. resorted to the old coercive methods; all attempts to voice
the aspirations and needs of the people, or even the academic discussion of
political questions, were met with the savage punishments of martial law,
imprisonment, exile, death. In face of a new enactment, which had
professed to give fair trial to all accused persons, special courts were set up
to try political offenders; and the practice of banishment by “administrative
methods” (i.e. without any trial at all) was instituted.
A time of enforced quiet followed, when the leaders of the movement
were either dead, imprisoned, or had fled into voluntary exile abroad; but it
served as a time of self-education and study for the younger generation, at
home or in foreign Universities, and in the early seventies the revival came.
Our author here takes up the story with his account of the Propagandist
movement, which was peaceful, except in so far as it aimed at stirring up
the peasants to demand reform; for, in the absence of any constitutional
methods for expressing their desires, this could only be effected by
organised uprisings. He describes how this movement developed into
terrorism under the system of “white terror” exercised by the Government,
and how, after the assassination of Alexander II., the strong hand of
despotism succeeded in checking, until a few years ago, the passionate
struggle for liberty.
A new monarch and a new century have altered little the essential
features of the situation, so far as relations between government and
governed are concerned. Every day we have examples of the time-honoured
policy, in the dragooning of Russia proper; the attempted Russification of
Finland; and the deliberate fostering by the Government of anti-Semitism,
with the covert design of counteracting the revolutionary activity of Jewish
Socialists, discrediting their labour movement in the eyes of the Russian
proletariat, and also distracting the latter from organisation on their own
account.
But a significant change is at work to-day among the people. The
peasants and working-classes in town and country, formerly the despair of
those who strove to arouse in them political consciousness, are being
awakened by the inevitable development of industry to a sense of their
duties and their rights. A genuine labour movement has arisen, which, in
face of the intolerance of the authorities, has naturally taken on a political

character, and affiliated itself to the successors of the older revolutionary
societies.
The words “anarchist” and “nihilist,” so commonly associated with the
Russian revolutionists, are complete misnomers to-day (as, indeed, they
always have been, except in the case of a few isolated individuals). The
movement is now carried on chiefly by two organisations: the
“Revolutionary Socialists,” and the party to which our author belongs, and
helped to found, the “Social Democratic” Labour Party; associated with the
latter being the powerfully organised social-democratic “General Jewish
Labour Union of Lithuania, Poland, and Russia,” usually known as the
“Bund.” Of these the Revolutionary Socialists alone still adhere to the
practice of terrorism in a modified form, and even they have always
proclaimed their intention of abandoning it directly “constitutional”
methods are allowed to them. The aim of the revolutionists is to replace the
present autocratic government by a social republic, under which the various
races now grouped within the empire shall each have scope to develop its
national individuality. Groups are actively at work in widely distant
localities, even Siberia furnishing her contingent, while Poland and Finland
have various revolutionary organisations of their own.
The Government’s policy at present is to exile to Siberia without trial, or
intern in some place distant from home, all persons known or even
suspected to be interesting themselves in the movement. This is effected
principally through the instrumentality of the gendarmerie, which was
instituted by Nicholas I. as a sort of spy system, primarily intended to
unearth official abuses and report upon them directly to the Tsar. It soon,
however, became imbued with the prevailing spirit of the bureaucracy; its
members shut their eyes to the official corruption everywhere prevalent,
and they have since confined their attention to unearthing “political”
delinquencies. The force has at least one representative in every town of
any size, and it has a vaguely defined roving commission to watch and
arrest all persons who appear to be suspicious characters; these may be kept
in imprisonment for an indefinite time, or may be exiled “by administrative
methods.” It has become an adjunct to the ordinary police, although quite
independent of them, and is generally employed in all matters of secrecy.[1]
Travellers from Western Europe who observe too closely the life and
conditions of the country are liable to arrest in this way. Sir Donald
Mackenzie Wallace and Mr. Kennan, among others, had this experience.

The mere existence of such a force may help to explain the discomfort of
even the ordinary peaceful Russian citizen under the present system of
government; and he is further incommoded by the presence in every house
of a police-spy. For the dvornik or concierge, though paid by the inmates of
the house, is appointed subject to the approval of the police, and is
responsible to them. He keeps the keys, and is bound to deliver them up to
the police whenever they may take it into their heads to require a
domiciliary search. As an instance of the petty tyranny that occurs I may
mention that the possession of a hectograph (or any such appliance for
multiplying MSS.) needs a special permission from the police.
The police have power to break up any gathering in a private house
where more than seven guests are assembled; this is frequently done, even
on such ordinary occasions as a wedding or funeral, if many students or
such-like “untrustworthy” people are of the party. When a town or district is
under martial law—an everyday state of things in Russia—the above
number is still further reduced; indeed, it is quite common for the police to
prohibit all gatherings.
Readings at entertainments for the poor got up by philanthropic people
may only be given from books licensed by the police for the purpose (and
mostly very dull); the catalogues of lending libraries may contain only such
books as are definitely permitted, many being excluded that are not
forbidden to private persons—though the latter, again, are by no means free
to choose their reading, many authors being entirely prohibited within the
empire; and whole columns of newspapers, including foreign ones that have
come through the post, are blacked out by order of the censor. Private
debating societies’ meetings or lectures, however innocent, are practically
impossible to all who are not in the best odour with the authorities, except
under the strictest precautions against discovery—such as closing of
shutters, disguise of preparations, and a warning to guests not to arrive
simultaneously.
It is evident what opportunity all this gives to officials “on the make” for
demonstrating their zeal, and it accounts for the fact that every year
hundreds of persons not accused of any definite offence are removed from
their homes. Nearly everyone has friends and relations so banished, and the
result of such systematic interference with private liberty is that almost
everyone in Russia, outside official circles, is more or less in league against
the bureaucratic government. The countenance, and even financial support,

afforded to the revolutionists, not only by sympathisers in free countries,
but by the general public at home, is one great source of their strength. They
are willingly assisted in evading arrest and in escaping from prison or from
exile; and prohibited literature (printed abroad, or secretly in Russia itself)
is circulated and sold throughout the country in immense quantities—not
only leaflets by the thousand, but reviews, some elaborately illustrated, and
even books of a more solid character. The Russian original of the present
work will presumably soon be on the “illegal” market.
The illustrations are reproductions of photographs taken from life.
H. C.
London, July, 1903.

CONTENTS

Translator’s Preface Pages v-xii

CHAPTER I
Journey to Germany—Imprisonment in Freiburg— 1-11
Episodes from the past of the Revolutionary movement

CHAPTER II
The cause of my arrest—Professor Thun—My defence— 12-20
Plans of escape—My legal adviser

CHAPTER III
Uncertainty—Prison life—The Public Prosecutor—A 21-29
change of cells

CHAPTER IV
The visit of “my wife”—More plans of escape—The Public 30-41
Prosecutor shows his hand—reparations for a journey

CHAPTER V
The journey to Russia—In the cattle-truck—The Frankfort 42-48
and Berlin prisons—The frontier-station—Through
Warsaw to Petersburg

CHAPTER VI

The Fortress of Peter and Paul—The Public Prosecutor as 49-57
compatriot—A hard-hearted doctor—A fleeting
acquaintance

CHAPTER VII
Changed conditions—A frustrated plan—The minister’s 58-66
visit—A secret of State—My literary neighbour

CHAPTER VIII
Fresh fears—The Colonel of Gendarmerie—Inquiry into 67-72
the case of General Mezentzev’s murder—Meeting with
Bogdanovitch—Departure

CHAPTER IX
A ray of hope—An unheard-of régime—The hunger-strike 73-82
—Our club—A secret ally

CHAPTER X
A brave officer—My military service—The trial—Further 83-93
examinations

CHAPTER XI
The visit of the minister—I am turned into a convict—The 94-104
prison at Kiëv

CHAPTER XII
New acquaintances—The girl-conspirators of Romny— 105-114
Arrival in Moscow—Companions in destiny—A liberal-
minded governor

CHAPTER XIII
The trial of the fourteen—Recollections of Vera Figner— 115-122
Numerous imprisonments—Agents Provocateurs

CHAPTER XIV
A not incorruptible inspector—Broken fetters—Resistance 123-129
to the shaving process—Visitors in the prison

CHAPTER XV
Political condition of Russia and the revolutionary party— 130-137
Our little society—Fête days—Prohibited visits—A
lecture on manners

CHAPTER XVI
Preparations for our travels—The boat journey by the Volga 138-147
and the Kama—Ekaterinburg—On the troika—“To
Europe, to Asia”

CHAPTER XVII
In Tiumen—Parting—On the Siberian rivers—A startling 148-157
proposal

CHAPTER XVIII
By way of the convoy-stations—A clumsy officer—The 158-168
vagabond—A man-hunt

CHAPTER XIX
The forest—Unsuccessful attempts at escape—The people 169-183
we met—The criminal world—The convoy officers

CHAPTER XX
From Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk—Misunderstandings and 184-193
disputes—The women in Irkutsk prison

CHAPTER XXI

The chief of police at Irkutsk—Meeting with exiled 194-208
comrades—From Irkutsk to Kara—Stolen fetters—A
dubious kind of Decabrist—Another contest—Arrival at
our journey’s end

CHAPTER XXII
First days at Kara—Friends old and new 209-220

CHAPTER XXIII
The organisation of our common life—The “Siriuses”— 221-232
Wagers

CHAPTER XXIV
Some details of the prison’s history—The “Tom-cat”—The 233-247
“Sanhedrin’s room“—My first Siberian spring

CHAPTER XXV
Humours and pastimes of prison life—Two new 248-265
commandants—The “Hospital”—The participators in
armed resistance

CHAPTER XXVI
The women’s prison 266-274

CHAPTER XXVII
The “colonists”—Further events in the women’s prison— 275-282
The hunger-strikes—The Yakutsk massacre

CHAPTER XXVIII
Our celebration of the centenary of the French Revolution 283-290
—Sergius Bobohov—The end of the tragedy

CHAPTER XXIX

Disquieting reports—Visit of the Governor-General— 291-299
Release from prison

CHAPTER XXX
Nizhnaya-Kara—New life—Stolen gold 300-306

CHAPTER XXXI
The tour of the Heir-Apparent through Siberia—Our life in 307-315
the penal settlement—An incensed official

CHAPTER XXXII
The death of the Tsar—New manifestoes—The census 316-322

CHAPTER XXXIII
A prehistoric monument—My departure from Kara—Life 323-346
in Stretyensk—My transference to Blagovèstshensk—
The massacres of July, 1900

CHAPTER XXXIV
My flight from Siberia—The end of my journey round the 347-359
world—My friend Axelrod again—Conclusion

Index 361

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LEO DEUTSCH, IN PRISON DRESS Frontispiece

FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL, ST. To face page 48
PETERSBURG

PRISONERS MARCHING THROUGH THE “ 96
STREETS OF ODESSA

“BUTIRKI,” THE CENTRAL PRISON AT “ 110
MOSCOW

PORTRAITS: TCHUIKOV, SPANDONI, VERA “ 112
FIGNER, STEFANOVITCH, MIRSKY

SIBERIAN HALTING-STATION (ÉTAPE) “ 146

IN A SIBERIAN PRISON “ 158

ROLL-CALL OF PRISONERS AT A HALTING- “ 160
STATION

ESCAPED CONVICT-TRAMP (BRODYAGA) “ 164

AN ATTEMPT AT ESCAPE “ 170

PORTRAITS: MARTINOVSKY, “ 208
STARINKYEVITCH, SUNDELEVITCH,
ZLATOPOLSKY, PRYBYLYEV,
YEMELYANOV

PRISONERS GOLD-WASHING AT KARA “ 232

YARD OF KARA PRISON FOR “POLITICALS” “ 254

DULEMBA, KOHN, RECHNYEVSKY, LURI, “ 258
MANKOVSKY

LURI, SOUHOMLIN, AND RECHNYEVSKY, “ 260
IN PRISON DRESS

PORTRAITS: A. KORBA, E. KOVALSKAYA, “ 266
N. SIGIDA, M. KOVALEVSKAYA, N.
SMIRNITSKAYA, S. BOGOMOLETZ

GRAVEYARD OF POLITICAL PRISONERS AT “ 290
KARA

THE PENAL SETTLEMENT, KARA “ 300

COTTAGE SHARED BY “POLITICALS” IN “ 302
THE KARA PENAL SETTLEMENT

KARA PRISONERS AT WORK “ 308

FEMALE CRIMINALS AT KARA DRAWING “ 310
WATER-CART

AGED ORDINARY PRISONERS AT KARA “ 314

THE COSSACK VILLAGE OF STRETYENSK “ 324

BLAGOVESTSHENSK “ 328

ON THE AMUR NEAR BLAGOVESTSHENSK “ 336
—THE SCENE OF THE MASSACRE

SIXTEEN YEARS IN SIBERIA

CHAPTER I
JOURNEY TO GERMANY—IMPRISONMENT IN FREIBURG—EPISODES FROM THE PAST
OF THE REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT

In the beginning of March, 1884, I travelled from Zurich, through Basel,
to Freiburg in Baden. The object of my journey was to smuggle over the
frontier a quantity of Russian socialistic literature, printed in Switzerland, in
order that it might then be distributed by secret channels throughout Russia,
where of course it was prohibited. In Germany a special law against the
Social-Democratic movement was then in force. The Sozialdemokrat was
published in Zurich, and had to be smuggled over the German frontier,
where the watch was very keen, rendering most difficult the despatch to
Russia of Russian, Polish, and other revolutionary literature printed in
Switzerland. Before the enactment of the special law in August, 1878, the
procedure had been simple. At that time the publications were sent by post
to some town in Germany near the Russian border, and thence, by one way
or another, despatched to Russia. Later, however, it became necessary to
convey them as travellers’ luggage across the German frontier, in order to
get them through the custom-house, after which they could be forwarded to
some German town nearer the Russian border. It was on this transport
business that I was engaged.
My luggage consisted of two large boxes, half-filled with literature, and
their upper parts packed with linen and other wearing apparel, that the
Customs officers might not be suspicious. In one trunk I had men’s clothes,
in the other women’s, supposed to belong to my (non-existent) wife; and for
this reason there really was a lady present at the Customs examination in
Basel,—the wife of my friend Axelrod from Zurich. She offered to take
further charge of the transport, thinking she would run less risk than I if the
police became suspicious. As, however, the examination of the luggage
went off quite smoothly, I declined the offer, hardly thinking any further
trouble probable.

Besides Frau Axelrod a Basel Socialist was with me at the station. He
had advised me how to carry out my perilous mission, for he was
experienced in such business, having managed many transports of
forbidden literature. Only a few days before, accompanied by a Polish
acquaintance of mine, Yablonski, he had been to Freiburg, whence they had
despatched some Polish literature. He now recommended to me a cheap
hotel in Freiburg, close to the station; and in good spirits I climbed into a
third-class carriage. It was a Sunday, and the carriage was filled with people
in gay holiday mood. Songs were sung, and unrestrained chatter filled the
air. The guard was pompous and overbearing, as often happened then on
German lines; I do not know if it is so still. When he saw that I was
smoking, he told me very rudely, with a great show of official zeal, that this
was not a smoking carriage. I answered politely that I had not been aware of
it, and at once threw away my cigarette. He insisted peremptorily, however,
that I must change carriages. “A bad omen,” thought I, and still recall the
sensation. I was out of temper, and felt irritated and uncomfortable. The
weather, too, grew overcast, and a cold drizzle set in, which worked on my
nerves.
The train moved off, and before I had got over my grumbling humour we
were at Freiburg. It was between seven and eight in the evening. Landed on
the platform, I looked out the porter of the Freiburger Hof, and gave him
my luggage-check. He noticed at once that it showed the unusual weight of
my boxes, and expressed his surprise thereat. To quiet any suspicion I told
him at once unconcernedly that I was a student, and intended to study at
Freiburg University, and that it was my books which made the trunks so
heavy. The hotel was soon reached, and a room engaged, after which I
betook myself to the restaurant for supper. As I passed by the buffet I saw
the porter whispering earnestly with another man, apparently the landlord.
Directly I had finished my meal the waiter brought me the visitors’ book;
and as I had a Russian passport, lent me by a friend at the time of my flight
from Russia, I at once signed myself in my friend’s name, “Alexander
Bulìgin, of Moscow.” I then ordered writing materials and went to my
room, but had barely shut the door behind me when there came a knock. At
my “Come in!” there appeared, instead of a servant with writing things, as I
had expected, a policeman, accompanied by a gentleman in civil dress. “I
am an officer of the secret police,” said the latter; “allow me to examine
your trunks.” Instantly I thought, “As Freiburg is so near the Swiss frontier,

the police (to whom the porter must have announced the arrival of a young
man with unusually heavy luggage), may think I have contraband goods; or
they may take me for an anarchist, and suspect me of conveying dynamite.”
I tried, therefore, to look as harmless as possible, although I felt that things
were awkward. Busied with the unlocking of my boxes, I let fall the remark
that one of them contained the belongings of my wife, whom I expected
shortly. No sooner, however, had the men begun to turn over my things,
than I saw that my guess as to their search for contraband was incorrect; the
detective was on the look-out for neither contraband nor dynamite, but for
books, and he immediately began to examine mine. I then concluded he was
looking for German Social-Democratic literature; and I was astonished
when, at sight of a little book bound in red, my gentleman cried
triumphantly, “Ah, here we are!”
It was the Calendar of the Naròdnaia Vòlya,[2] a book that had come out
about a year before this, and was openly sold by German booksellers.
“I must now have you searched,” said the police agent.
Besides a notebook, a letter, and a pocket-book containing several
hundred-mark notes, there were in my pockets a dozen numbers of the
Zurich Sozialdemokrat, which I had brought with me to send to a Russian
friend in Germany.
“Here at least is something that we can read!” said the detective in a
satisfied tone; “now, I arrest you!”
“Why? What for?” asked I, much astonished.
“That you will soon find out; come along!” was the answer.
The procedure of the police agent was extraordinary in every way: no
attempt was made to fulfil the legal enactments for the protection of
personal safety; the domiciliary search was instituted without legal warrant;
there were no witnesses. I insisted on the officer’s counting over in my
presence the money in my pocket-book, which they had confiscated, though
of course that was not much guarantee for the security of my property.
As I was descending the steps of the hotel, a prisoner between my two
guardian angels, a young lady carrying a small travelling-bag met us. The
detective asked me if this were my wife, and, notwithstanding my reply in
the negative, tried to seize hold of her. She evidently thought she had to do
with some Don Juan, and fled screaming into the street; whereupon the
detective ordered the policeman to lead me on, and himself followed the
unknown lady.

The policeman now tried to take me by the arm, and so conduct me
through the streets, but I hotly resisted such treatment, declaring that I had
committed no crime, and that he had no possible justification for putting me
in such a position.
We arrived at last at the House of Detention. Here I was searched again,
and for the first time since my arrest was questioned by an official as to my
personal identity.
My detective soon appeared, bringing the lady, who, weeping bitterly,
protested her absolute innocence, and indignantly demanded the
explanation of such an insult. Coming on the top of all my own experiences
since my arrival in Freiburg this scene put me into a state of fury.
“What is all this?” cried I to the police officer. “How can you take upon
yourself to insult this lady? I repeat again that I do not know her; she is not
my wife, and I have never set eyes on her in my life before.”
“Well, we shall see about that. It is my business. It is no affair of yours
whom we arrest,” declared he; and I thought to myself, “This is a nice state
of things! We might as well be in Russia.”
I was then told to follow a warder, who took me up to the first floor. The
lock of a cell-door turned, grating, and I found myself installed in the
Grand-Ducal prison of Baden.
When the warder had withdrawn with his lantern absolute silence
reigned, and the chamber was perfectly dark. Lights were not allowed here
either in the cells or passages. I took my bearings as well as I could, groping
along the walls, and, having found a bed, I lay down fully dressed as I was.
My mind was in a state of chaos; I could follow no clear train of thought,
nor form any conclusions about what had occurred. The sense of fate
weighed me down; my strength seemed broken. Sinister dreams left me no
peace all night, and consequently I awoke from slumber in a dazed
condition, not knowing where I was or what had happened to me. When at
last with an effort I realised my position, despair seized on me. Extradition
to Russia stared me in the face; I could not banish the fear of it. True, at that
time there was no extradition treaty between Germany and Russia which
applied to political refugees.[3] But I had special reasons for fearing that I
might be treated exceptionally; and that the significance of my position may
be clear to the reader, I must now give some details of my earlier career.

In 1874, just ten years before the events described above, as a youth of
nineteen I had joined the “Propagandist movement,”[4] which at that time
engrossed a great number of young students throughout Russia. Like most
of the young Propagandists, I was led to this chiefly by sympathy with the
sufferings and endurance of the people. According to our views, it was the
sacred duty of every reasonable and upright human being who really loved
his country to devote all his powers to the object of freeing the people from
the economic oppression, the slavery, the barbarism, to which they were
subjected. The young generation, always most prone to pity the misfortunes
of others, could not remain indifferent to the miserable situation of the
newly enfranchised serfs. An entire social revolution in Russia appeared to
the Propagandists the sole means of altering the existing wretched material
conditions, and of removing the heavy burden on the people; following,
therefore, the teaching of the Socialists of Western Europe, they set before
themselves as their ultimate object the abolition of private property and the
collective ownership of the means of production. The Propagandists felt
entirely convinced that the people would instantly embrace their ideas and
aims and join them at the first appeal. This belief was an inspiration to
them, and spurred them to unlimited self-sacrifice for the idea that
possessed them. These youths and girls renounced without hesitation their
previous social position and the assured future that the existing order of
things offered them; without further ado they left the educational
institutions where they were studying, recklessly broke all family ties, and
threw their personal fate into the balance, in order to live entirely for the
idea, to sacrifice themselves without stint for the idea, to make every
faculty and possibility serve in the sacred cause of the people’s deliverance.
Any personal sacrifice seemed to these young enthusiasts scarcely worth
speaking of when the great cause was in question. The common ideal, the
common aim, and the enthusiasm of each individual drew the Propagandists
together into one great family, linked by all the ties of affection and mutual
dependence. Fraternal relations of the most affectionate intimacy grew up
among all these young people; a complete altruism governed their actions,
and each was prepared for any sacrifice on behalf of another. Only in great
historical moments, in the time of the early Christian martyrdoms, and the
founding of religious sects, have proselytes manifested such personal
devotion, such exalted feeling.[5]

In this elect band, however, there were found (as has happened in every
such movement) individuals not capable of this unselfish fervour; there
were among them some paltry spirits, and even some who proved traitors.
Certainly the number of these latter was infinitesimally small; but the
history of revolutionary movements shows sufficiently that hundreds of the
most able secret or public agents of a government can never do a tithe of the
harm to a secret society that can be effected by a single traitor in its own
ranks. In this manner did treachery become pregnant with evil results for
the Propagandists, and it gave to the movement a character it might
otherwise never have developed. Early in the year 1874 the young
revolutionists, men and women, went out “among the people,” according to
the plan they had formed; they distributed themselves among the villages,
where they lived and dressed like peasants, carrying on an active Socialist
propaganda. But scarcely had they begun operations when treachery made
itself apparent; two or three of the initiated denounced the organisation, and
delivered over hundreds of their comrades to the authorities. Searches and
arrests took place without number; the police pounced on “guilty” and
innocent alike, and all the prisons in Russia were soon filled to overflowing.
In this one year more than a thousand persons were seized. Many of them
suffered long years of imprisonment under the most horrible conditions,
some committed suicide, others lost their reason, and in many cases long
terms of incarceration resulted in illness and premature death. Under these
circumstances the reader can conceive the bitter hatred kindled in the ranks
of the Socialists against the traitors who had sacrificed so many lives. The
knowledge of the victims’ terrible sufferings would naturally incite their
friends to avenge them; inevitably, too, the thought would arise of
punishing treachery, in order to put a stop by intimidation to the trade of the
informer. But the Propagandists were in the highest degree men of peace,
and it was not easy for them to harbour thoughts of violence. When such
ideas were first mooted, they long remained only subjects of discussion.
Not till the summer of 1876 did the first attempt to put the terrorist theory
into practice take place. The circumstances were as follows. The members
of a revolutionary group well known at the time—the Kiëv Buntari[6]—had
assembled at Elisavetgrad. I belonged to this organisation. Many of the
members were “illegals,”[7] and for some time past the gendarmerie had
been making captures among them, acting on the information of a traitor
named Gorinòvitch. This Gorinòvitch had been imprisoned in 1874, and

being in the greatest danger had saved himself by telling everything he
knew about the Russian Socialists. His revelations had injured many; yet, as
in numerous other cases, not a hair of this renegade’s head would have been
touched, if he had kept clear of revolutionary circles. But about two years
after his release from prison he tried again to insinuate himself among us,
and he managed to get into the confidence of some inexperienced young
people, who of course had no notion of the part he had formerly played.
From them he learned that the Kiëv Society had assembled at Elisavetgrad;
he came there at once, and sought to find out what the persons he had
before betrayed were doing. We recognised him, however, and it soon
became evident to us that he was playing the spy, and preparing some fresh
treachery. So I and one other comrade resolved to put an end to his life.
Our determination could not be carried into effect in Elisavetgrad itself,
or it might have resulted in giving the police a clue for the discovery of our
organisation. We therefore asked Gorinòvitch if he would go with us to
Odessa to find the persons he was in search of, and he agreed. There in a
lonely spot we attempted to execute our mission, and left Gorinòvitch lying,
as we thought, dead, with a paper fastened on his breast bearing the
inscription, “So perish all traitors!” But he was only severely injured, was
found by the police, and survived to give information concerning his
attempted assassination. Searches and arrests followed in due course, and
although at the time I succeeded in avoiding capture, in the autumn of the
following year I was arrested, together with other comrades, on account of
the famous Tchigirìn case.[8]
I was imprisoned in Kiëv, but in the beginning of 1878 I escaped[9] in
company with Stefanòvitch and Bohanòvsky.
Those who were concerned in the attempt against Gorinòvitch were
prosecuted for the first time in November, 1879, at a period when both the
“red” and the “white” terrorism[10] had blazed up. After a series of attempts
against different representatives of the Government, the revolutionists had
concentrated their entire strength on the endeavour to assassinate Alexander
II. The Government combated the terrorist movement by means of special
enactments, martial law, and death penalties, to which large numbers of
people were sentenced who were perfectly innocent of complicity in the
above deeds. On November 19th, some days before the beginning of the
Gorinòvitch case (and after the accused had been acquainted with the facts
alleged against them, for which they were only liable to comparatively light

sentences), the Terrorists blew up a train on the Moscow line, believing the
Tsar to be in it. In consequence of this the Government determined to
revenge themselves upon the accused in the Gorinòvitch case. Of these only
one had been directly implicated, and as all had been imprisoned two or
three years already before the beginning of the terrorist agitation, they could
under no circumstances be supposed answerable for that agitation. In spite
of this it was decided to “make an example” by inflicting a heavy sentence.
Three of the accused,—Drebyasghin, Malinka, and Maidansky—were
condemned to death by hanging, and were executed on December 3rd; two
—Kostyurin and Yankovski—were sentenced to penal servitude; and the
traitors Krayev and Kuritzin were set free. If I had been in the power of
these judges my fate would have been sealed. However, early in the year
1880 I effected my escape from Russia, and I had been living in
Switzerland up to the time of my going to Freiburg as previously described.
From all this it will be clear with what feelings I contemplated the
possibility of extradition to Russia.

CHAPTER II
THE CAUSE OF MY ARREST—PROFESSOR THUN—MY DEFENCE—PLANS OF ESCAPE—
MY LEGAL ADVISER

In Germany, as a constitutional state, the law requires that no one shall be
imprisoned for more than four-and-twenty hours without a magistrate’s
order. As a foreigner, however, this was not held to apply to me; and it was
only after two days that I was brought before a magistrate.
After he had asked me the usual questions as to name, position, and
antecedents, he informed me that being a foreigner whose identity could not
be immediately established, I must remain in prison. He added that, of
course, I could appeal against this decision, but that I should find it useless
to do so. And, in fact, the appeal that I did make was rejected.
So after this examination I was as wise as ever regarding the cause of my
arrest. Again, I began turning over and over my various conjectures.
Uncertainty is always an unpleasant condition, and most prisoners have to
endure it; but in my case uncertainty racked me with the most dreadful
apprehensions. After three days that seemed endless, I was again taken
before the magistrate. When the ordinary questions had been answered he
asked me if I knew the reason of my arrest. On my reply in the negative he
gave me the following explanation:—
Some days before my arrival from Basel two men had come from the
same place, (my acquaintance, the Swiss Socialist, and the Pole Yablonski).
They also had put up at the Freiburger Hof; they also had brought boxes
filled with books. They had despatched those books to a man in Breslau,
who had just been imprisoned under the law against Socialists; and in
connection with his arrest the police had confiscated the parcel, in which
were discovered Polish socialistic pamphlets prohibited in Germany. The
senders having given the address of the Freiburger Hof, the pamphlets had
been sent back to Freiburg, as a preliminary to the search for the persons
who had despatched them. Orders were given at the hotel to inform the

police if they or any other suspicious characters should arrive from
Switzerland. Thus it was that the hotel porter, learning that I had books in
my trunk, had, after consultation with the landlord, given information which
led to the appearance of the police. The detective had found among my
books the duplicate of one in the Breslau parcel—the Calendar of the
Naròdnaia Vòlya; and when he also discovered copies of the
Sozialdemokrat, things were suspicious enough to warrant my arrest. The
charge against me, therefore, was that in conjunction with other persons I
was guilty of distributing prohibited Polish literature in Germany.
On hearing this, it was easy for me to reply to the charge that there was
nothing in Polish among my books, nor any single book which had been
prohibited in Germany; and as to the copies of the Sozialdemokrat, their
possession was no offence. The question resolved itself simply into this:
Whether I was in conspiracy with certain persons, and whether I had not in
any case been circulating forbidden literature. Chance alone had led to my
capture.
“If you had not gone to the Freiburger Hof nobody would have thought
of arresting you,” said Herr Leiblen, the magistrate.
My spirits rose on hearing this. I said to myself, “All is not lost yet.
Perhaps everything will go off smoothly, and I shall soon be set free, if only
the Russian Government is kept out of the game.” That was the thought
which occupied me while the magistrate was writing out the protocol. He
then said, pointing to a gentleman who sat at a table somewhat apart, “That
is the interpreter who is assisting us in your case, a professor of our
University.”
During my examination I had once or twice looked round at this
gentleman. He seemed known to me, and his presence caused me
involuntary uneasiness.
“You can speak Russian with the Herr Professor,” concluded Herr
Leiblen, as he left the room to fetch some document.
“Do you not recognise me?” said the interpreter, turning round.
“Professor Thun!” cried I in great astonishment.
“What! am I so much altered that you didn’t know me before?“ he asked,
and did not wait for my answer, but continued without pause, “How can I
help you?”
“Do you know who I really am?” I asked, without replying, and a cold
shudder ran through me.

“Yes; I know your true name. But there is no need for alarm. You have
turned quite pale!”
His recognition had indeed given me no small fright. I had come to know
Professor Thun about a year and a half before this time in Basel, whither I
had then betaken myself in order that, being there at some distance from the
colony of Russian refugees, I might be freer from interruptions to my
studies than when surrounded by friends and acquaintances. I had
matriculated in the Basel University, and was attending Professor Thun’s
lectures on political economy and statistics. Karl Moor, a leader of the
Basel working-men, had introduced me personally to the professor, who
supposed me to be simply a Russian student, not knowing me by my real
name, but under the assumed one of Nicholas Kridner. He invited me to call
on him, and confided to me his plan of writing a history of the revolutionary
movement in Russia. Of this plan I had already heard, and it was partly this
that had attracted me to Basel. Professor Thun was a Rhinelander, had
studied at Dorpat, and had then passed some years in the interior of Russia.
He spoke Russian fluently, and was pretty well up in Russian affairs. When
he found, in conversation with me, that I was not unacquainted with the
Russian revolutionary movement, he suggested that I should help him in his
work, to which of course I gladly assented; and thus it happened that we
became rather intimate. In this way I learned Professor Thun’s views
regarding the Terrorists and their deeds. He condemned them ruthlessly;
according to his convictions, it was the duty of all European governments to
refuse such persons the right of asylum, and to deliver them over as
ordinary criminals to the Russian authorities. In particular I had a lively
recollection of the following occurrence. Professor Thun had given a lecture
in the Basel “Freisinniges Verein,” before a large audience, on “Two
Episodes in the Russian Revolutionary Movement.” These two episodes
were the attempted assassination of Alexander II. and the Tchigirìn case. In
speaking of the latter he related how Stefanòvitch, Bohanòvsky, and I had
escaped from the fortress of Kiëv;[11] and he closed with the remark that
these criminals were living in foreign parts, and had “unfortunately” not yet
been captured. I had an opportunity afterwards of speaking to him on the
subject, and gathered the impression that if he knew my real name Professor
Thun would not only break off all connection with me, but under certain
circumstances would even perhaps assist in my “capture.” This led me to

reduce my personal relations with him to a minimum, and besides I shortly
afterwards left Basel.
Now here I was standing, a prisoner, before this man, and he knew who I
really was! My feelings may be imagined.
“How do you know my name?” I asked, trembling with excitement.
“Your friend, Karl Moor, told me it in confidence after you had left
Basel.”
“And although you know who I am you offer me your help?” asked I in
surprise.
“Yes. Only tell me how to help you, and I will do what I can.”
I could scarcely grasp it, but one look in his eyes convinced me that I
might trust him; it was that intuitive confidence that, once given, is
unbounded.
“Thank you,” said I. “Well, if I do not succeed in getting out of prison by
lawful means, I shall try to escape. Would you stand by me then?”
“Certainly,” said he simply and earnestly.
I still could hardly believe my ears. This German professor, whom I had
heard publicly express his regret that the minions of Tsarism had not yet
caught me—in other words, that I was not hanging on the gallows—this
same man now offered me help to fly from a German prison! He gave me,
however, undeniable proof of his sincerity. As translator he was in
possession of all books, letters, etc., taken from me; he now produced my
notebook, and advised me to tear out and destroy pages on which he had
noticed addresses entered that might prejudice my cause. Of course, I
immediately acted on his suggestion.
I then proposed to him that he should go to Basel without delay, tell my
friend Axelrod what had occurred, instruct him what steps he could take to
obtain my release by legal means, and finally, arrange with him some way
of effecting my escape should the danger of extradition to Russia arise.
This task Professor Thun fulfilled to the letter; and during my
imprisonment in Freiburg he did me many kind offices, running serious risk
of thereby compromising his own position. He arranged secret meetings in
Freiburg Cathedral with my friends, who had come in haste on the chance
of being useful to me. He was also the medium of both verbal and written
communication between me and my comrades.
Having the right of free access to me, as the authorities placed full
confidence in an illustrious professor, he often had me called into the

translator’s office, where we could chat undisturbed. In these conversations
I saw how much he had taken my affairs to heart. He went so far as to offer
his house as a refuge if I were obliged to attempt an escape. Sometimes he
joked about the part he was playing:—“Look at me, now,” he would say,
laughing; “I, a German professor of dignity and position, have become a
Russian conspirator; and this peaceful town of Freiburg is the scene of a
plot!” Through his relations with the magistrate he knew how my case was
going on, and of course he kept me posted up.
At the first hearing of my case I made the following statement:—I was a
Russian student, and had come abroad in pursuit of my studies. I had
married here, and had one child. Hitherto I had lived in Switzerland, but
now I wished to remain in Freiburg, whither my wife, now in Zurich, was to
follow me. I lived partly by literary work, partly on private means. In
Switzerland I had attended the University as “hospitant” (an occasional
student at lectures).[12] As for my political opinions, when I left Russia they
were still somewhat undecided; but the influence of German literature had
led me to join the Social Democrats, and I had determined to assist, as far as
I could, in the propagating of their views in my own country.[13] When, for
various reasons, I had determined to live in Germany, I had brought with
me the publications found in my possession, meaning to sell them
eventually to the country people. They were not prohibited in Germany, and
their possession was in no possible sense an infringement of German law.
“And now,” I concluded, “in a free German town, in Frei-Burg, I have been
arrested with no legal justification, without any of the prescribed
formalities, I am subjected to all manner of indignities, and clapped into
gaol like a common malefactor. As if that were not enough, the police, with
no shadow of excuse, seized upon and arrested a lady of this town as if she
were a pickpocket or disturber of the peace. I may well ask, What difference
is there between this constitutional state of the German Empire and the
absolute despotism of Russia? No one could have been worse treated, even
in Russia!”
These words seemed to make some impression on the magistrate. He
walked up and down excitedly, while he dictated my statement to the clerk,
assured me repeatedly of his sympathy, and asserted his keen disapproval of
the way in which the police had behaved towards me and the young lady. At
one point he muttered, “Still, as Othello says, ‘The handkerchief, the
handkerchief!’” Herr Leiblen appeared to be quite on my side, and

Professor Thun told me later that he had declared the matter seemed to him
harmless enough; in his opinion here was a perfectly innocent person being
kept shut up in prison, and he hoped I should soon be set free. I had
therefore a well-grounded hope of obtaining my release in due course;
nevertheless doubts continued to arise, and thoughts of escape still haunted
me. With some slight help from outside it would probably have been by no
means difficult during these first days of my imprisonment.
One day, while I was still in this state of suspense betwixt hope and fear,
I was called into the visitors' room. I expected to find Professor Thun there,
and was surprised at being confronted by a man perfectly unknown to me.
He introduced himself by name (I cannot recollect it now), and informed
me that he was a lawyer, who had been engaged by my friends to undertake
my defence. He announced himself as a comrade, a member of the Social-
Democratic party, and invited me to be quite open with him, as my friends
had already told him everything concerning my past career. “You think of
attempting to escape?” he asked in a whisper; and when I assented he
continued quickly, “That would be a most fatal mistake. I have just seen the
minutes of your case; the affair is going splendidly for you. I have no doubt
you will soon be set at liberty. Why should you risk the dangers of a flight?
If the attempt were to fail you would be in an infinitely worse position than
now. I have been talking to the magistrate; he is convinced there is nothing
of any significance against you. As soon as inquiries in Switzerland have
elicited a satisfactory reply regarding your identity you will be released.”
“But,” I interposed, “supposing a simultaneous inquiry is set on foot in
Russia?”
“There is no ground whatever for such a proceeding,” replied the lawyer,
“and if it were contemplated we should get to know it somehow. Germany
is not Russia. With us legal proceedings are not secret. On the contrary, the
law provides that your trial shall be held in public, and all documents
relative to the case are without delay submitted to me as your counsel. In
such documents mention would be made if an understanding with the
Russian authorities were suggested. In our conduct of such cases it is
absolutely out of the question that such a weighty complication should be
kept private.”
“Yes,” I interrupted, “but how can you be sure that the police executive
will not put the political and administrative authorities in communication
with Russia?”

“The Government and the police would never combine in an affair of law
without some announcement. You were arrested because there were grounds
for supposing you in relation with persons who had made themselves liable
to prosecution by German law. If you are set free—as neither I nor the
magistrate have the slightest doubt that you will be—you will be discharged
unconditionally. There is nothing now to wait for but the establishment of
your identity in Switzerland. You may rely on this. As a German lawyer I
know all our legal methods; you, on the other hand, judge from Russian
conditions, which are altogether different.”
An inner voice said to me that the consistency of German law was not so
entirely to be trusted; but I had no rational ground for demur, as German
affairs of the kind were perfectly strange to me. And an attempt to escape,
although it might have been easily managed in the first instance, became
more risky as time went on. Though not quite abandoning the idea, these
considerations led me to set it aside for the moment, till we had some proof
of collaboration between the Russian and German Governments.
Apparently such a step could not be hidden from me; and I had the well-
known and influential Professor Thun on my side, who was on the best of
terms with the authorities both of town and state. News must reach me
through him if anything fresh were planned.

CHAPTER III
UNCERTAINTY—PRISON LIFE—THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR—A CHANGE OF CELLS

For some time longer I had to remain in the prison of Freiburg,
vacillating between the expectation of speedy release and the dread of
extradition. Every day I changed my mood a dozen, nay, a hundred times;
and this everlasting alternation had a most depressing effect. The days
dragged on, and seemed endless, although I tried to occupy myself by every
possible device. I was well supplied with books—my comrades and
Professor Thun saw to that—and I was accommodated with writing
materials. So I read much, and tried to put on paper my thoughts,
impressions, and recollections.
But it was not only uncertainty as to my own fate that worked on my
spirits: anxiety about my friends, and about the further development of our
“League for the Emancipation of Labour” troubled me. Our organisation
was only in its infancy; we were but a small band, and our means scanty. In
coming to Germany for the despatch of our first output over the Russian
border, I had planned at the same time to arrange for future transport. On
this account I had many duties to discharge, regarding not only money
matters, but organisation. I had also left behind me in Switzerland much
business that called for my return as soon as possible. All my comrades had
their hands full; time was precious to them all. And now not only was I
sitting here in prison, condemned to inaction, but all the other members of
our League were occupied with my affairs, and waiting about to see how
they could help me. The consciousness of this check to our work, and of
being its involuntary cause, oppressed me, and raised my impatience to the
highest pitch.
My state can easily be pictured if one imagines a man who has an
important and urgent affair to manage, and who suddenly breaks his leg, so
that instead of pressing on to the goal he must lie inert on a sick-bed. But in
that pitiable state he would be preoccupied with his physical suffering; and

I, being free from pain, was given over entirely to worry and distress of
mind.
The conditions of prison life left much to be desired. At first, particularly,
I found them hard to bear, till by degrees I accustomed myself to German
regulations. As I have already said, the cells were not lighted at night, and
there was nothing for a prisoner to do but to sleep away the long hours of
darkness, if he could. I afterwards learned that light was denied for fear of
fire, and on the same ground smoking was forbidden. What there was to
burn I could not imagine; for, except the doors, the window-frames, and the
floors, there was no wood, the building being of massive stone.[14]
The irksomeness of the long evenings without light, and the prohibition
of smoking, must for many people be not only a discomfort, but a hard
penance. Yet there should have been no question of punishment in this
prison, as only accused persons awaiting trial were detained there.
The behaviour of the prison officials towards the prisoners was anything
but tender. For instance, this is what took place on one of my first days.
Exercise in the prison yard was taken by all the inmates of one corridor at
the same time. We were trotted round in a continual goose-step, always a
certain number of paces distant each one from the other. One felt like a
horse being led round the riding-school by a rope. I found that many
prisoners regarded it as a humiliation, and preferred to forego the chance of
fresh air. One day during this walk the military guard was being changed in
the prison yard. The formalities of German drill were new to me, and
involuntarily I stopped a moment to look, thus upsetting our beautiful order
by not keeping at the correct distance between my preceder and follower;
besides, perhaps I also dropped out of line an inch or so. Suddenly I felt
someone seize me by the shoulder, abusing me violently. I scarcely knew
what was happening till I found myself being raged at by the warder in my
cell, whither he had whisked me off. The man was like one possessed, and
threatened to deprive me of exercise if I behaved as I had done. At first I
could not understand what frightful misdemeanour I had committed. When
it dawned on me that all this was because of my momentary pause, it was
my turn to show temper. I asked the man how he dared treat me so,
informed him that prisoner though I was I would not permit anyone to
knock me about or abuse me, and said that if such a harmless infringement
of discipline was looked on as an offence against German prison rules, it
was his plain duty to have warned me of the fact, and so on. This had its

effect; the man’s bearing instantly became milder, and thenceforward our
intercourse was on the most peaceful footing.
The prison rations were quite insufficient; there was never enough to
satisfy a full-grown man. If I remember rightly, they consisted of a pound
and a half of rye bread daily, and twice in the day a little soup or gruel.
Meat was only allowed twice a week in the first month, and that in
microscopic portions. Even the gaolers admitted that unless a prisoner had
means for providing himself with extra food, he would never get enough to
eat.
The cells on the first floor, one of which I first inhabited, were roomy,
bright, and clean. For furniture they were provided with a table, a stool, and
a bed, the latter having a mattress, straw pillow, and woollen covering. In
one corner of the room stood the stove, heated from the corridor and
surrounded by an iron grating intended to prevent escape by the chimney.
On the wall hung a copy of the regulations, whereby prisoners were
informed of the various penalties for the slightest departure from the rules.
All these rules were framed to spare the staff trouble, and to make the
business of looking after the inmates as simple as possible. The interest of
the inmates was not considered; they were not treated like people
unconvicted of crime, but rather as malefactors deserving punishment,
which the prison staff on their own responsibility had to see carried out in
their own way. I will give an instance.
One day I was conducted from my cell to a corridor on the ground-floor,
where a number of prisoners were already ranged along the wall, evidently
awaiting something. I was directed to a place. I wanted to know what was
happening; and after I had asked several times in vain, the gaoler told me
that the Catholic priest had come, and wished to speak to all the prisoners,
who would be taken to him one by one in order. I said that I was a Socialist
and had nothing to do with Catholic or any other priests. I therefore begged
to be taken back to my cell. This seemed to strike the man as irresistibly
comic, and he burst into an ironic laugh.
“What you want or don’t want is all the same to us. He wants to see you,
and so you will be taken to him.”
The warders who stood by were immensely tickled. They joked about the
Russian barbarian who came to a German prison and expected to have his
own opinions taken into account. So before the priest I went, but our
conversation was of the shortest. To his question about my religion I

answered that I was a Social Democrat, and belonged to no Church.
Whereupon he looked at me compassionately and dismissed me.
Another disagreeable feature of life in this prison was the system of
espionage. Often, when I was buried in my book or writing, a warder would
suddenly appear. He would creep along on tiptoe to open the door
noiselessly and spy round, probably designing to catch me if I were looking
out of the window—a diversion strictly forbidden by the rules. Not only
here, but in other German prisons that I have seen, the extravagant care with
which the prisoners and their things were inspected was perfectly
ridiculous. For instance, a dozen oranges sent me by my friends aroused the
suspicions of the warders, and they conscientiously cut up every single
orange into quarters to see if there were anything inside! So far as I know,
even Russian gendarmes have never given one credit for contriving a
hiding-place in an uncut orange or apple. The good people, however, do not
achieve their purpose, in spite of all their cleverness. The “kassiber,”[15] or
written message to or from prisoners, passes under their very noses. Nor
had I ever any difficulty in getting forbidden articles conveyed into any
German prison.
As I have said, the numerous petty formalities made me very impatient at
first, but I accustomed myself at last more or less to German prison
methods, and the officials dropped their over-zealous harshness towards
me, and became more confidential. The fact that I was a foreigner, a
Russian, rather interested them, as probably they had never even seen one
before. And then, however incorruptible a German official may be, the
possession of worldly resources cannot fail to influence him. The staff knew
that I was in command of money. The chief inspector, a man named Roth,
boarded me; and they knew I had everything that could mitigate the
hardness of my lot, that my friends, in fact, supplied me with all sorts of
little comforts and luxuries. This seemed to impress the prison staff, and I
also was for ever telling them I should certainly be released very soon. I
really almost believed it, and they seemed to do so, too—at any rate, for a
time.
The staff consisted of three men—two warders and the chief inspector,
who was also the governor of the gaol. All three often came to chat with
me; they asked me questions about Russia, and on their side related much
about German matters—prisons, laws, and other things in which they were
interested. They all impressed me as being perfectly contented with their

situations; indeed, their wages were comparatively high—up to 2,000 marks
(£100) and more a year, if I am not mistaken. The warder with whom I had
had the tiff recounted above paid me many visits. He, like the other two,
had been a soldier, and was therefore imbued with notions of strict military
discipline, which is the watchword throughout German prisons. Though in
outward appearance hard and even forbidding, he was really a good-natured
creature. Of his own initiative he asked me to let him have the remains of
my meals, to take to a neighbouring prisoner who was poor and often went
hungry through being unable to afford extra food. Of course I gladly
consented. This warder was a big, powerfully-built man, aged about thirty,
who had taken his present situation because he did not like his original trade
—that of a joiner. Like most German workmen, he had only been to a
Volksschule (public elementary school), but the instruction given there is far
better than in similar schools in my own country; and in comparison with
our workmen of like standing, he might be considered a highly intellectual
person. We talked over all sorts of things—politics among the rest—and he
told me he was a supporter of the existing Government—the National
Liberals, I think. My own attainments caused him great admiration,
especially my knowledge of French and German, as well as of my own
mother-tongue.
The way they dealt with my money was a little odd. As I have said, the
money in my pocket-book was taken possession of at the time of my arrest.
Some days later the inspector presented me with an account of expenditure.
It appeared that the police had been most generous on my behalf. A day’s
use of the room at the hotel, which I had barely seen, was paid for, and four
or five marks in addition as “compensation for disturbance.” Furthermore,
as the good people had not been able to open my second box, although they
had the key, they had paid a locksmith (very liberally too) to open it.
Naturally I made no objection to the bill, but I felt somewhat amused at
having to pay for the “disturbance” of my arrest, and the breaking open of
my own trunk!
Soon after my imprisonment I was taken to a photographer’s and
photographed. I did not like this at all, as I feared that my portrait might be
sent to Russia and recognised; but I could not make any protest, lest my
reasons should be suspected. The photograph was needed for the inquiry in
Switzerland, that by means of it I might be identified as Bulìgin. The Swiss
authorities certified that it did represent Bulìgin, with whose passport I

always travelled; so that part of the inquiry was got through safely. Also, the
proofs I adduced of my not being implicated in the doings of Yablonski and
his friend were accepted, and it was agreed that I had neither circulated
forbidden literature nor had had any in my possession. Weeks passed away
before these formalities were accomplished, and at last, nearly two months
after my arrest, the magistrate informed me that he should close the affair in
a few days, and that he himself was satisfied there were no grounds for my
prosecution. The decision lay with the Public Prosecutor,[16] who might
concur in this, and so release me at once; or he might after all think fit to
take the matter into court. In the latter event, however, the judge would
most probably uphold the finding of the magistrate; and even if against all
expectation a prosecution should be set up and a penalty enforced, the
sentence would be such as my term of imprisonment here would be held to
fulfil. In any case I might be certain my release was now only a question of
days. It seemed absurd to distrust this forecast, and it is but natural to
expect what one ardently desires; so I began to feel easy.
Some days after I was again sent for to the visitors’ room, where I found
Frau Axelrod and a grey-haired gentleman, the Public Prosecutor, Von Berg.
In stern tones he informed us that we were at liberty to converse, but only in
German; at the first Russian word he would separate us. This precaution,
and the whole behaviour of the grim old gentleman, did not quite bear out
the idea of speedy release for me; and knowing him to be acquainted with
the magistrate’s views, I wondered what his reasons were, but I was not
apprehensive. Frau Axelrod and I did not find much to say to each other
under this supervision, and our interview was brief.
I remember the next few days very well. On the morrow the inspector,
Roth, came and told me, in a most cheerful and friendly way, that I must
change over into a cell on the ground-floor, as the one in which I was had to
be renovated. He was quite apologetic, regretting that the other cell would
not be so comfortable for me. This change did not please me at all. My
plans of escape had all been based on the situation of my cell, and its being
on the first floor would have been no impediment. One of my friends had
hired a room in the opposite house, towards which the window of my cell
looked, so that at a pinch we could communicate by prearranged signals.
Besides these reasons of business, so to speak, on other grounds I was sorry
to quit my now familiar quarters. My associations with these four walls
were not all unpleasant, and looking out of the window had been my

greatest distraction. On market days many lively scenes were enacted
between buyers and sellers—peasants of the district. Sometimes military
exercises took place in the square, and the unfamiliar drill interested me.
But above all I loved to climb up to the window in the evenings to watch
the children, who, when twilight came on, always romped about the square,
playing all sorts of games. Their merry laughter and shouting took me back
to my home in South Russia and my own childish days.
All this came to an end with my change of lodging. My new cell was
dark, less roomy, and the window looked into the yard. This latter
circumstance made escape well-nigh impossible. I comforted myself with
the thought that the idea of flight was needless, and tried to reckon how
many days were likely to elapse before my release. I argued that my transfer
to another cell was probably in view of my departure, or else a mere
chance, necessary for the reason given me by the warder. But my friends
took it quite otherwise when they saw me no more at the window, and
thought I must be already on my way to Russia!

CHAPTER IV
THE VISIT OF “MY WIFE”—MORE PLANS OF ESCAPE—THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR
SHOWS HIS HAND—PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY

On one of the following days I was told there was someone to see me. No
sooner had I crossed the threshold of the visitors’ room than a young lady
threw herself, laughing and weeping, into my arms. It was Frau Bulìgin. As
I was in prison under her husband’s name, she had now come to play the
part of my wife; and so well did she play it as even to soften the heart of the
Public Prosecutor, who witnessed this moving scene of meeting between
such a young and loving pair. He left us alone for a moment, and only when
the first emotional greetings were over did he warn us that we must speak
German; but his tone was less stern and dry than at my first encounter with
him, when Frau Axelrod was there. Frau Bulìgin had at once whispered to
me that I must somehow contrive that we should speak Russian, as she had
important things to talk about. I therefore begged Herr von Berg to let us
speak in our own language.
“I cannot,” he said shortly; “you both seem able to speak German quite
well enough to understand one another.”
“You must allow,” said I, “that however well a man speaks a foreign
tongue, when he meets his wife after weeks of imprisonment and in
circumstances like mine, he wants to speak freely. We cannot talk of family
affairs in German. But,” I continued, “if you insist about this, though I
cannot understand by what law nor for what reason, could you not let
Professor Thun be present as he would understand all we said in Russian?”
After some further demur he at last relented so far as to say that though
he would not request Professor Thun’s attendance himself, not being in any
way bound to do so, yet if the professor chose to do us such a favour, we
might then be permitted to speak Russian. Of course I would not betray my
relations with Professor Thun, so I carefully inquired his address, that my
wife might take him a message.

“Your wife shall be given it in my office,” said Herr von Berg. So he and
Frau Bulìgin departed, and I was taken back to my cell.
After a short interval I was sent for again, and found Professor Thun with
the others. I had not seen him for some time, as he had been away for his
Easter holidays; besides, his official duties as translator had come to an end,
and my case being now in the hands of the Public Prosecutor, he had not the
same freedom of access to me. Frau Bulìgin told me that she had hurried
hither because of the great anxiety felt about me by my comrades. Russian
spies were closely watching all my friends and acquaintances in Geneva;
showing my photograph (which of course strongly resembled that sent from
Freiburg by the police), and asking where I was. From this my friends
concluded that the Russian Government was already on my track; they
feared that if my imprisonment lasted much longer my real identity would
certainly be discovered, and they therefore begged me to try and effect my
escape. We talked over every chance, and tried to work out a plan, Professor
Thun taking the warmest interest, and making many suggestions. But, as I
said before, absolutely no plans were feasible from the cell I was in now;
and I will not trouble to describe those we discussed, except to repeat that
Professor Thun played an important part in them all, even undertaking to
provide me with a key to the outer door of the prison. The personal risk he
was willing to accept, or even court, was great; yet this was the man who
had at one time avowed his desire of handing me over to Russian justice!
After eighteen years it is scarcely comprehensible to me, spite of my lively
recollection of his kindness and sympathy.
The Public Prosecutor, Von Berg, who remained in the room during all
this confabulation, played rather a comical part. Of course, he understood
not a word, as we spoke Russian; but whenever we laughed he smiled
indulgently, as if amused at us. I cannot imagine what would have been the
feelings of this painfully correct and stern old gentleman if he had known
the chief cause of our merriment, which was simply that we had to concoct
the report of our conversation with which Professor Thun was subsequently
to regale his worship.
When we had finished our consultations, which lasted rather a long time,
Frau Bulìgin took a very tender farewell of me. She thanked Von Berg for
having allowed us to speak Russian, and asked him how soon he thought I
should be released. I think he told her that he believed the case would be
concluded in a few days, mentioning the date. In any case, he added, if I

were set free I should be handed over to the police to be conducted over
whatever frontier was convenient—the Swiss, he supposed, being the
nearest.
I held fast to the hope that it really would be so, and tried to stifle the
doubts that persisted in rising. It was certainly pleasanter to dream of
prospective freedom, than to brood over the consequences of extradition to
Russia, or even of being set over the Russian border. The sight of Frau
Bulìgin had aroused keen longings for liberty; fancy painted joyful pictures,
my thoughts dwelt on my friends and my work. Mentally I lived through
many scenes of welcome, and saw our circle setting to work with redoubled
energy at our “League for the Emancipation of Labour.” I planned out to the
smallest detail how I would make up for my enforced idleness. I lived only
in the future, and looked on the dreary present as if it were a long-vanished
past, a disagreeable episode that I and mine could talk over as far behind us.

“To-day the order for my release will be made out.” I remember how I
awoke on a certain May morning with this thought in my mind, and
instantly began to conjecture in what manner the announcement would be
made to me.
“You are to go to the Public Prosecutor,” said the warder, breaking in on
my visions.
“It is for my formal discharge,” was my first thought; “the man is
keeping his word. Strange that the judge has been so quick in pronouncing
his decision; it is still quite early,” I meditated, as I went along the corridor.
In the office sat Herr von Berg at a table; beside him was a young clerk,
and the table was covered with bundles of documents.
“To-day, as you are aware,” said the Public Prosecutor, turning to me,
“judgment was to be given on your case. Before I inform you of the verdict,
I must again have your assurance that your name is Bulìgin, and your home
Moscow.”
“Certainly. I am Bulìgin, of Moscow,” I answered.
“Read the document relating to that point,” said the Public Prosecutor to
the clerk. The latter read aloud in dry, business-like tones a communication,
apparently emanating from some Moscow official, stating curtly that there
was no person of the name of Bulìgin answering to the description given.[17]
“What have you to say to this?” asked Herr von Berg coldly.

I felt that the blood had left my cheeks, and that my knees were
trembling; but I pulled myself together at once, and began to defend myself,
speaking rapidly, warmly, and earnestly.
I saw my critical situation, and felt the ground slipping from under my
feet. My fear of communications with the Russian Government was
justified, and it was now a fight for life. I had so often dreaded this
eventuality, that my plan of defence was prepared.
“Listen!” I cried. “I declare to you that I am Bulìgin; but I confess that I
do not come from Moscow, and that the other particulars I gave you about
myself were false. This amount of deception was forced upon me,
foreseeing as I did the course that might be taken by the authorities here,
and knowing too well what Russian methods are. You do not know those
methods, and I must explain. It often happens that people are denounced to
the gendarmerie for having a prohibited book in their possession. Not only
are they themselves arrested, but everyone who has consorted with them is
liable to arrest, and anyone whose address is found in their rooms. Their
houses are watched, and everyone who visits them is seized. Whole families
are persecuted in this way, and think themselves lucky if they get off at last
after untold annoyance. Quite innocent people are often in prison for
months. When I came from democratic Switzerland to constitutional
Germany, with no intention of contravening German law, little did I expect
to meet with an experience which shows me that, at any rate as regards
foreigners, there is not much to choose between Germany and Russia in
some of their dealings. I find to my cost that without any legal formalities
the police may arrest and imprison whom they choose; that they can make a
domiciliary search without a warrant, and may treat a harmless traveller as
if he were a criminal. I was kept in gaol for two days without being brought
before a magistrate; I saw a young lady seized in the street and brought to
the prison, just as if in Russia. What ground had I for trusting the
magistrate’s assurance that there would only be an ordinary judicial
inquiry? I took it for granted that the police, as with us in Russia, could
override the administrators of the law, and that the police would be in
correspondence with the Russian authorities. This document proves that I
was right.
“Well, then, if I had given the true facts about myself, the police, as is
evident, would have handed them on to their Russian confrères, who, of
course, when they heard I had been arrested here because I had two boxes

of books forbidden in Russia, (though not in Germany,) would have started
their usual game in the town whence I really come. My people would have
been subjected to annoyance; my brothers and sisters, who share my views,
would perhaps have been found possessed of forbidden literature, and
clapped into gaol along with many others. Russia is not a constitutional
country, and therefore I was obliged to guard myself by suppressing
particulars here that might have been used against my friends there.”
“You assert, then,” said the Public Prosecutor scornfully, “that you are
Bulìgin, but that you do not come from Moscow; and you refuse to give the
name of your native place?”
“Yes, I refuse for the reasons I have stated.”
“Read the next report,” said Herr von Berg, and the clerk read aloud:—
“The prisoner now in the State prison of Freiburg, calling himself
Bulìgin, is in reality Leo Deutsch, who in May, 1876, attempted—in
conjunction with Jakob Stefanòvitch—to murder Nicholas Gorinòvitch.
Therefore the Government of His Majesty the Emperor of Russia, through
their representative in the dominions of His Highness the Grand Duke of
Baden, demand the extradition of both the aforesaid persons. And at the
same time His Majesty’s Government consider themselves bound to draw
the attention of the German authorities to the fact that the aforesaid Leo
Deutsch has several times already broken out of prison, and should
therefore be most jealously watched, both during his incarceration and
while being transported to Russia.”
I have transcribed this document almost literally, for though nearly two
decades have passed since that moment, it seems present to me this day.
“It’s all up with me,“ I thought, and torturing visions rose before me.
“What reply have you to make?” I heard the dry question of the Public
Prosecutor, and saw his malicious smile of triumph.
With a tremendous effort I collected myself.
“What I have just heard read,” I said as calmly as I could, “scarcely
surprises me. It bears out all I have been told as to the methods of the
Russian Government. Their game is clear. When they want to get hold of a
harmless Russian Socialist who has been arrested in a constitutional country
they will not allow that he is the person he claims to be, but give him the
name of someone implicated in a serious crime. This is nothing new. For
example, Rumania was induced in this way to deliver up a certain Katz,
who was then immediately exiled to Siberia by ‘administrative methods,’ as

is said in Russia, that is, without any judicial process. Evidently they are
doing just the same in my case. The best proof of this lies in this document
itself. You see there that the Government not only demands the extradition
of Deutsch, but also of Stefanòvitch, although the latter was long ago
arrested in Russia and sent to penal servitude in the Siberian mines, and
although his complicity in the attempt against Gorinòvitch never came into
question at his trial. It is plain that the extradition of Stefanòvitch is asked
for in order that on the next opportunity some peaceful Socialist may be
claimed as being he. What I am telling you would be confirmed by
Professor Thun, who not only is acquainted with Russian ways, but has
particularly studied our revolutionary movement.”
This ended the interview. When I was back in my cell, and could collect
my thoughts, I felt completely crushed. My extradition seemed certain, and
escape my only hope. But that this hope was futile I quickly discovered.
Following the Russian Government’s warning as to my having often broken
out of prison before (as a matter of fact I had done so twice),[18] a special
warder was now posted at my door, with instructions not to stir from the
spot, and to watch my every movement. The other warders also were told to
keep an eye on me, and—what had never happened before—the chief
inspector, Roth, had been present at the interview described above.
Soon after midday I was again taken before the Public Prosecutor. This
time he seemed more graciously inclined, and treated me with as near an
approach to geniality as could be expected from such an arid man of law.
He informed me that Professor Thun had endorsed my description of
Russian judicial proceedings; and he then continued, “It is possible that an
injustice is being done you in ascribing to you the crime spoken of in the
communication of the Russian Government, and I am prepared to assist you
in defending yourself. You must understand that in Germany it is no part of
a Public Prosecutor’s duties to pass sentence, but he has to get at the truth,
and to discharge persons who are unjustly accused. Give me any particulars
that would tend to exonerate you, and I will do what I can for you.”
This change in the behaviour of the Public Prosecutor was evidently
owing to Professor Thun’s influence. I knew quite well that there was not
much left to hope for now, but I saw I should try to make use of Herr von
Berg’s more favourable attitude to gain a little time. If my extradition could
be delayed I might yet find some opportunity of escape. So I gratefully
accepted the Public Prosecutor’s offer, and begged him to let me have an

opportunity of consultation with my lawyer and the official translator, as I
myself had no acquaintance with the forms of German law. Meanwhile, I
said, I could tell him at once how I hoped to prove I was not Deutsch; I had
reason to believe that he was in London, and if my friends there could find
him, he would no doubt be quite willing to give his testimony in my behalf.
(I was hoping, with the help of Professor Thun, to arrange that one of the
Russian refugees in London should play the part of Deutsch, i.e. of myself.)
Herr von Berg informed me that the granting of this request lay with the
Minister of Justice, to whom he would apply; and with this our interview
terminated.

Events now took on a lively pace. Before this I had sometimes had weeks
to wait between the acts of my drama, and had often longed for the next
hearing, that I might at least know what was going on. Now, however,
things went faster than I cared for. The next day I was again called before
the Public Prosecutor. This time, with Herr von Berg, his clerk, and
inspector Roth, who stood sentinel at the door, I found a man, strange to
me, dressed in the uniform of a Russian officer of justice, with a glittering
order in his buttonhole.
“Good morning, Deutsch! Don’t you know me?” asked the unknown in
Russian, with an agreeable smile. “I am the Deputy Public Prosecutor in the
Petersburg Court of Appeal. My name is Bogdanòvitch, and you must
remember me, for I was Deputy Public Prosecutor in Kiëv when you were a
prisoner there.”
“I have never been in prison at Kiëv; and I have not the pleasure of
knowing you,” I answered quietly. And indeed I had never set eyes on the
gentleman before.
“There is no doubt about it, he is Deutsch,” said Bogdanòvitch, turning to
his German colleagues.
“And I declare that I am not,” said I.
“We prefer to believe Herr von Bogdanòvitch,” said Herr von Berg. “You
shall go back to Russia.”
“Then this is what you are doing,” cried I, “you are giving the Russian
Government another opportunity of banishing an innocent man to Siberia.”
“We never send innocent people to Siberia,” said Bogdanòvitch
promptly.

“You not only send them to Siberia, but to the scaffold,” I cried. “You say
that you belonged to the staff of the Kiëv law courts; then you must have
heard of the judicial murder of an innocent boy, the student Rozòvsky,
which took place there. Perhaps you were concerned in the case. He was
hanged, in spite of the fact that the judge himself allowed his only offence
to lie in the possession of a proclamation, the authors of which he refused to
name.”[19]
“Rozòvsky was not executed solely on that account,” said Bogdanòvitch,
smiling at the Public Prosecutor, “but because he belonged to the Socialist
party.”
“You see!” I cried, turning to Herr von Berg, “in Germany members of
the Socialist party sit in the Reichstag, and take part in your legislation; but
according to the views of a Russian law-officer, and of the Russian
Government, mere suspicion of being a Socialist, let alone proof, is enough
to send one to the gallows!”
The two gentlemen could not easily answer this, and on the German
lawyer it seemed to make a distinct impression. I saw, however, that the
self-important Herr von Berg found the presence of the Deputy Public
Prosecutor from the Petersburg Appeal Courts rather imposing. From time
to time his glance rested on the glittering order worn by the official; in
addressing the Russian his voice took on an affability hitherto strange to it;
and his painful efforts to pronounce the difficult name correctly were really
comic. Apparently in order to show off his own importance and zeal to the
stranger, he remarked to me severely—
“I see that you are not backward in finding excuses, and for this reason
are trying to paint the Government of your country in the most lurid
colours. But whatever you may think of it, it is to that Government you
must be surrendered, and I am convinced you will be treated in Russia with
all legal equity.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly!” Bogdanòvitch hastened to assure him.
I was led back to my cell, and what I suffered in mind during the next
few days I need not describe; the reader can well imagine it. It was clear to
me that all hope of release was gone; yet I could not resign myself to the
thought, and my brain was always busy with plans of rescue. I counted on
the time that must necessarily be absorbed in making out the terms of my
extradition, and concocted a long letter of conspiracy to my friends, hoping
to forward it through Professor Thun. Two or three days went by before I

could get it finished; and meanwhile I was again called before the Public
Prosecutor, although the day was Sunday. Evidently things were being
hurried on.
“The Government have decided to deliver you up to Russia,” he began,
“but on this condition: that you shall be brought before a regular tribunal,
and only prosecuted on the count of the Gorinòvitch case.[20] Your request
for an interview with your lawyer and the interpreter is refused.”
After he had read me the decision of the Baden Government, Herr von
Berg informed me that I was to start for Russia that very day. As I left him I
remarked that I should certainly be sent before a special court and judged
by martial law.
“That is quite impossible,” was his rejoinder; “it would be a
contravention of the treaty and contrary to international law.”
Once alone in my cell, I began preparations for my journey. These were
not so simple as might be supposed. Notwithstanding the excessive care
with which everything sent me by my friends was inspected, I had become
possessed of an English file for cutting through iron gratings, a pair of
scissors to cut my hair and beard in case of need, and also money in
German and Russian banknotes. I had to dispose of these things somehow.
The file I decided to part with, as it was now hardly likely to be of any use,
and would be hard to conceal; so I broke it in two and threw it down the
waste-pipe of the closet. The other things I managed to secrete in such a
manner that I should be able to avail myself of them if I had occasion on the
journey. The warder at the cell-door never let me out of his sight; yet I
managed to hide them in my clothes so that there was a chance of their
escaping the searchers. All this was like the drowning man’s clutch at a
straw. I did not deceive myself as to the strict watch to which I should be
subjected, and the futility of any hope of speedy rescue. But in such
circumstances even useless precautions serve at least to distract one’s
thoughts, and my thoughts were not of the pleasantest. I knew what was
before me, and pictured my future. Long, long years of prison! It was
almost more bearable to think of death than of that living grave.
“Of what use would my life be?” I asked myself; and the answer was
devoid of consolation.

CHAPTER V
THE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA—IN THE CATTLE-TRUCK—THE FRANKFORT AND BERLIN
PRISONS—THE FRONTIER-STATION—THROUGH WARSAW TO PETERSBURG

When evening came I was sent off in a closed carriage, accompanied by
two policemen in plain clothes, who had been enjoined to use all possible
vigilance. The carriage was stopped at a branch of the railway line some
distance from the station, and here my companions and I were put into an
ordinary cattle-truck. As this truck was brought into the station, where it
was attached to a passenger train, I observed an unusual commotion on the
platform, and my guards, who noticed it too, whispered together excitedly.
From chance words that I caught I gathered that an arrest was being made,
and wondered if it could have anything to do with me. Years afterwards I
learned that it was indeed two of my comrades who were seized on the
platform at Freiburg, they having hoped to travel by my train and be at hand
to assist me if I could attempt an escape. But this was another fiasco. My
two friends were kept some days in prison in Freiburg, and then sent back
to Switzerland.
Towards morning we arrived at Frankfurt-am-Main, where for some
reason or other I was again put in prison. The governor of this gaol made a
great show of kindness and consideration towards me, but had his own
reasons for such tactics, as will subsequently appear. When I asked if I
might write a post card to my friends in Switzerland, he assured me most
obligingly that it should be forwarded at once, and furnished me with
writing materials. (Later I found that he had handed over the card to my
guards, who sent it to the Russian authorities; but, of course, it only
contained a few words of greeting.)
The cell to which he conducted me was very comfortable, and looked out
on a lively street; but he posted two policemen in the room to keep watch
over me. He then provided me with an excellent luncheon—or at least it
seemed very good to me, as during the last day or two excitement had kept

me from eating. Seeing that the journey threatened to be tedious, I wanted
to get some books, and the obliging governor offered to buy them for me at
a second-hand shop, where they would be cheap. I remember choosing a
few German and French classics, which he procured for me at what I
thought a reasonable price. Finally, he invited me to go for a walk in the
yard with him.
As soon as we were alone he began giving me a very prolix account of all
his experiences, and then suddenly asked me point-blank if I were not really
the famous Degàiev.[21]
I could not help laughing heartily: the assiduous friendliness of this
worthy, who, as a matter of fact, was always looking out for his own
advancement, appeared now in quite a new light. Apart from the fact that
(as I heard afterwards from the policemen in my cell) he drew a
considerable profit, not only from my food, but even on the books he got
me, he also had his eye on the reward he would receive if he could induce
me to confess to being Degàiev. The Russian Government had put a price of
10,000 roubles on that man’s head, and his name was in every European
newspaper.
I stayed in this prison until nightfall, when I was fetched away by three
policemen in plain clothes. Every time that my guards were changed I was
searched, but nothing was found. Before starting on our journey, the
Frankfort police put chains on me, not heavy or thick, and quite
inconspicuous, as they were attached under my clothes; but they hindered
any quick movement, and of course made running impossible. I protested
vehemently against this indignity; but they declared they had received
special instructions, and had no choice in the matter, so I had to submit.
Even this was not their final precaution. When we passed on to the railway
platform, one man, a giant in stature, took me by the arm in a friendly way;
another went a few steps in front, and the third came a little behind, so that
we must have appeared to the uninitiated like a trio of boon companions.
We installed ourselves in a carriage among the ordinary travellers, and it
probably never dawned on any of them that they were sitting cheek by jowl
with a fettered prisoner. I could not help thinking of the proverb used by our
Russian peasants to describe German ingenuity:—“The Germans are too
clever for anything; they’ve even invented apes!” I must say that my
guardians behaved very civilly to me, although with formal strictness. So
far as their orders permitted, they showed me many little kindnesses. In the

Begleitschein with which I was given into their custody I was entered as
“the so-called Bulìgin,” and by this name I went until I was handed over to
the Russians.
There was no thinking of escape on this journey. My escort never let me
out of their sight for a second, never stirred from my side, and watched my
slightest movements. They did not enter into conversation with me, nor had
I any inclination to gossip with them. I felt heavy at heart, enervated, and
exhausted. My mind seemed dormant, nothing attracted my attention during
the whole journey; I seemed to hear and see nothing that went on around
me, but to lie wrapped in a dreary apathy. “What must be must be,” I said to
myself, if a thought of the future arose. Reaction had set in after the painful
excitement of the last days in Freiburg.
The following day we arrived in Berlin, where I was at once taken to
prison. Which prison it was I do not know, but I remember what a gloomy
impression it produced upon me. The dark cell, (into which no direct light
could penetrate owing to the high wall opposite the window,) and the sour-
faced warders, who never seemed to look one straight in the eyes, forced on
me the thought that people who were compelled to inhabit this place for
long were much to be pitied. I have made acquaintance with many prisons,
both in Russia and Western Europe, but never felt so thoroughly despondent
as in this Berlin gaol. Everything seemed intended to make one feel: “You
are in Berlin, the capital of military Prussia, where inflexible rule and iron
discipline are the watchwords applying to the smallest detail.”
The policemen who had brought me from Frankfort never left me alone
even in my prison cell, keeping watch over me by turns. And I must say that
I was glad of this. Their company was not exactly enlivening, but the
presence of another human being mitigated the dreariness of the prison
atmosphere. Fortunately I was not detained here long, and I was truly
thankful when evening came, and I was once more on my travels, attended
by the same escort. Next morning we were in Russia.
The frontier station where I was to be delivered over to the Russian
authorities is called Granitza, a place where three empires meet—Germany,
Austria, and Russia. As I was to be taken straight on to Petersburg, this was
a very roundabout way to have come, and I suppose it must have been
chosen from fear of a rescue being attempted at the frontier. This is the
more likely, as shortly before the Polish Socialist, Stanislas Mendelssohn,
had—aided by his friends—escaped from the Prussian police at another

frontier station (Alexandrovo, I think), just as his surrender to the Russians
was to be effected. He got safe through to Switzerland.
I remember my sensations well. It was a lovely May morning, and the
sunshine gave me renewed strength. I had scarcely descended from the train
with my German guards, when I was surrounded by a crowd of Russian
gendarmes.
“Good morning, Deutsch! good morning, sir! Here you are at last! We
have been expecting you for ever so long!” were their greetings. I saw
round me the fresh, smiling faces of young Russian peasant lads,
surmounting the hated dark blue uniform. Their free, familiar bearing made
me smile back at them as if old friends were welcoming me.
“How do you know me?” I asked them, as we went towards the
gendarmes’ quarters.
“Oh, of course we know you; we’ve heard such a lot about you!” cried
several. “Will you come and have some tea at once, or brush the dust off
first?” they asked, and vied with each other in doing the agreeable and
making me at home. It was a curious contrast to the manners of my German
guards. The Russians were frank and simple; there was something of even
friendly confidence in their behaviour. To the German police I was a
dangerous criminal, who went about under false names. They had their
orders, and followed them rigidly, not troubling themselves with anything
beyond that, hoping thereby to gain a reward (as I gathered from their
whispered talk when they supposed me asleep). To the Russian gendarmes,
[22]
who never have anything to do with common criminals, I was a
“political offender,” a “State prisoner” (as we call it), whose name they had
heard so often that they looked on me quite as an old acquaintance. I had
not been in Russia for four years, and the first persons I met from whom I
heard my mother tongue were gendarmes. The reader will be able to
understand my mingled feelings. Any uninitiated person glancing into the
room where I sat before the steaming samovar, refreshing myself with tea,
and gossiping with the gendarmes standing round, might have thought we
were a party of old friends enjoying a cosy chat.
“Well, what’s it like in foreign parts?—not so nice as here, eh?” asked the
lads; and I related how in “foreign parts” it was ever so much nicer than at
home, in many ways. But that they would not allow to be possible, and we
disputed about it, till at last everyone present, ten or twelve men, were all
talking at once. When this topic was exhausted I asked what was the news

at home, what was happening? They then described excitedly how all
Russia had just been celebrating the majority of the heir-apparent, the
present Tsar.
The German police having fulfilled their commission and handed me
over with bag and baggage, had departed, probably somewhat disappointed,
for no reward had been given them—in Granitza, at least. After some hours
an officer of the gendarmerie appeared, and commanded some of the men to
be ready to escort me, as I was to go on by the next train. I saw that he gave
over to one of them the money that had been taken from me by the German
police. Unobserved, I immediately drew out the Russian money I had
concealed about me, and then handed it to the officer, for I feared it might
be discovered if I were carefully searched. He was greatly surprised, and
asked if I had never been searched in Germany. He then ordered me to be
searched again, which was done with every care; but all the same, the rest
of my German money and the scissors were not found.
Three gendarmes accompanied me on the journey to Petersburg. In
Warsaw, where we arrived during the night, a colonel of gendarmerie was
awaiting me. Like most of his kind, he was very polite and ready to
converse.
“You were concerned in the Tchigirìn case?” he began; and when I
assented, he continued confidentially, “Ah, that was a long while ago.
Wasn’t it at the time of the Polish rising? Well, then, you will have the
benefit of the coronation amnesty; they won’t have much against you.”
At the time of the Polish insurrection, in 1863, I was only eight years old.
This is an illustration of how much many of the officers of gendarmerie
know about the political trials which are supposed to be their own special
business. This friendly sympathy did not prevent him, of course, from
giving my escort the strictest orders about my treatment, as I could hear
when seated in the carriage. “Be sure you don’t fall asleep!” he whispered.
The gendarmes, however, did not allow this to trouble their minds much,
but continued to treat me in a very easy-going fashion, and did not manifest
any fear of my running away.
When we arrived in Petersburg a captain of gendarmerie met us, and took
me at once in a closed carriage to the Fortress of Peter and Paul.

FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL, ST. PETERSBURG
To face page 48

CHAPTER VI
THE FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL—THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR AS COMPATRIOT—A
HARD-HEARTED DOCTOR—A FLEETING ACQUAINTANCE

A strange feeling came over me when I saw that I was being conveyed to
this prison, used by the Government of the Tsars for political offenders
only; a place never spoken of in Russia without a shudder. I approached it
with dark forebodings, but these gave place to interest. I knew well that a
cruel severity ruled in this place, but I could not help being curious to
experience it personally. The reality fully answered to my expectations.
I was taken at once to a room where the governor of the prison, Colonel
Lesnik of the gendarmerie, ordered me to strip to the skin. A couple of
gendarmes examined me carefully, and then gave me, instead of my own
clothes, prison under-linen, a striped cotton gown, such as is worn in
hospitals, and a pair of slippers. My own clothes and other things were
taken away. I was then shut up in a cell on the ground floor.
Everything goes on here in utter silence; not a word is heard, the stillness
is intense. No one could imagine that men lived here year after year; it felt
like a house of the dead. Only the chimes of the clock broke upon the ear,
sounding out every quarter of an hour the national hymn, “How glorious is
our Lord in Zion!”
The cell was large, but dark, as the window was high up in the wall. It
was cold, despite the May weather, for the sunshine never entered here, and
the walls were damp. Besides the iron bedstead with its straw mattress,
pillow, and thin woollen covering, there were an iron table and a stool, both
chained to the wall, and the customary evil-smelling tub. Even at three
o’clock in the afternoon darkness reigned, although at this season
Petersburg enjoys its “bright nights,” when it never gets really dark.
Reading was not to be thought of. Above everything I was sensible of the
extreme cold, partly due to the situation of the cell, but chiefly to the
insufficiency of my clothing. To warm myself I marched up and down from

one corner to the other till I was tired; but hardly had I sat down a minute
than I began to freeze again all over. Even in bed I felt the same penetrating
cold, for the blanket was very thin.
My rations consisted of about two pounds of black bread, and for dinner
at midday two dishes, which were not bad, but insufficient in quantity—
always half cold, moreover, as all the food had to be brought a long way. As
an unconvicted prisoner I could have provided myself with better
accommodation at my own expense; but that was impossible at first,
because the gendarmes who brought me had given over my luggage and my
money to the officer of gendarmerie, and he had delivered it to the Central
Department of the State Police. The worst of this was that it meant the loss
of my spectacles, and therefore I could not read, another privilege to which
I had a right, as an unconvicted prisoner. This made the days, and the nights
too, seem interminable. I did everything I could think of to occupy myself. I
tried arithmetical problems, of course in my head, for writing materials
were not allowed; I related my own history as an exercise of memory; and
at last I hit on the plan of “publishing” a newspaper. When I had got
through washing and dressing in the morning, I ate a piece of bread, and
then “read my paper.” First came a leading article on some question of the
day, then the summary of news, gossip of the town, notes, etc. After some
days, of course, my “copy” began to run short, and the contents of my
journal became very uninteresting. The reading of it could not occupy the
whole day, and I was often, too, kept awake at night by the cold; so I filled
in my time by running up and down, up and down, like a beast in its cage.
Outdoor exercise brought little relief from the eternal solitude; it was
only taken every other day, and lasted a very short while. The time allowed
was but a quarter of an hour, including dressing and undressing, my own
clothes being brought to me for these occasions. My walks took place in a
yard enclosed with high walls, where no one was to be seen but gendarmes
and sentries. The slightest attempt to converse with them was forbidden, or
even that they should answer the simplest question. If one asked anything
they stared straight in one’s face and were dumb.
After some days, however, an occupation provided itself; I became aware
of a gentle knocking, perceptible at a slight distance from the wall. When I
was in prison before I had learned to use this means of communication with
my fellow-captives, and the alphabetical code at once came back to me.[23]

It is difficult to describe my joy when I heard the familiar sounds, and
supposed they must be addressed to myself, but I was soon undeceived. I
began to knock back, but found out at once that the signals were not meant
for me; two friends were having conversation, and they would not answer
my attempts to introduce myself. This knocking was strictly forbidden, and
they hesitated to admit an unknown person to their company, fearing to be
entrapped, and deprived of further intercourse. I was obliged to content
myself with making out what these two said to each other in their short
conversations, but it was only stereotyped, often-recurring phrases: “Good
morning,” “How have you slept?” “What are you doing?” and the answers:
“Well,” “Drinking tea,” etc. I envied them the exchange of such
insignificant speeches. I never discovered whether they were two men or
two women, or a man and a woman.
I do not know how long it was before I underwent my first examination,
it must have been about eight or ten days. Until then, from the first moment
I arrived in Russia, I had not officially been even asked my name. Like a
box or parcel coming from abroad, I had been passed on from hand to hand
with my official form of consignment, no one caring to learn who I was.
The gendarmes appeared to know that I had taken the name of Bulìgin,
being in reality Deutsch; but they had no idea with what I was charged, and
did not seem interested to find out. Besides, in the Fortress of Peter and
Paul names were not necessary—were even useless—for one was never
spoken to, intercourse was carried on by gestures only.
One morning my clothes were brought me, as I supposed for the
customary walk, but I was led into a room where at a table covered with a
blue cloth sat three men dressed like functionaries of the law. I was given a
chair, and one of them informed me he was the examining magistrate “in
specially grave cases” at the Petersburg law courts. His own name was
Olshàninov, and he introduced one of his companions as the Public
Prosecutor, Mouraviev;[24] the name of the third he did not tell me.
Then began the hearing of the case. To the usual questions concerning
name, etc., I answered the truth. I knew I had nothing now either to lose or
to gain. I told the whole story of the assault on Gorinòvitch, of course not
giving the name of any other person concerned, and not attempting to
excuse myself in the least. I knew I could injure no one now by telling the
whole affair, for all who were in any way connected with it had been
sentenced five years back; and as to myself, it could make no difference, for

by the terms of the extradition treaty between Russia and Baden the
conditions of my prosecution were strictly laid down. In the interests of
historical accuracy I considered it right that this episode in our movement
should be correctly described.
During the hearing, which was conducted by the magistrate, the official
whose name had not been mentioned addressed several questions to me. I
did not recognise him at first, but later it appeared that I had known him at
Kiëv, where—in 1877—he took part in my trial. His name was
Kotliarèvsky; he was then Deputy Public Prosecutor in Kiëv, and now filled
the same post at the Petersburg Appeal Courts, where he had to conduct the
political cases in particular. It will thus be seen that this was the real owner
of the position which Bogdanòvitch had falsely claimed when pretending to
identify me at Freiburg. Although Kotliarèvsky was in very bad odour with
the revolutionists, and had been shot at by Ossìnsky in 1878, I was in a way
glad to meet him in this gloomy place, for, at any rate, his face was a
familiar one. And he behaved in a very friendly way to me. We were soon
deep in conversation, recounting our respective experiences since we had
last met. That we might not disturb the magistrate, who was making out the
protocol, we sat a little apart, and chatted quite comfortably. Kotliarèvsky
remarked that I had altered very much; “and not only in outward
appearance, I mean,” he said, “your whole character seems to me changed.”
That might well be. Kotliarèvsky was noted for keen observation, and this
faculty was very useful to him in his peculiar sphere.
“Do you remember what a hot-headed young fellow you were? How you
once nearly threw an ink-bottle at my head?”
I remembered the incident perfectly, and saw why he referred to it. When
I was at Kiëv I was in a high state of nervous excitability, and in
consequence was often hasty and irritable. Partly because of this, and partly
because I was a member of the “Buntari,” in whose programme was
included a continual warfare against all recognised authorities, Kotliarèvsky
and I once came to loggerheads. The point of dispute was the signing of a
protocol, which I absolutely refused to do. In a towering passion I seized
the ink-bottle, and was quite ready to hurl it at him had he persisted in
trying to force me; but he saw my intention, and keeping quite composed,
called the warder and whispered something to him. Seeing the man hasten
away, I thought he had gone for the guard to put me in confinement. Great
was my surprise and joy, therefore, when after a few minutes the door

opened, and my friend Stefanòvitch[25] appeared on the threshold. It was a
delight to us both, for although in the same prison, we had not hitherto been
allowed to meet.
“Will you kindly pacify your comrade?” said Kotliarèvsky, turning to
Stefanòvitch. “His nerves seem a little overstrained.”
I learned thus to appreciate the adroitness of this man, and thanked him
now for his considerate treatment of me on that occasion, which seemed to
gratify him.
In the course of our conversation I expressed my surprise that although I
had been surrendered by Germany as an ordinary criminal, only to be
proceeded against as such, they had brought me to the Fortress of Peter and
Paul, which everyone knows is reserved for “politicals.” “Neither do I
understand,” I added, “why I have been brought to Petersburg, when the
deed for which I am to answer was committed in Odessa, and according to
law the trial should take place there.”
Kotliarèvsky gave me no answer on this point, but he promised to see
about my being allowed to provide myself with more comforts from my
own purse, and said he would speak to Plehve,[26] the chief of the Central
Department of the State Police.
Shortly after this Colonel Lesnik gave me a more comfortable cell on the
first floor, and henceforward he treated me somewhat better. Two days later
he told me that my money and luggage had arrived from the police
department, so I could now purchase food and tobacco. I congratulated
myself even more on getting my spectacles again; but it seemed that for this
I must have an order from the prison doctor, and he was sent to see me. He
was an elderly man of between sixty and seventy, and had the rank of a
general officer. He was well known to be of a very harsh and unpleasant
disposition, and soon gave me a proof of his quality. He turned up my
eyelids, fixed me with a forbidding glare, and declared off-hand that my
eyes were perfectly normal and that I did not need glasses. In reality
qualified oculists have diagnosed a rather unusual abnormality in my vision,
and since my eighteenth year I have been obliged to use spectacles for
reading.
This dictum of the prison doctor upset me cruelly; I felt so desperate that
I could scarcely control myself, but was ready to weep and to curse.
“I beg you to consider again,” I cried. “You are quite mistaken; I really
cannot read without glasses. Think what you are doing; you are condemning

me to a hideous torture, in robbing me of the only distraction allowed here.”
Nothing was of any avail; the man remained immovable, repeating
obstinately, “You do not need glasses,” and therewith took his departure. I
clenched my fists, a prey to impotent wrath, and nearly broke down
altogether. But what was I to do? I had to bear it; and it is hard to say what a
man cannot put up with. But to this moment I cannot think of that doctor
without my blood boiling. The only consolation left me was my cigarette,
and it became a friend and comforter in my loneliness. To a captive
smoking not merely gives pleasure, but takes from him the sense of utter
desolation.
The days passed on in miserable inactivity. Then one morning a sound
fell upon my ears, someone was knocking again, and in my immediate
neighbourhood, as it seemed. Was it for me? I replied at once with the
familiar signal. It was for me; what joy! Now I should know what comrades
lay here, and should be able to exchange thoughts with a human being.
“Who are you?” “In what case are you concerned?” were the questions I
deciphered. I seized my comb, the only hard movable object to be found in
my prison cell, and tapped the answer. My interlocutor expressed his
surprise and asked, “How did you come here?” To my question, “Who are
you?” the answer was “Kobiliànsky.” I was no less surprised to “meet” him
here (if so one may express it). We had not previously known one another
personally, but I knew that in 1880 he had been condemned to penal
servitude for life, on account of his participation in various terrorist affairs,
and had long ago been deported to the Siberian mines on the Kara. How
came he, then, to be in the Fortress of Peter and Paul? I burned with
impatience to learn his adventures, but he was just as anxious to hear mine,
and I had to give way to him. Scarcely, however, had I told him as shortly
as possible how I had been arrested in Germany and given up to Russia,
when I was interrupted by a voice, “So you are knocking?”
I sprang up and looked round. Before me stood Colonel Lesnik,
accompanied by some gendarmes. The door had been noiselessly opened; I
had been observed, and caught in the act; there was no getting out of it.
“I give you fair warning, if you attempt such a thing again, you will be
put back on the ground-floor, and deprived of tobacco and of exercise.”
Thereupon he departed, and I felt like a naughty schoolboy, found out and
disgraced. Moreover, I had to give up hope of learning why Kobiliànsky
had been brought back from Siberia.[27]

Shortly after this event, one day my clothes were brought to me at an
unusual hour. I supposed there was going to be another hearing of my case;
but no, apparently I was to be taken right away. My luggage was brought,
and the captain of the gendarmerie appeared, the same who had escorted me
hither from the station.
“Where are we going—to Odessa?” The officer gave me no answer.
“Evidently we are going to the station,” I thought, when the captain and I
were seated in a droschky. It was just the transition hour on a “bright night,”
when one hardly knows whether it is evening twilight or dawn. The weather
was perfect, and I felt my spirits rise at the prospect of the journey to
Odessa. But alas! the carriage took another turning, it was not going to the
station, and we were soon in the courtyard of a huge stone prison. It was the
House of Detention for prisoners under examination.

CHAPTER VII
CHANGED CONDITIONS—A FRUSTRATED PLAN—THE MINISTER’S VISIT—A SECRET
OF STATE—MY LITERARY NEIGHBOUR

When the officer of gendarmerie handed me over to the governor of the
gaol, he pointed with his finger to a sentence in my charge-sheet,
whereupon the governor looked at me sharply. It was clear his attention was
being drawn to the warning of my former escapes, and the need for strict
surveillance.
I saw from the first that prison rules were less strict here. My belongings,
after examination, were brought into my cell. As soon as I could look them
over, I sought for the hidden money and scissors, and behold, there they
were! The careful scrutiny, both at the fortress and here, had been no more
successful in detecting them than had previous examinations. The scissors I
again concealed; but I wanted to change the German notes, so as to have at
any rate part of my money available, and that was not a very simple matter.
I began to observe the warders carefully; there were three of them on my
corridor. The man who had searched my luggage seemed to me the most
promising, and I determined to bribe him. When he came on duty I took the
money out of its hiding-place, and called him into my cell.
“What do you want?” he asked, coming in and shutting the door behind
him.
“Did you search my luggage properly when I arrived here?”
“Yes, of course; is anything wrong?” he asked, quite alarmed.
“Oh, nothing much!” I said soothingly. “Only, I had better tell you that
you don’t know how to search. Look here! you never found these!” and I
held the bank-notes under his nose.
“Impossible!” he cried; “where were they hidden?”
“Well, that is my secret,” said I. “But listen! It is German money, and if
changed would come to about fifty roubles.[28] Take it, and when you are off
duty go to a money-changer—there are several on the Nevsky Prospekt—

and get it changed for Russian money. Half shall be yours, and half mine. Is
that agreed?”
“All right. I’ll see to it,” he said, and went off with the money.
“He bites,” I thought to myself; and at once began building castles in the
air. I knew from experience that the great thing was to establish
communication with the outer world, and this we revolutionists had often
effected by bribing warders to take letters into and out of prison. In Kiëv
and the south we called such warders “carrier-pigeons.” When I saw how
easily this one fell in with my proposal, I immediately began to plan out
further steps.
“After a few days,” I said to myself, “we will try him with a letter for the
post; and next I shall send him to someone I know with a commission.
When once things are in train, who knows? something may come of it.”
It was in the morning that I had given the warder my money, and I was in
great excitement all day. Several times he looked through the peephole in
my door, smiled and nodded at me, and of course I replied in similar
fashion. Towards evening he came into my cell again, and laid my notes
down on the table. “Take them back,” he said; “I am afraid of getting into
trouble. See here; a little while ago one of the others had two watches given
him, and they were found on him, and he was dismissed. You see, I’ve a
good place here, and get twenty-five roubles[29] a month. I shouldn’t get so
much again in a hurry. No, I’m afraid; take it back!”
Of course I did not press him, for I knew that without courage he would
never make a “carrier-pigeon.” I saw no chance now of changing the notes
secretly, so I told him to take them to the governor, that they might be added
to the rest of my money.
“Tell him you found them in searching my luggage.”
“No, no, that won’t do. There would be no end of a fuss because I hadn’t
given them up directly. I’d rather tell the truth, and say you had just given
them to me.”
Thus did my visions end in smoke. The money was taken charge of, and
no further inquiry made.
Soon after this my books were brought to me, and I could also use the
prison library. After being for so long prevented from reading, this was a
great boon; and as writing materials were also allowed me, I was altogether
far better off here than in the Fortress of Peter and Paul. Still, the little cell
with its stone floor became a perfect oven in the heat of summer, most

unpleasantly stuffy and dusty; and the food was inferior both in quantity
and quality. But the walks were what was most disagreeable. Imagine a
huge circle, divided into sections by partitions running from centre to
circumference. In these cattle-pens we were allowed to disport ourselves
singly, carefully watched all the while by warders stationed on a raised
platform at the centre of the circle, commanding all the “cattle-pens”; so
that the prisoners had no chance of communicating with each other. One
could see nothing but the wooden partitions, the back of the prison
buildings, and a narrow strip of sky; but every day we had to breathe the air
here for three-quarters of an hour, which seemed an endless time for such
“recreation.”
In comparison with the uncanny stillness of the fortress, things here
seemed full of life and bustle. The windows of the corridor looked into the
street, and its noises could be heard in the cells—the rumbling of carriages,
the cries of street-hawkers, or the dulcet music of an organ-grinder. One felt
so near freedom that the burden of prison life was the heavier.
One day I heard unusually lively sounds in the corridor—scrubbing,
sweeping, and a general tidying-up. Some important visit seemed to be
expected, and I soon learned that the Minister of Justice, Nabòkov, was
coming to inspect the prison. Shortly after, he appeared in my cell,
accompanied by a numerous suite; and when my name was pronounced, he
greeted me and said—
“I have read your deposition, and was much pleased with its frankness. I
hope you will speak out in the same way before the court.”
I replied that, as I have already said, it was my object to state the exact
historical truth.
He went, but came back again, and put one or two unimportant questions
to me, looking, however, as though there were something else he would
have liked to say. He bent forward a little in speaking, and held his hand to
his ear. His whole bearing was simple and unaffected.
Kotliarèvsky was among the suite. He remained behind a moment, and
told me he wanted to speak to me when the minister had gone. Some time
after I was taken to him in a room that served as the prison schoolroom.
“I am not here on business,” said he, “but I should like to have a chat
with you about old times.”
So we sat down on a school-form and talked. Following a remark of
mine, Kotliarèvsky touched on the question I had raised before as to the

reason for my confinement in the Fortress of Peter and Paul.
“Why, you see, there were very important interests of State to consider,”
he said. “It was like this: if you were brought before an ordinary tribunal
and only prosecuted on the Gorinòvitch count, you might be merely
condemned to seven or eight years in Siberia; and that would not be
agreeable in high quarters.” He accented the last words.
“But they cannot try me otherwise,” I cried. “Germany only extradited
me on that stipulation.”
“Well, that remains to be seen,” said he. “We are at present on very good
terms with Bismarck, and he would not mind at all giving us this little proof
of his friendship. Or, if necessary, it could easily be made out that you had
committed some offence after your extradition. Which reminds me—the
Germans have sent us on all the notes that you made in Freiburg gaol.”
I was utterly astonished. I remembered that from sheer ennui I had now
and then written down odds and ends of notes, plans, etc., while I was at
Freiburg, but I could not conceive how those scraps could have come into
the hands of the Russian Government, for I had destroyed all my
manuscripts before leaving. I could only suppose that when I was out of my
cell for exercise some single sheets might have been abstracted. Even then
it seemed impossible that they could afford any foundation for a fresh
accusation sufficient to set aside the extradition treaty with Germany. But
Kotliarèvsky reassured me on that head.
“Oh, never fear! they would soon manage that. Nothing would be easier
than to get Germany’s consent, and then they would sentence you according
to your deserts. People who have had far less against them than you—
Malìnka, Drebyàsgin, Maidànsky—have long ago been executed. And you
—you broke out of prison just when you were at last to be brought up for
judgment in the Gorinòvitch case. Then for quite eight years you were
engaged in conspiracies; and then you were the instigator, along with
Stefanòvitch, of the Tchigirìn affair, and so on, and so on. That all this
should only let you in for a few years’ hard labour did not at all suit the
views of Government. So when you were extradited a special council was
held in high circles. Of course, I was not there. I am not numbered among
the elect; but this is what I have been told. At first they were all unanimous
in declaring that a modification of the extradition treaty must be arranged,
so that you might be brought before a special tribunal. Then, as you can
easily imagine, they would have made short work with you! But one of

these great personages had a qualm, and he urged, ‘Germany might fall in
with our views. Well and good! But is that really a good precedent? They
have caught Deutsch for us now. To-morrow a still more important capture
might be made in some other country, and then it might be hard for us to get
an extradition. The Press would make a hubbub; they would say, Russia
never respects treaties, and would point to the case of Deutsch as an
example.’ This consideration influenced the majority, and it was
consequently resolved to proceed against you in the Gorinòvitch case only.
This is why you were put into the Fortress of Peter and Paul until a decision
was arrived at.”
It is quite possible that Kotliarèvsky betrayed this secret of state to me
with the object of loosening my tongue; but perhaps he really had no
afterthought, and told tales out of school just for the joke of it.
In the further course of our conversation he touched on many subjects,
among others on political prosecutions in Russia. I remarked to him how
often perfectly harmless persons were condemned to fearful punishments.
“What would you have?” he replied. “When trees are felled there must be
chips. As the ancient Romans said: ‘Summum jus, summa injuria.’
Personally I do not approve of capital punishment at all. I say to myself that
in a great state political offences are inevitable. With a population of many
millions there must always be a few thousand malcontents, and, of course,
examples must be made of any disturbers of the peace. But a strong
Government ought to be able to render them innocuous without resorting to
the death penalty.”
In pursuance of this theme, he then asked me, to all appearance casually,
how many Terrorists in my opinion there might be in Russia. I answered
that I knew nothing at all about it, for I myself did not now belong to the
Terrorists, but to the Social-Democratic party.
“Oh yes,” he said, “but as a ‘friendly power’ you must be able to judge as
to the strength of the terrorist organisation. I think myself their numbers
must be very small now.”
In point of fact there were indeed very few active Terrorists left in
Russia. I did not, however, wish to strengthen Kotliarèvsky’s opinion about
the “friendly powers,” so told him that according to my estimate there could
be only a few thousand, not more.
“How can you make that out?” he asked. “It is quite impossible; I reckon
at most some hundreds. They have been imprisoned in crowds just lately.”

I persisted in my opinion, and therewith we separated.
At this time, i.e. in the summer of 1881, there were in this House of
Detention a number of prisoners accused of different political offences. One
of these so-called offences, on account of which numberless persons had
been sent to prison in Petersburg, Moscow, and many smaller towns, or
even in Siberia, was what Kotliarèvsky called “the old clothes case.” He
gave me the following account of this highly important affair of state. In
some domiciliary visit the police had found a note containing the names of
persons who were assisting the political prisoners by providing them with
clothes and other necessaries. Thereupon a number of these persons were
arrested; and he told me that an imposing case was being trumped up
against this “secret society,” under the name of the “Red Cross League of
the Naròdnaia Vòlya.” (Of course, Kotliarèvsky did not mind giving a sly
hit at the gendarmerie, with whom the police officials have many little tiffs,
each often putting a spoke in the other’s wheel.)
A pretty conspiracy indeed—for providing prisoners with old clothes! I
shall hereafter always allude to this case as the “old clothes affair,” and
hope to show by it some of the little peculiarities of “administrative
methods” in Russia. These “administrative methods” are sometimes
extremely unpleasant for those treated by them. The gendarmerie can
imprison people, and exile them to Siberia or the outlying provinces
without trial, all by “administrative methods.”
Besides those implicated in the “old clothes affair,” there were at this
time in the gaol many prisoners involved in other cases, among them
several well-known literary men—Protopòpov, Krivènko, Stanyukòvitch,
and Erthel. The first-named was my neighbour, and we were soon knocking
to one another, though not without some misunderstanding at the outset.
Directly I told him my name he left off replying to my taps, I could not
imagine why. Several days passed. I could hear him going up and down in
his cell, could catch his voice when he spoke to the warder, but he left all
my signals unanswered; so concluding that he was afraid of being caught
(though the officials of this prison did not seem to make much fuss over the
knocking), I left off in despair. After a little, however, he began again.
“Why do you hide your name from me?” he asked. I replied that I had told
him my name at the very beginning, and repeated it; upon which he
hastened to apologise: “I took you for a spy; for I could not make out what

you said, and thought you seemed to be knocking confusedly on purpose, so
that I might not decipher the name.”
We now conversed together freely. Our names were well known to each
other, and we had many common friends. Of course, we were very anxious
to know one another by sight, and we accomplished this in the following
manner. From the windows of our cells, which were on the fifth floor, we
could see into the “cattle-pens”; and though we were all supposed to take
our exercise at the same time, we arranged together that each should
manage to get out of it on different days, and that he who remained in his
cell should recognise the other by a preconcerted signal. The next thing was
to know one another’s voice, and this also we succeeded in effecting. We
knew that in this prison, “politicals,” in the “Case of the 193,” not only
spoke together, but even conveyed small objects to one another, by means
of the water-closet pipes. The sanitary system here was so arranged that on
all the six storeys each pair of cells was in communication, not only with
one another, but also with those immediately above and below. Thus twelve
prisoners could arrange together that they should simultaneously let the
water run, so making a space in the pipes that acted as a speaking-tube; and
if one spoke into the opening the voice could be heard perfectly in the
connected cells, while the running water prevented any inconvenient odour.
In this fashion we instituted a club of twelve members.

CHAPTER VIII
FRESH FEARS—THE COLONEL OF GENDARMERIE—INQUIRY INTO THE CASE OF
GENERAL MEZENTZEV’S MURDER—MEETING WITH BOGDANOVITCH—DEPARTURE

During my imprisonment in the Petersburg House of Detention my spirits
were altogether more cheerful than they had been since my first arrest. At
Freiburg I had been in a chronic state of excitement and unrest, longing for
the freedom that seemed so near. In the Fortress of Peter and Paul I had
been downcast and despairing. Now I had reached a condition of
equanimity and indifference.
“Hard labour in the Siberian mines,” I thought to myself. “What does it
matter whether it be for ten years or fifteen? It is much the same to me.” My
future was done for, my life gone. It is hard for a man to reconcile himself
to such a thought, particularly when he feels physically sound and healthy,
but one does somehow get accustomed to it. At times there will arise
sudden hopes, dreams of unexpected luck, of happiness in a distant future;
and then wild visions chase one another in dazzling pictures through one’s
brain. But I had lived through too many bitter self-deceptions of the kind
when I was at Freiburg; and I was only annoyed with myself when I found
my fancy dallying with them, and tried to extinguish them at once.
“Nonsense!” I cried to myself; “if anything, the only unexpected turn Fate
will do you will be some bad trick.” And I steadfastly made up my mind to
the worst.
Weeks had gone by since my change of prisons, and during that time I
had not been once up for examination. I did not know in the least how my
affair was going. “Perhaps in ‘high circles’ they’ve taken a new departure,
and invented some other means of treating me as a political criminal. Why
am I not brought before the court? Why do they not send me to Odessa?
Something must be happening.” I had begun to fidget in this way
occasionally, when one July morning, as I came back from my walk feeling
rather cheerful, the warder said to me, “Make yourself ready; they have

come to fetch you!” A hired droschky awaited me at the door, and I and a
gendarme got into it. From him I could learn nothing as to our destination,
and although this uncertainty did not last long, it made me feel
uncomfortably nervous. After about half an hour the carriage stopped in the
courtyard of a large building. I was taken into a small cell with a tiny
window, whose panes were of thick ribbed glass. As I was pacing up and
down here I noticed an officer at the peephole in the door observing me
closely.
“May I come in?” he asked, hesitatingly opening the peephole window.
“A strange question! I am at your disposal, not you at mine,” said I. The
door opened, and smiling apologetically, a young man in the uniform of a
colonel of gendarmerie stepped in.
“Allow me to introduce myself”—he bowed and clicked his spurs
together—“Colonel Ivànov.”
“I do not understand,” said I. “Will you please tell me where I am, and
why I have been brought here?”
“This is the office of the gendarmerie headquarters; you have been
brought here for examination, and will soon be taken before the Public
Prosecutor. I only wanted to have a chat with you, and revive some old
memories. We have many common acquaintances.”
“But how do you know me?” I asked, surprised.
“Oh, excuse me,” he cried, smiling, “there is hardly an intelligent person
in all Russia who does not know you by name.”
The young gentleman appeared to class himself among the
“intellectuals”—that set in Russian Society which just at this time was
protesting against the reactionary tendency and making its influence felt in
some of the best Russian journals. In the language of that section of the
Press it was customary to designate the revolutionists by the harmless title
of “intellectuals.”
“Oh, we have many common acquaintances,” the colonel resumed. “I
knew all your comrades—Malinka, Drebyàsghin, Maidànsky. I was
formerly adjutant of gendarmerie at Odessa, and made acquaintance with
them there. They were really delightful people.”
Now I understood why this man was a colonel already, notwithstanding
his youth. The big political cases during the end of the seventies and
beginning of the eighties had given many officers of gendarmerie and of the
law grand opportunities for self-advancement. The lives and freedom of the

“politicals” were the merchandise by which they founded their fortunes.
This gentleman had no doubt played no insignificant part in condemning to
penal servitude or to death those comrades of mine on whom he was now
lavishing his compliments. Perhaps he had been the originator of the happy
thought by which the traitor Kùritzin was induced to sacrifice so many
victims.[30]
My interview with this engaging young man was not exactly to my mind,
and I was glad to be called away. I was taken to a comfortably furnished
apartment, where Kotliarèvsky was seated in an armchair before a large
table, looking over some papers.
“I have some documents here that concern you,” he said, and began to
read aloud:—
“In the beginning of August, 1878, the widow of the murdered Baron
Gèhkin, adjutant in the gendarmerie, observed in the neighbourhood of
General Mèzentzev’s house two young men who were apparently watching
for the General.” The document went on to state that the Baroness had
recognised one of these young men to be myself; and on the following day
she had seen them again on the watch, her cousin Baron Berg being with
her at the time. Then followed a paper in which Baron Berg corroborated
the lady’s evidence. There was a time, 1878-9, when a good many people
delighted in romancing about me, and persisted in ascribing to me a
prominent rôle in events taking place in the most widely separated parts of
Russia. These imaginings even found their way into the press, and I was
often surprised to read in the papers accounts of my varied exploits; I
seemed to be a perfect Stenka Rasìn![31]
I remember, for example, that on May 25th, 1878, when I was still in
prison at Kiëv, a rich lady of that place was murdered, evidently by thieves.
Baron Gèhkin was shot on the following night, May 26th; and on the night
after that, May 27th, I and two comrades escaped from prison. I soon saw in
the newspapers that, according to the opinion of many astute persons, the
author of both these murders could be none other than myself!
The evidence as to my being concerned in the death of General
Mèzentzev was in the same way complete nonsense. When Kotliarèvsky
had read me the documents, he asked me what I had to say about them.
“It appears that the Government has not given up the attempt to implicate
me in affairs not specified in the extradition treaty,” I said; “I shall therefore
refuse to answer questions relating to any outside matter.”

“Well, if you refuse to give evidence, we will leave it alone,” said
Kotliarèvsky, with perfect composure, and he clapped the papers together
again. “Besides, I may as well tell you that I attach no importance to the
testimony of these good people. So far as I can make out, you had already
gone abroad when Mèzentzev was murdered?”
I assented. He seemed, nevertheless, to want to draw me out on this
subject; but as I did not assist his endeavours in that direction he began to
chat about indifferent matters, asking me questions as to our Socialist
propaganda and our views. When, however, I quoted from some of our
writings, he confessed that they were quite unknown to him.
While we were talking, Bogdanòvitch came in from a neighbouring
room. My readers will remember him as the gentleman who had been by
way of identifying me at Freiburg. He greeted me, and sat down at the table.
We met without any sign of ill-feeling or recollection of the sharp passage-
at-arms we had had together.
“I wish you would tell me,” I said to him, “as it is now a thing of the past,
when did you see me in Kiëv? I have no remembrance of you.”
He replied, laughing, that he had seen me once in prison; but I saw at
once that he was bluffing. Evidently he had recognised me at Freiburg
merely from Kotliarèvsky’s description. I was curious to know when
exactly the Baden authorities had found out with whom they were dealing;
and when I asked him this, Bogdanòvitch replied, “They knew some weeks
before the extradition that you could not be Bulìgin, and then you were put
under stricter supervision, with a guard before the prison. About ten days
before my arrival they were informed that you were Deutsch.”[32]
It was now clear to me why I had been moved into a different cell, and
also why Herr von Berg had forbidden me to speak Russian with my
visitors.
As I was going away, to be taken back to the House of Detention, I asked
Kotliarèvsky whether I should soon be brought before a fully qualified
tribunal. He could give me no decided answer, and himself seemed
surprised at my being kept in Petersburg so long.
This was the last time I saw Kotliarèvsky. I learned afterwards in Siberia,
from comrades arriving there, that though he had dealt fairly by me, his
conduct of some political trials had been considered altogether too mean; it
not only drew down on him the bitter hatred of the accused, but was too
much even for his superiors, and he was withdrawn from the cases. About

three years ago he was President of the Courts at Vilna; where he is now
(1902) I do not know.
This interview convinced me still further that the Government would not
be content to restrict themselves to prosecuting me in the Gorinòvitch case.
Every morning I awoke wondering what would happen next; but day after
day went by without anything fresh. July came, then August, and I was still
waiting in my cell. One day towards the end of August gendarmes again
came for me, and I was ordered to prepare for a journey; it had at last been
decided to send me to Odessa. While the carriage conveyed me through the
streets I sadly took leave of my beloved Petersburg, which I could never
hope to see again.

CHAPTER IX
A RAY OF HOPE—AN UNHEARD-OF RÉGIME—THE HUNGER-STRIKE—OUR CLUB—A
SECRET ALLY

My removal to Odessa went off without any noteworthy incident. The
change of scene, the railway journey, the sight of people, their doings, their
speech, all had a reviving effect on me; but the company of three gendarmes
did not allow me to forget for an instant that I was a prisoner on my way to
judgment. The idea of escape, however, never left me, and once at least
circumstances seemed favourable. It was night; we were already nearing
Odessa. I had been dozing, and when I awoke I saw that all three
gendarmes were fast asleep. My heart began to thump wildly, and my plan
was made in an instant: to get my scissors out of their hiding-place, cut off
my beard, stride over the sleeping gendarmes, step out on to the footboard
of the train, and jump off. But as this flashed through my mind, one
gendarme opened his eyes, waked the others by shaking them violently, and
scolded them with a most self-righteous air for not keeping guard. I feigned
sleep, and the scene was over.
In Odessa a prison van with barred windows awaited me. I was taken at
first to a prison for political offenders, under the rule of the gendarmerie.
While my belongings were being searched, the scissors suddenly fell on the
floor, to the no small astonishment of the warder, a former gendarme.
“Nice order they keep in Petersburg! Prisoners are allowed to have
scissors there!” he exclaimed. He imagined I had brought them openly in
my luggage, and of course I left him in his pride at being cleverer than his
colleagues in the capital.
In this prison conditions were very much like those in the Fortress of
Peter and Paul: rather large, dark cells, tolerably good food, the same strict,
formal bearing of the gendarmes, and the same all-pervading silence. In
order at once to draw attention to the stipulations of the extradition treaty, I
expressed my astonishment at being again put into a prison for “politicals.”

Whether on account of this protest or because of an order from Petersburg I
do not know, but after a few days I was removed to the prison for ordinary
criminals.
It was evening, an evening that I shall never forget. They put me into a
cell, and when the door closed behind me I could at first see nothing, the
cell was so dark, and only the feeble rays of a lamp shone through a little
window in the door. When my eyes had begun to accustom themselves to
the dimness I set to work to take stock of my quarters. The cell was circular,
and contained no bed, chair, nor table; only the customary wooden tub, a
water-bucket, also of wood, and some straw on the floor—nothing else. I
was much surprised, and thought there must have been some mistake. I
went to the door, and saw through the peephole that two armed soldiers
were on guard, while on a bench close by sat a gendarme and a policeman. I
had been in many prisons, but this state of things was new to me.
“Look here! What is all this? Where are the bedstead and mattress?” I
asked, sticking my head through the little window.
“Don’t know,” said the gendarme briefly.
“Then call the governor!”
He did not stir, but after a while the deputy-governor appeared.
“Will you tell me what this means?” I said, indicating the state of the cell.
“I know nothing about it,” replied he. “We have simply followed
instructions. You must apply to the Deputy Public Prosecutor, who will be
here to-morrow.”
I felt horribly cast down. “What shall I do if they refuse to improve
things?” I thought, sitting down in the straw with my head in my hands.
Soon fatigue overpowered me, and I lay down; but hardly had I gone to
sleep when I sprang up broad awake—mice were scratching and burrowing
in the straw! I paced up and down the tiny cell, feeling how stifling the
atmosphere was. The tub stank vilely; the space outside where the four
watchers were was small, and only used-up air penetrated thence into the
cell. I wished I could effect some ventilation, but the window was high up
and could not be opened. I awaited the day with impatience, hoping I
should at least be able to breathe some fresh air. Wearily the hours dragged
along; sometimes I had to lie down for a moment’s rest, but only to spring
up again because of the mice. At last day dawned.
“Take me to the air!” I cried to the gendarme, who seemed here to act as
warder.

“I have no orders to do so,” was his reply.
Towards midday the Deputy Public Prosecutor arrived. I explained to
him the horrible conditions to which I had been subjected, and demanded
redress.
He listened to me, but assured me he could do nothing whatever.
“But tell me what hinders you from giving me a bedstead?”
“You could climb up to the window and try to escape.”
“Excuse me,” said I, “do consider what you say. Four men are watching
me; even if I stood on the bed I could not reach the window without their
seeing me. This is the fifth floor, and a sentry goes backwards and forwards
below the window; if I could pass him I should next have to climb over a
wall as high as a house, on the further side of which another sentry is
posted! Surely you must see,” I urged, “that under these circumstances any
attempt at flight is out of the question.”
“Who can tell? You have often got away before.”
“Only twice,” I corrected.
“Well, that’s quite enough,” said he. “I can’t do anything for you.” And
he went away.
I had already made up my mind what to do now. On no account would I
put up with this treatment, but would maintain a passive resistance.
The gendarme brought my food in a wooden vessel and placed it on the
floor.
“Take it away! I shall not eat anything,” I said.
He took it up again and withdrew in silence.
This was repeated every day at meal-times. The hours dragged on. I
could get no fresh air, could not read, as they would give me no books,
could not even sleep for the mice. I did not feel any great craving for food,
but drank water continually. In mind I suffered frightfully, not that I felt any
anger against these people, but I was irritated beyond measure at the utter
senselessness of such treatment.
“You will have time enough,” I apostrophised the staff, “to poison life for
me after I am once sentenced; but for the present I am only on trial.”
For three days I went without food, and nobody seemed to trouble
themselves about it, though, of course, the attendants knew what was going
on. On the afternoon of the fourth day I was taken to the office. Unwashed
(I had purposely abstained from washing ever since my arrival), my clothes
covered with dust and bits of straw, I appeared before the Public Prosecutor

of Odessa and the examining magistrate. They informed me they were there
for the preliminary inquiry into my case, and would take my evidence. I
told them I was in no condition to answer questions, and set forth my
grievances, saying that I intended to starve myself as a protest.
“Oh, you refuse to take your food? Well, then, we shall have to feed you
by artificial means.”[33]
As I knew what he meant, I replied promptly, “Try it, then! But I warn
you that if you do, I know of a way to bring on sickness and diarrhœa, and
it will simply hasten my end.” Of course, I did not know anything of the
kind, but thought this piece of bluff might ward off the fulfilment of the
Prosecutor’s threat.
He looked sharply at me, and threw a meaning glance at the magistrate,
as if to say, “The devil only knows what this fellow mayn’t be up to! He’s
an old hand, and knows all the tricks of the trade.”
For a moment they were both silent. I saw that my words had taken
effect, and began to dilate on their folly in treating me as they were doing.
“You must allow,” I said, “that all this is scarcely reasonable. The
Government treats with Germany for my extradition, an important official
travels to Baden on that account, you make no end of a fuss before the eyes
of all Europe; and when, after setting all this machinery of the State to
work, you have at last got hold of me, you can’t bring the accused to justice,
because you have driven him to commit suicide! And all on account of such
mere trifles to you as a bed and a few other necessaries! You must see how
out of proportion the whole thing is.”
“Well, I’ll go and see for myself how they have provided for you,” said
the Public Prosecutor, and went off.
When he returned he seemed in some excitement: “Well, it’s perfectly
true,” he exclaimed, “they have used you shamefully! I assure you it is no
fault of mine. Three persons have united against you—the colonel of the
gendarmerie, the governor of the town, who controls the police, and the
commandant of the military garrison. Before your transference to this
prison they all three came here, settled all the arrangements, gave their
orders, and sent subordinates from their own departments to keep guard
over you. Unfortunately I cannot overrule these arrangements on my own
responsibility, but I will apply personally to the authorities concerned; and
all I can do in the meantime is privately to advise the governor of the gaol
to consult your wishes as far as possible.”

Thereupon the governor was called in, and the Public Prosecutor repeated
this to him in my presence. We then concluded a sort of compromise. A
proper bed was brought into my cell for the night, my books were given to
me, and a table and writing-things for the daytime. All these things had to
be taken away again if any officials were coming round who might report
the matter. That I might get a little fresh air the governor arranged for me to
take exercise in an outer courtyard where the other prisoners could not see
me. Upon these conditions I consented not to prolong my “hunger-strike,”
and that evening I partook of some food. It was only when I began to eat
that I realised how fearfully hungry I was. I could have devoured an ox; but
knowing that in such cases care is advisable, I put a curb on my appetite.
During the two following days I felt very seedy, as though I had had a bad
illness, and my attendants treated me rather like a convalescent; the
governor and the deputy-governor inquired frequently after my health; even
the gruff gendarme made himself agreeable, and went to the kitchen to buy
me food and simple dainties.
The morning after this I went for exercise, accompanied by my four
guardians. The yard set apart for me was a space between the prison
building and the surrounding wall. The soldiers posted themselves at a little
distance from each other, standing at attention, while I strolled up and down
the space between them, closely attended by the gendarme and the
policeman. It was heavenly weather, the clear, mild autumn of the South. As
my guardians seemed equally to appreciate the spell of freedom after the
narrow, close corridor, our walks lasted longer and longer. I attempted on
these occasions to get into more friendly relations with the gendarme, who,
besides being stiffened by severe discipline, was naturally of a gloomy,
morose turn of mind. When we were walking up and down, especially if the
policeman were temporarily absent, I tried to engage him in conversation,
and asked him questions on indifferent subjects. This man had been selected
from among many others as the most trusty, zealous, and incorruptible. I
must explain that as he had no substitute during his watch over me (which
lasted two or three months), he was supposed to be never off duty, but to
spend his entire time in the corridor outside my door, to eat there, and to
sleep there as well as he could. To my knowledge he never once changed
his clothes! The policeman, on the other hand, only remained twenty-four
hours at a time on duty, being then relieved by another member of his force;

and the two soldiers were changed every two hours, from the regular
military guard which is attached to every Russian prison.
As I was saying, I tried to get the gendarme to talk to me during my
exercise, and after a while I found out his weak side, and that even he had
not a heart of stone. He had an enormous family; and it was very grievous
to him that as he had received strict orders not to take his eyes off me for a
second, he could never get away to visit his home. He at last contrived to
move the governor to stand by him, and let him off for an hour now and
then, without his superiors knowing of it. These secret visits of the
gendarme to his wife and children led to a tacit understanding between him
and me, and brought us more together. He could not help letting out
complaints now and then about the severe discipline that kept him away
from his family; and as I listened with much sympathy, he presently began
to talk about the service, and his hard work. He related to me how he had
helped to get hold of Socialists in various ways.
“My chief once ordered me,” he said, “to keep an eye privately on one of
the specialist ladies” (unfamiliar words were rather a stumbling-block to
him, and socialist was always specialist in his vocabulary). “Oh, she was a
oner! Clever and cute, and could lead us all by the nose. Vera Figner[34] was
her name. A real beauty she was, and must have been well brought up, and
associated generally with the officers’ families. Well, I dressed up in private
clothes and followed her secretly wherever she went. If she took a carriage,
I got into a droschky and went after her. If she went into a house, I took
down the address, and asked the concierge who it was the fair lady had
visited; so I got to know pretty well who her friends were. I followed her
like this for three days. Suddenly she disappeared; I couldn’t find her
anywhere; she might have sunk into the ground. I tell you I did feel a fool!
They say she went to Khàrkov, and that in the end she was caught.”[35]
This zealous gendarme, who had dogged the footsteps of the “specialists”
with such zest, became in the end quite confidential with me, especially
when I told him I would give him this and that little thing as souvenirs
when my fate was finally decided. From him I learned the details about the
watch that was being kept over me. He confided to me, among other things,
that the governor of the town, the commandant of the garrison, and the
colonel of the gendarmerie had come to look at me during the first days of
my imprisonment here; had spied at me through the peephole without my
being aware of it, and had strictly ordered that I was not to be told.

By degrees the days grew shorter, and I did not know how to pass the
time during the long evenings, for I had no light. Often I ran up and down
in my cell for hours together, till I was tired out. Sometimes I would station
myself at the door, and listen to the conversation of my attendants. The
policemen were the most entertaining; they relieved one another every
twenty-four hours, and as it was only a few of the most trustworthy men in
the force who took turns in this watch over me, I soon got to know them all.
It was from them that the gendarme and I—almost equally prisoners—
heard all the news, the gossip of the town, and so forth. Occasionally one of
them would smuggle in a newspaper, which would then be read aloud in the
select little club we formed. I would stick my hand with the paper in it
through the peephole, so as to get some light, press my face against the
opening, and read aloud to the others. The two soldiers would stand at ease
beside the door, listening eagerly, while a few steps further off the
policeman and the gendarme sat on their bench. If we had no newspaper,
nor any special subject for talk, the policemen would tell tales of witches,
demons, or the devil, to which the honourable members of the “club”
listened with perhaps almost greater interest than to my political readings
and disquisitions.
In this way I learned from time to time what was going on in the world,
despite the attempts of three high functionaries to prevent (as the governor
of the gaol phrased it) even a fly getting into my cell. Moreover, I managed
besides to get news that is not to be found in Russian journals, namely,
accounts of events in revolutionary Russia. A man filling a rather high
official position, a well-wisher to our cause, helped me to this. I owe much
to him; but as I do not know whether he be still living or not, I dare not give
his name, nor particulars of my relations with him, for fear of harm ensuing
to himself. It is our rule never to speak fully about noble deeds done on
behalf of revolutionists or the revolutionary movement unless the doers are
either dead or in exile. I can only say that through this friend I was able to
send letters to my comrades, and that he kept me informed of all that might
interest me in external events. I learned, among other things, that the well-
known revolutionists then living in exile in Paris—Peter Lavrov, Lopàtin,
and Tihomìrov—had held a council upon the conduct of Degàiev[36]—then
also in Paris—and had come to the conclusion that though certainly, in
assisting to “remove” Soudyèhkin, Degàiev had rendered a service to the
revolutionary cause, yet that he must refrain unconditionally from any

further participation in our movement, and from associating in any way
with revolutionists. I learned also that a young girl of twenty, Maria
Kalyùshnaya,[37] had attempted to shoot Colonel Katànsky of the
gendarmerie in his own house, but had not been successful. About a
fortnight before my removal to Odessa she had been tried before a court-
martial; and as she was not of age, had “only” been sentenced to twenty
years’ penal servitude in Siberia.

CHAPTER X
A BRAVE OFFICER—MY MILITARY SERVICE—THE TRIAL
—FURTHER EXAMINATIONS

On one of the first days of my imprisonment in Odessa I had a small
passage-at-arms. I was pacing my cell, when I suddenly heard voices raised
outside the door. I went and looked through the peephole. It was the officer
of the day on his rounds of inspection, and he seemed to be questioning one
of the soldiers about his duties. I was going to draw back again, when the
words, “Get away from there, you scoundrel!” struck my ears; and only
after a moment did I realise they were addressed to me. I was extremely
surprised, for the officers generally behaved quite politely to the
“politicals.”
I instantly withdrew from the door without a word, but I resolved to teach
this gentleman a lesson in manners. So that evening, when the deputy-
governor paid his usual visit to my cell, accompanied by the officer, without
appearing to notice the latter I asked if prisoners were forbidden to look
through the peephole.
“No, of course not,” said the deputy-governor. “How could anyone
prevent you?”
“Then, will you please tell me if a prisoner should be abused by an
officer for doing so?”
“Certainly not.”
I then related what had occurred, and requested the official to give me
particulars in writing next morning as to this officer’s name and position, so
that I should know how to state my complaint about him.
Next day my gendarme told me this promising young lieutenant had been
round more than once during the night, telling him and the policeman what
they were to say if there were any inquiry. Evidently the young fellow was
in some trepidation, as he had thus humbled himself before his inferiors. I

felt rather sorry for him, and thinking he had a sufficient warning, I took no
further steps in the matter.
My case, meanwhile, was running its course. About the middle of
September the examining magistrate read me the document that was the
outcome of his labours. According to paragraph so-and-so of the statute-
book, it set forth, he must hand me over to the Prosecutor of the Military
Court. I at once entered a protest, calling attention to the extradition treaty,
which enjoined my being tried by the ordinary civil law, not by any special
tribunal. Whereupon the magistrate showed me a paper, in which the
Minister of Justice informed him that after the conclusion of the
examination he must act according to such and such a paragraph, which
enacted that crimes committed by any person belonging to the army must
be dealt with by a court-martial.
“When the crime of which you are accused was committed,” said the
magistrate, “you were serving in the army.”
This makes another retrospective digression necessary, that I may tell the
reader something about my youth and my brief military career.

Led by the spirit of the times and my own convictions, I had donned
peasant’s dress and gone “among the people,” to return home in the autumn
of 1875 disenchanted and discouraged after my propagandist efforts. Like
many youths of those days, I was filled with impetuous longings. I wanted
to use my young strength, and yearned after great deeds; but what I should
begin upon I hardly knew.
When I returned from my campaign I found very few of my old
companions in Kiëv. Some were in prison, others were scattered to the four
winds. It was just at this time that insurrections had broken out in Bosnia
and Herzegovina. Numbers of young men, among whom were many
Socialists, had joined the volunteer corps, and I found a very warlike spirit
abroad. The fight for freedom on the heights of the Balkans was the topic of
the day. A youth of twenty was naturally carried away by this tide; and I
was preparing to go off to the war and fight in the struggle to release an
oppressed people from the Turkish yoke, but I was too late, the waves were
retreating. Volunteers wrote from the scene of action letters that were only
disheartening. The situation was of such a nature that young people—for
the most part not inured to the hardships of guerrilla warfare—were not

only useless, but an encumbrance to the fighters; and our friends advised
that no more such should be sent out. So I had to give up my project.
However, I had got the war fever, and was altogether at a loose end; so I
resolved to serve my time in the Russian Army as a volunteer, although it
was a year sooner than was necessary. Doubtless I was moved to this partly
by the consideration that as a soldier I should have opportunities of
continuing my propagandist work, and also by the thought that military
training might be of use to me hereafter.
According to the then existing regulations I had only six months to serve
as a volunteer of the second class. Thus it came about that in the end of
October, 1875, I became a private soldier in the 130th regiment of infantry
at Kiëv. But it also happened that only four months later I had to leave the
service, as I will now explain. One of my friends, a student named Semen
Luryè, implicated in the “Case of the 193,”[38] was at this time imprisoned at
Kiëv. The all-powerful adjutant of gendarmerie, Baron Gèhkin, had
borrowed large sums of money from the parents of Luryè, and thanks to this
circumstance the prisoner was allowed opportunities for escaping. I
rendered him some assistance in his flight, and suspicion falling upon me,
my dwelling was searched by the gendarmes. My arrest seemed imminent;
and being a soldier, I should have been brought before a court-martial,
which in those days of heavy sentences would have sealed my fate, so I
went into hiding until the intentions of the gendarmerie should become
clear. In a few days it was evident that Baron Gèhkin (who might come in
for a good deal of blame, as he had allowed the fugitive many favours)
would be sure to hush the thing up, so far as possible. It therefore seemed
my simplest plan to report myself again on duty, when I should be punished
for five days’ absence without leave, but at worst not very severely. Things,
however, turned out differently. My regiment belonged to the 33rd division,
at the head of which was Vannòvsky, later Minister of War, and
subsequently of Education. He hated the volunteers; and I, who by no
means took kindly to subordination and discipline, was not in his good
books. As ill-luck would have it, just at the time of my absence the General
had ordered up my battalion of volunteers; so when I now reported myself I
was taken straight to him, and he sent me off at once to headquarters for
trial. I was accused of desertion; and over and above that I had brought
upon myself a charge of insulting an officer on duty, because I had objected
to being called “thou” and roughly handled by the officer on guard. The

affair looked rather bad for me, and flight seemed the only remedy. I
succeeded in making good my escape with the help of two of my comrades,
who brought me civilian’s clothes into the bath-house. I dressed myself in
them, and passed the sentry at the door unrecognised. This was in February,
1876, from which time until the autumn of 1877 I was free, but an “illegal,”
as I have already said. In the autumn of 1877 I was again arrested, as related
in chapter i., and in the following spring I once more escaped.

To return to my present narrative. I made two protests against the
magistrate’s decision to send me before a court-martial: one directed to the
president of the Military Court in Odessa, and one to Nabòkov, the Minister
of Justice. I called Bogdanòvitch to witness that the Government of Baden
had only surrendered me on condition that I should be brought before an
ordinary court, and tried by civil, not martial law. If a military court were to
try me for desertion and insulting an officer, that would be against the
conditions of the treaty, which laid down that I should only be answerable
on the Gorinòvitch count.
As was to be foreseen, my petitions were set aside without further parley;
and soon after, my indictment, signed by the Public Prosecutor of the
Courts-martial, was put before me. This indictment left me in no doubt as to
what kind of trial I was to have. Certainly the facts relating to the assault on
Gorinòvitch were given; but nothing whatever was said as to the motives,
nor as to the circumstances that led to it. Of course, the prosecutor had not
failed to make use of the most stringent articles in the Russian Criminal
Code. The heaviest punishment authorised therein (for parricide and such-
like crimes) is penal servitude for life, and it was the very article dealing
with that sentence which was cited in my case. According to the law this
penalty is capable of various degrees of mitigation under certain
extenuating circumstances: e.g. it may be reduced to twenty years’ penal
servitude when the victim of the assault survives, even though against the
intention of his assailant; and further, the term of years is to be shortened by
a third if the perpetrator be under age at the date of the crime. In accordance
with this, the Public Prosecutor asked for thirteen years and four months as
my sentence, that being the maximum penalty to which I could be liable
under the terms of the extradition treaty. Even then, the proclamation made
at the time of Alexander III.’s accession might come into consideration; by
it judges were authorised to remit the punishments for any crime committed

before the date of the proclamation. In my case there was no hope of this
permission being used; and I looked upon this whole travesty of justice as a
formality which had to be gone through, but otherwise of no significance. I
therefore declined the assistance of the advocate assigned to me (some
candidate for a military post), and prepared to endure the unpleasant ordeal
as best I could.
The day of the trial came. A great van with barred windows rumbled into
the prison yard. I was put into it, a sergeant of police took his seat beside
me, and the door was fastened outside with a mighty padlock. The
gendarme who had been so long my companion in captivity mounted the
box; a company of infantry escorted us, and the cortège was finally
surrounded by Cossacks on horseback. The Chief of Police led the van, and
a commissary of police formed the rearguard. It might have been supposed
that at least a dozen robber chiefs, each with his horde of banditti, were
being transported through the town. As we passed along the streets this
unusual procession aroused the attention of the public, and I saw people
crowding to the windows. Meanwhile I chatted quietly with the police-
sergeant. It seemed that he had been on duty in Kiëv twenty years before,
and knew my family.
“Who would have thought that little Deutsch I often used to see would
ever come to this!” said he, and began following up old recollections,
talking of my father and our house. My thoughts flew back over the years,
and scenes of my childhood rose before me.
The court was filled with a carefully selected “public,” consisting of
officers and their womenfolk, people connected with the law, and other
representatives of the official world. The examination of the witnesses
produced nothing of any interest. Most of those originally called were either
dead or had disappeared, and those few who did attend made inconclusive
statements, their memories being vague after the lapse of eight years—
some, indeed, refused to answer on that account. The principal witness,
Gorinòvitch himself, for some reason did not appear, but his deposition was
read. I on my side took little part in the proceedings, and had renounced my
right to call witnesses for the defence. But I was moved and excited; the
large audience, mostly hostile, that gazed on me worked on my feelings. I
sought for a familiar face, but saw nobody I knew except the Public
Prosecutor of the Civil Courts, who had conducted my examination in
prison.

After the hearing of witnesses the Military Prosecutor took up his
parable. His speech was a verbal reiteration of the formal indictment which
I had already seen. All my interest was to hear what motives he would
assign. As he could impute to me neither “selfish ends” nor “personal
hatred,” he gave “revenge” as the reason of the assault; but of course he had
to abstain carefully from suggesting any motive for this “revenge,” as he
dared not mention the word “political.” The order to keep dark at all costs
the political character of the case led to perfectly irreconcilable accounts of
what happened. The Public Prosecutor informed the court that I had been
arrested in 1877, and had made such and such admissions in the course of
examination, but that I had subsequently “withdrawn” from justice. He
dared not say that I had escaped from prison at Kiëv; and it was still funnier
when he had to explain that I had “withdrawn” from my military service.
I began my defence by the declaration that I had no desire to plead for
any mitigation of sentence, as was proved by my not denying that I had
fully intended to kill Gorinòvitch, though there was no proof of this save
my own avowal.[39] I was ready to face the consequences, and my only wish
was that the story should be truthfully told, that things might appear in their
true light. With that in view I would put clearly before the court the reasons
why my comrades and I had come to the resolution of putting Gorinòvitch
to death. Scarcely, however, had I uttered the words, “We had formed a
‘circle’ in Elisavetgrad,” than the presiding general, Grodèkov, interrupted
me with the observation that under the conditions of the trial I must refrain
from any allusion to political offences.
Of course, under such terms a true exposition of the real character of the
affair could not possibly be made, the events could not even be narrated
with any coherence. For instance, when I began again, “While Gorinòvitch
was in prison in Kiëv,” the president stopped me instantly, and said that was
out of order; and though I then carefully avoided mentioning names of
persons or places, or any political occurrence, I was continually interrupted
by the president, and threatened with being silenced altogether or removed
from court. I really did not see how to put things so as to make out the
simplest statement; and I soon concluded this so-called speech of defence,
in which I was not allowed to defend myself, and scarcely to speak. Even
then the Military Prosecutor carried the comedy so far as to wax indignant
over my “contradictory statements.” I answered him briefly, and declined to
make any concluding remarks.

The deliberation of the court was very short, and the sentence was of
course in accordance with the Public Prosecutor’s demand—thirteen years
and four months’ penal servitude.
I was then escorted back to prison; and although I had always expected
this sentence, I felt in a certain sense relieved as if a weight had fallen from
my shoulders. Everything was now settled once for all. Uncertainty, as I
have said, is a prisoner’s hardest trial; and I had only now to wonder
whither I should be sent. As I had been tried as an ordinary criminal, I
might be despatched to Kara, in Siberia, where were old friends and
acquaintances of mine, and where the prison life was comparatively
bearable. Or they could send me to the island of Saghalien, where—as all
Russia knows—the conditions are horrible. But what frightened me most of
all was the thought that the Government (who by having to stick more or
less to the extradition treaty had been prevented from sentencing me to such
a severe punishment as they would have liked) might still find some excuse
for aggravating my penalty, and send me to be buried alive in the
Schlüsselburg fortress. The building of that prison had just been finished,
and everyone was saying that as it was intended for the most dangerous of
the “politicals,” a murderously cruel régime was to be enforced there.
A week after the trial the president of the court-martial came to inform
me officially of the sentence. I was taken into the office, where General
Grodèkov had entrenched himself behind a wide table, so that he was well
separated from me; but even so he commanded the sentries to stand
between us with fixed bayonets, and seemed terribly apprehensive of what I
might do to him. I was much amused, and my guards were very
contemptuous, as I gathered from their subsequent comments while I was
being taken back to my cell. Indeed, I have never seen any civilian take so
many precautions when speaking with a convict as this seasoned warrior
thought necessary.
Although the proceedings against me were concluded, I still had to
undergo further examinations, but in the character of a witness. First there
appeared one day a captain of gendarmerie, accompanied by the Public
Prosecutor. He addressed the following question to me:—
“A letter was found in your cell at Freiburg; it contained an address. You
were to arrange for the despatch of books from this address. Can you tell
me what the books were, and who was the writer of the letter? And
remember,” he continued, “that through our possession of this address a

number of persons in Vilna have been arrested. If you will tell us who was
the actual writer, the others will be set at liberty.”
I knew this trick well enough, and replied calmly—
“You seem to think it not dishonourable to reveal the names of one’s
correspondents. I cannot agree with you.”
The young man looked embarrassed, and hastily brought our interview to
an end.
It was true that the authorities in Baden had consented to give up all my
papers to the Russian Government; an excess of zeal they might well have
spared, for in consequence many absolutely innocent people were molested
by the secret police. I myself was to blame, having unfortunately omitted to
destroy this address when I was sorting my papers with Professor Thun.
Another time I was called up by an examining magistrate, who showed
me a letter from the Ministry of Justice, instructing him to examine me
concerning some events connected with the murder of General Mezentzev.
He read me the deposition of a certain Goldenberg; according to which I
had met Goldenberg one day in the horse-market of Kharkov, and had
mentioned to him that it was S. Kravtchìnsky[40] who had stabbed the chief
of gendarmerie.
I did indeed recollect walking in the horse-market with Goldenberg, and
that he had told me how he himself had in that very place killed the
governor of Kharkov, Prince Kropotkin. Whether I had said anything about
the part played by Kravtchìnsky in the assault on Mezentzev I could not
remember. The thought shot through my mind that Kravtchìnsky had
perhaps been captured abroad like myself, and that the Russian Government
were wanting to get him extradited too. The statement of Goldenberg,
which only repeated the words of another, was not sufficient evidence for
that, and they desired my testimony in addition. I therefore did not refuse to
speak on this occasion, but made a statement tending to counteract that of
Goldenberg. I told them I had certainly talked to Goldenberg about the
assassination; but that I had merely mentioned rumours which ascribed the
deed sometimes to me, sometimes to Kravtchìnsky. Fortunately my alarm
was unnecessary: Kravtchìnsky was already in London and out of danger.

CHAPTER XI
THE VISIT OF THE MINISTER—I AM TURNED INTO A CONVICT—THE PRISON AT KIËV

Shortly after my trial a feverish anxiety set in at the Odessa prison: the
Minister of Justice was expected. Of course, everything except the straw
and the tub was taken out of my cell; and one day the great man appeared,
attended by an imposing suite—the governor of the town among the rest. As
soon as Nabòkov saw me he greeted me by name, which seemed to excite
the governor’s interest in no small degree.
“Your Excellency is pleased to recognise Deutsch?”
“Oh yes; we have met in Petersburg,” answered Nabòkov in an agreeable
tone, as if recalling a meeting in some elegant drawing-room instead of in a
prison. He then turned to me, to tell me that he had received my petition,
and had “reported to His Majesty”; but the Tsar had pronounced that as a
former member of the army I must go before a court-martial, and therefore
that had been the only course. The manner in which I was lodged seemed to
strike the minister unpleasantly, for he looked round my cell, and asked if I
were properly treated and had no complaints to make. I now learned that
my transference to Moscow was decided on; that I was to winter there, and
remain until the journey to Siberia was possible.
The way in which the minister had spoken to me seemed to have made a
powerful impression on the prison authorities; for scarcely had “His
Excellency” left the place than the governor hastened to my cell, and took
me to one much more comfortable, where were a good bed, a table, and a
chair.
“A report has been made to His Majesty himself about you!” I was
therefore a person of consequence, and the governor’s official soul was
troubled. I was offered books from a lending library, and was henceforth
treated with marked civility. Of course, I knew that this alteration really
proceeded from orders given by the three functionaries spoken of in a

previous chapter, who had been the cause of my former ill-treatment. This
is a striking example of the arbitrary way in which prisoners are used.
I had not much longer to enjoy these marks of favour. A fortnight later I
was informed that a party of convicts would start for Moscow that evening.
I was to accompany them, and accordingly must assume the convict garb.
After eighteen years I think of that day with a shudder.
First of all, I was taken into a room where was stored everything
necessary to the equipment of a convict under sentence. On the floor lay
piles of chains; and clothes, boots, etc., were heaped on shelves. From
among them some were selected that were supposed to fit me; and I was
then conducted to a second room. Here the right side of my head was
shaved, and the hair on the left side cut short. I had seen people in the
prison who had been treated in this fashion, and the sight had always made
a painful impression on me, as indeed it does on everyone. But when I saw
my own face in the glass a cold shudder ran down my spine, and I
experienced a sensation of personal degradation to something less than
human. I thought of the days—in Russia not so long ago—when criminals
were branded with hot irons.
A convict was waiting ready to fasten on my fetters. I was placed on a
stool, and had to put my foot on an anvil. The blacksmith fitted an iron ring
round each ankle, and welded it together. Every stroke of the hammer made
my heart sink, as I realised that a new existence was beginning for me.
The mental depression into which I now fell was soon accompanied by
physical discomfort. The fetters at first caused me intolerable pain in
walking, and even disturbed my sleep. It also requires considerable practice
before one can easily manage to dress and undress. The heavy chains—
about 13 lbs. in weight—are not only an encumbrance, but are very painful,
as they chafe the skin round the ankles; and the leather lining is but little
protection to those unaccustomed to these adornments. Another great
torment is the continual clinking of the chains. It is indescribably irritating
to the nervous, and reminds the prisoner at every turn that he is a pariah
among his kind, “deprived of all rights.”
The transformation is completed by the peculiar convict dress, consisting
—besides the coarse linen underclothing—of a grey gown made of special
material, and a pair of trousers. Prisoners condemned to hard labour wear a
square piece of yellow cloth sewn on their gowns. The feet are clad in

leathern slippers nicknamed “cats.” All these articles of clothing are
inconvenient, heavy, and ill-fitting.
I hardly knew myself when I looked in the glass and beheld a fully attired
convict. The thought possessed me—“For long years you will have to go
about in that hideous disguise.” Even the gendarme regarded me with
compassion.
“What won’t they do to a man?” he said. And I could only try to comfort
myself by thinking how many unpleasant things one gets used to, and that
time might perhaps accustom one even to this.
My own clothes I gave away to the warders, and any possessions of value
—watch, ring, cigarette-case—I sent by post to relations. I kept only my
books. I had been given a bag in which to keep a change of linen; and into it
I also put a few volumes of Shakespeare, Goethe, Heine, Molière, and
Rousseau, thus completing my preparations for travelling.

PRISONERS MARCHING THROUGH THE STREETS OF ODESSA
To face page 96
Evening came. The officer in command of the convoy appeared in the
prison courtyard with his men and took the party in charge. I was conducted
to the office. A statyehny spìsok[41] is prepared for each individual convict,
in which his name and place of exile are entered, and also a list of the
exciseable things he takes with him. In the statyehny spìsok of each political
prisoner his photograph is pasted, and in mine there were two.
The officer carefully went through all these dossiers. We were then
arranged in processional order. The soldiers surrounded us; the officer lifted
his cap and crossed himself.
“A pleasant journey! Good-bye!” called out the prison officials.

“Thanks. Good-bye!” cried the officer. He then gave the signal to start,
and off we marched at a slow pace to the station.
On account of the conditions attached by the Grand Duke of Baden to my
extradition, I had till now been treated sometimes as an ordinary criminal,
sometimes as a “political”; but from the moment I joined this convoy I was
treated frankly as a “political.”[42] This being so, I was not placed among the
ordinary criminals when we reached the train, but was put in the
compartment reserved for the escort. Here there was a fair amount of room,
and one could be pretty comfortable, while the others were packed like
herrings in a barrel; but, on the other hand, the society of the soldiers was
not very enlivening, as they dared not exchange a word with me in presence
of the officer.
After four-and-twenty hours we arrived at Kiëv, where we were to have a
day’s rest. We got out of the train, were formed up in procession, encircled
by the soldiers, and marched by a roundabout way through the suburbs to
the prison.
A strange emotion possessed me, when, after years of wandering both in
Russia and abroad, I once again passed through the streets of my native
town. I had not been here since I had fled from prison in 1878, six years
before; and now I returned in chains, with the ominous yellow diamond on
my back, a convict doomed to years of exile.
“Get on, get on! Mind what you’re about!” I heard a rough voice say, and
felt a poke in my back from the butt-end of a rifle.
“This is the beginning,” I thought, and pictured all the humiliation and
suffering that lay before me. However, the officer had remarked the
incident, and coming up, reprimanded the soldier who had hustled me.
When we came to the prison gate the convicts were told off one by one
like sheep, and let through the door in turn. I was taken straight to the
office. Here everything was altered, and everywhere faces were strange to
me. Fat old Captain Kovàlsky was gone, and the rest of the staff had been
changed too.
“It was from this prison you escaped?” asked a haughty-looking man in
uniform, the new governor, Simàshko. I assented.
“Ah, you managed that very cunningly!” said he, laughing.
In reality the thing had been very simple. One of my comrades, named
Frolènko, had provided himself with a false passport, and had got

employment in the prison; one night he took Stefanòvitch, Bohanòvsky and
me away disguised as warders.[43]
After the usual formalities I was led away to my cell, and as I passed
along the corridors I noticed that structural alterations had been made
everywhere. The cell in which I was installed was unusually large, and was
almost filled up by the wooden bedshelves; apparently it was generally used
for a large number of prisoners temporarily confined there, and had now
been assigned for my sole occupation, so that I might not be left among the
other convicts.
The prison of Kiëv has an interesting history in connexion with the
“politicals.” Many episodes—not always entirely tragic—in the
revolutionary movement have taken place there; indeed, in that respect
scarcely any other Russian prison except the Fortress of Peter and Paul can
equal it. Above all, it has been the scene of frequent escapes. Besides us
Tchigirìners, in the same year the student Isbìtsky and an Englishman
named Beverley attempted an escape. They had scooped out a tunnel under
the wall, and were actually already free, when a sentinel espied them and
fired. The Englishman fell dead, and Isbìtsky was caught. Four years later
another student, named Basil Ivànov, escaped with the help of the officer in
command of the guard, a certain Tìhonov, a member of the Naròdnaia
Vòlya. Shortly before my arrival, Vladìmir Bìtshkov also disappeared from
Kiëv prison in a very mysterious way, and so far as I know a certain much-
esteemed authority has to this day not solved the riddle of that, and is
probably still racking his brains over it. Finally, in August, 1902, eleven
“very important” prisoners escaped from Kiëv, nine of them having been
arrested early in the year, and two the year before. These prisoners were
allowed to take exercise every evening in the prison courtyard, in presence
of only one warder. They and their friends knew that one of the surrounding
outer walls, beyond which were fields, was unguarded on the outside. They
were provided secretly with an iron anchor weighing twenty pounds, and
with an improvised ladder made of strips of sheets. At a given moment
some of the prisoners muffled and gagged the guard, and tied him up before
he could give the alarm. In the meantime others formed themselves into a
living pyramid, and thus managed to fix their anchor to the top of the prison
wall, so that they could fasten to it their ladder for ascending and a rope for
descending on the other side. That after they were actually free they could
manage to hide in the town, and afterwards all get away safely, was due to

the sympathy of the general public, many members of which not only
helped the fugitives by deed, but also subscribed together a considerable
sum to assist the escape. It is noteworthy that from first to last in this affair
no one was killed or hurt, nor a drop of blood shed.
But these prison walls have also witnessed sadder scenes. Many
revolutionists have passed their last hours within them, waiting to be led to
the scaffold. Still greater is the number of those who have left this place to
tread the path to exile and the Siberian prisons. Only the Fortress of Peter
and Paul, the gaol at Odessa, and perhaps the Warsaw citadel, can for
memories like these compare with the prison of Kiëv. Here too, more than
anywhere else, have conflicts taken place between the imprisoned
revolutionists and the authorities. The tradition as to these occurrences
remains unbroken; every “political” cherishes the memory of the “old
times”—i.e. the exceptionally stormy years 1877-9. The young generation
speaks of them as the “heroic ages”; and not only the prison staff, but even
the ordinary criminals (who are employed here in the domestic labour of the
place), relate stories of them. The authorities have never succeeded in
uprooting the independent spirit that flourishes within these precincts, and
the door had hardly closed behind me when I had a proof of it.
“The ‘politicals’ beg that you will be so kind as to write down your name,
in what case you are implicated, and where you were sentenced,” I heard a
voice at the door say. I stepped nearer, and saw it proceeded from one of the
ordinary criminals, who was speaking through the peephole. When I
answered that I had nothing on which to write, he instantly produced a
pencil and a bit of paper, and poked them through to me.
I stated shortly who I was, and begged my comrades to let me know in
return who and how many they were, and concerned in what cases. The
same man came back almost immediately with a reply, which ended with
the words: “You will soon hear particulars verbally from our ladies.”
And sure enough I soon heard a woman’s voice bidding me climb up to
the window. I did so; but as I then found that there was no way of opening
it, I wasted no time, simply proceeding to smash two panes of the double
windows. Outside stood two ladies, wives of political prisoners, by name
Paraskovya Shebalina[44] and Vitolda Rechnyèvskaia. They were taking
exercise in the courtyard of the women’s quarters, and my window being
close to the wall separating the two yards, we could easily communicate. I
thus heard full details about the imprisoned “politicals,” who were not few

in number, as a trial had just taken place in the Kiëv courts, at which twelve
persons had been sentenced: four of them, including Shebalìn, to penal
servitude, and his wife to exile, on the sole ground that in their house type
had been discovered with which a pamphlet was to be secretly printed. We
were, however, suddenly interrupted in our talk by the appearance of the
assistant governor.
“What’s all this? You’ve broken the window?”
“Yes,” said I; “why haven’t you proper fastenings, so that they could be
opened?”
“Well, you will suffer for it; you will be frozen with cold to-night.” And
in fact there was a sharp November frost. He then turned to the two ladies,
and bade them go away, as it was entirely against rules to wait about at the
door. Here, however, he met his match; for the two turned on him,
requesting him to be off himself, and not disturb us. Paraskovya Shebalina
especially was most energetic in her treatment of him. She was a lively and
charming young lady, whom the atmosphere of a prison had rendered so
nervously excitable that the mere sight of an official would send her into a
passion, which led to endless contests.
Vitolda Rechnyèvskaia shared the captivity of her husband. They were a
very young couple, married only a few days before their arrest. Thaddeus
Rechnyèvsky[45] was twenty-one years of age; he had just left the school of
jurisprudence in Petersburg University when he was arrested, and was now
(1884) under examination as to his association with the Polish Socialist
“proletarian” party, whose members were prosecuted at Warsaw in 1885.
Besides the above mentioned, who were either condemned to banishment
or still under examination, there were in the prison a number of people who
were to be exiled by “administrative methods.” There had been riots in Kiëv
University shortly before this, in consequence of which the University was
closed, and many of the students were imprisoned.
New facts and impressions crowded upon me, and it was late before I lay
down. I threw over the plank-bed the sheepskin that had been given me, and
covered myself with my great-coat. The night was frightfully cold, and the
wind whistled through the broken window. I put my bag under my head, but
the French and German classics it contained did not make a very
comfortable pillow, and it was long ere I slept. Suddenly I was awakened by
a terrific hullabaloo. I ran to the door, and called to the warder to know
what was happening. After some time he turned up, and I learned that the

criminals in the next room had been having a tussle; one of them had
hidden away a few roubles, and the others having seen it, had tried to
murder and rob him. He had succeeded in keeping them at bay and calling
for help.
“That’s the way that lot always go on!” remarked the warder composedly,
and returned to his post and his nap. There were no further consequences of
the scrimmage; with an “I’ll teach you!” the warder had separated the
combatants, and the thing was at an end. He never even reported the
occurrence, it was such an everyday event.
Next morning the governor came hurrying to me, and said that the
colonel of gendarmerie was coming to visit me. This was Novìtsky; I did
not know him personally, but many amusing stories were told about him in
our circles. He arrived, accompanied by his adjutant, put the usual question
—“Have you any complaint to make?”—and then began to chat. It was pure
curiosity that had brought him. I remember he wanted to know if, when
abroad, I had come across Debagòrio-Makriyèvitch, who had been
imprisoned at Kiëv in 1879 and condemned to penal servitude; but on his
way to Siberia had “swopped” with one of the ordinary criminals, and so
escaped. When I said I had seen him in Switzerland, Novìtsky overwhelmed
me with questions: “Now tell me, how is Vladimir Kàrpovitch? What is he
doing over there?” One would have thought Makriyèvitch was at least one
of his relations; he spoke of him familiarly by his Christian name and his
father’s name.[46] Like Colonel Ivànov in Petersburg, who had known my
old companions, he too went off into praises of them; though all the while
he was doing what he could to bring two of Makriyèvitch’s comrades to the
scaffold.[47] They are easy-going people, these ornaments of officialdom!

CHAPTER XII
NEW ACQUAINTANCES—THE GIRL—CONSPIRATORS OF ROMNY—ARRIVAL IN
MOSCOW—COMPANIONS IN DESTINY—A LIBERAL-MINDED GOVERNOR

Next morning I was taken to the office, where arrangements were being
made for the continuation of our journey. When formalities were over the
governor said to me that I had better go into the next room: “You will find
company there—comrades of yours who are to travel to Moscow with you.”
In my conversation with the two ladies they had told me that two exiles,
banished by “administrative methods,” Vladimir Malyòvany and Anna
Ptshèlkina, were to travel with me; and I was very glad to make
acquaintance with my future companions. I had known Malyòvany by name
for some time past. He had once been secretary to the Town Council of
Odessa, had been exiled to Siberia by “administrative methods” in the end
of the seventies, after some years had made his escape, and was now being
sent back to Siberia again for five years.[48]
When I entered the room I found there two well-dressed young ladies, a
middle-aged gentleman with a black beard, and an officer in full uniform.
One of the ladies stood close by the door, and I held out my hand to greet
her; but she drew back and stared at me, looking surprised and rather
alarmed. Evidently she took me for some bold criminal! Smiling, I gave my
name; and the girl instantly grasped my hand, and shook it warmly with
many apologies. She was Anna Ptshèlkina’s sister, come to say farewell to
the exile. “I really am afraid of you!” she said, with a friendly glance,
smiling rather shamefacedly.
The black-bearded man was Malyòvany. The other lady, with a delicate-
looking but sympathetic and expressive face, was Anna Ptshèlkina, who
was being sent to Western Siberia for three years. The officer was Captain
Vòlkov, commanding our convoy. We exiles were naturally friends directly,
and at once engaged in eager conversation. With my shaven head, clattering
fetters, and convict’s dress, I contrasted oddly with the others, who looked

civilised and respectable. In the faces of the two sisters, especially in that of
the younger, I plainly read the most romantic interest in my fate. Probably
she now for the first time beheld a Socialist, stamped outwardly as a
criminal and deprived of all civil rights, going forth to a gloomy future. She
begged me, if there were any special thing I would like to have, to write it
down; and handed me a pencil and paper that she might keep my note as a
reminder. I wrote down the titles of some mathematical text-books, and she
promised to send them; but she either forgot all about it, or lost my elegant
autograph—at all events, the books never arrived.
Malyòvany and Anna Ptshèlkina were then taken in a carriage to the
station, while I—though also invited to drive—preferred to go on foot. So I
marched with the rest of the party, rattling my chains, along the streets of
my native town. When, and under what circumstances, should I see it
again?
We were taken straight to the railway carriage engaged for us by the
organisers of the convoy, while a compartment was reserved for the officer.
We settled ourselves comfortably, and the train started. I now asked my
companions the reason of their banishment, and learned from them that—as
in many other instances described to me by people who had similarly been
exiled to Siberia by “administrative methods”—they had simply been
accused by the police of being neblàgonadyèshny, i.e. untrustworthy. This
word has become classical in Russian police affairs, and has a conveniently
vague signification. Literally it means “of whom nothing good can be
expected.” A young man or a girl associates with So-and-so, reads such and
such books; this is enough to awaken suspicion that the said young man or
girl is “untrustworthy.” The police or the gendarmerie pay a domiciliary
visit, find a suspicious letter or a prohibited book, and then the course of
events is certain: arrest, imprisonment, Siberia. It may be scarcely credible
that people languish for years in prison, without any pretence of legal
procedure against them, simply by decree of an officer of gendarmerie; and
that at the good pleasure of these officers—most of them fabulously
ignorant men—people are banished to the wilds of Siberia. Even those
familiar with Russian affairs are often shocked and staggered by some fresh
case of this kind.
As we were nearing a large station the officer informed us that we should
be joined here by some more political exiles; and when the train came to a
standstill, two quite young girls—at the most eighteen to twenty years of

age—and two youths were brought into our carriage. We three who came
from Kiëv were by no means aged; but we might almost have been called
old folks by these children. We received the new-comers cordially, and of
course begged for their story, which was as follows.
In the district of Poltava the chief town is a small place called Romny,
and in this little town there is a girls’ school. Two or three of the scholars hit
upon the idea of lending one another books, and making notes on them—
not books that were in any way forbidden, but that were accessible to all.
Soon a few young men joined them; and thus a small reading society was
formed, such as might help to pass away the long winter evenings in the
dull little provincial town. As these young people had no idea that they were
committing any offence, they naturally never dreamt of keeping their
proceedings secret. But the eye of the law is sleepless! The officer
commanding the gendarmerie in that place saw and triumphed. For years he
had been vegetating in this obscure corner of the empire, and had never
unearthed the least little conspiracy, nor brought to light a secret society;
now was his chance. He could at last make manifest his burning zeal, his
devotion to his country and his Tsar; and recognition by his superiors,
perhaps an order or promotion, shone before him. One night the
gendarmerie paid domiciliary visits to the dwellings of the young ladies of
the school. Certainly nothing suspicious was found, but the frightened girls
“confessed” that they had “held meetings,” and that they read books in a
“society.” This was enough for the brave sergeant; here were grounds for
the State to take action against the “secret society of Romny.” The girls and
their friends were arrested and imprisoned; a report was sent to Petersburg
about the discovery of a secret society, in which such and such persons had
taken part, and discussed “social questions” together; the officer was of
opinion that these evildoers should be sent to Siberia;—and the thing was
done.
When these boys and girls told me their simple tale and explained the
nature of their “crimes,” unflattering as was my opinion of legal
proceedings in Russia, I could hardly believe that there was nothing more
behind this. Only when I became more closely acquainted with these
“conspirators of Romny” and other “criminals” of their class, was I
convinced that no suggestion of fancy is too slight and unsubstantial to be
formulated as a ground for prosecution and banishment of the most

harmless people by the gendarmerie, the secret police, and the other
guardians of public safety in Russia.
After having been imprisoned for a considerable time, these young
people were now being exiled to Siberia for three years; but as travelling on
the Siberian rivers can only begin in the month of May, they were to pass
the winter with us in the Moscow Central Prison for exiles; in other words,
they must remain for another six or eight months under lock and key.
“Doesn’t this sound like the Inquisition of the Middle Ages?” we said to
one another, talking over this specimen of “administrative exile.” The
officer of the convoy heard us, and there arose a lively discussion, in which,
of course, he combated our views on Russian politics. A witness for the
crown was soon forthcoming. During our halt at some big station (probably
Tula or Oriel) Anna Ptshèlkina opened the barred window to get some air;
and a young peasant of about twenty-two or twenty-three who was passing,
stopped and stared at the young lady, and cried jeeringly, with a
mischievous grimace, “Aha! so you’re caught, are you? Now you’ve really
got something to grumble at!” We all burst out laughing. How simple was
this peasant lad’s view of political difficulties! “Caught,” “grumble”—the
situation was as clear as daylight to his philosophy, and left nothing to be
explained. But indeed millions of people, from peasants to the highest
dignitaries, make use of the same logic; witness the choice expression of the
Public Prosecutor Kotliarèvsky—“Where trees are felled there must be
chips.” Everything can be summed up and accounted for in this classically
simple way; and our officer could add nothing more.
When a few Russians get together, however, their gloomy disquisitions
on the terrible state of things prevailing in our country are always varied by
enlivening interludes of jokes and harmless chatter, funny stories and
witticisms. Malyòvany was in this respect inexhaustible. Like most natives
of Little Russia, he had a rich vein of humour, and was a born raconteur.
No wonder, then, that from the corner in which the soldiers had established
us, there frequently issued sounds of irrepressible mirth.
The journey from Kiëv to Moscow took forty-eight hours, but at last we
arrived at our goal. I again chose to walk to the prison; Anna Ptshèlkina,
Malyòvany, and the Romny youths followed my example, while the girl-
conspirators elected to drive. One of them, named Serbinova, was rather
delicate; and the other, Melnikova, clung to her friend with such tender
affection that she would not be separated from her for a moment.

It was a lovely winter morning; there was a sharp frost, and the houses
and streets of Moscow were white with newly fallen snow. Our fetters rang
clearly in the frosty air, and under our feet the snow crackled, as in a long
line we marched away to the gaol. We passed by many of those churches
and chapels in which “White Moscow” is so rich; and here most of the
convicts uncovered their heads and crossed themselves. On the other hand,
there were many streets and market-squares which reminded us “politicals”
of historic events that had taken place there, which had much in common
with our own experiences. Here the Tsars had brought their enemies to
execution. There the suspects had been publicly flogged. And now appears
“Butirki,” as the populace nicknamed the Central Prison for exiles about to
be deported. It is a mighty stone building, and looks like a gigantic well; a
great wall, with a tower at each of the four corners, encloses it. The main
building is reserved for ordinary criminals, who are to be transported to
Siberia, and contains accommodation for many thousands. In the high
towers are lodged the various classes of “politicals.” Those condemned to
penal servitude are confined in the Pugatchev tower, which takes its name
from the celebrated adversary of Catherine II.; that Pugatchev who wanted
to “shake Moscow to its foundations,” and was made a show of in an iron
cage, till the Tsaritsa sent him to the scaffold. In the north tower were the
“administrative” exiles; in the third, or chapel tower, those still under
examination; in the fourth the women belonging to all the different
categories.

“BUTIRKI,” THE CENTRAL PRISON AT MOSCOW
To face page 110
I was well informed as to the conditions prevailing in this giant prison,
from which thousands—if not tens of thousands—of persons of all sorts and
conditions are despatched yearly into exile. The reports were not exactly
unfavourable, but when we arrived at the door and entered the gloomy
edifice, a painful feeling seized on me. Since my arrest in Freiburg—that is,
during at least eight months—I had come to know three German and six
Russian prisons, and in each there was a different régime. However careless
one may be of one’s material comfort, one cannot help experiencing an
uncomfortable sensation when entering a new place of confinement;
knowing that one may be denied the most elementary necessaries, and may
perhaps have once more to begin a bitter fight about one’s right to exercise,
books, a table, or a bedstead.
In the spacious office there awaited us a man of about sixty, with a long
white beard, and spectacles on his nose, dressed in a well-worn military
coat with officer’s epaulettes. This was Captain Maltchèvsky, one of the
prison governors, specially charged with the supervision of the political

prisoners. After we ourselves and our luggage had been searched in the
usual way, we were led off to our respective quarters.
I was first taken through a long, narrow court terminating in a doorway.
Here the warder rang a bell; another warder appeared, and conducted us
through another narrow court, and up an iron spiral staircase till we reached
the third floor. We came to a halt on a dimly lighted landing scarcely a yard
and a half wide, with five doors round it. One of these was opened, and I
found myself in my cell. A rapid glance showed me that it was not exactly
luxurious; it was an irregular triangle in shape, so tiny that one could
scarcely take three steps across it, and very little light came through the
narrow window. However, it contained a bed and other usual furniture.
“And here I shall have to live for six long months,” I thought sadly.
“Good day! Who are you?” said a voice close at hand. It turned out that
two prisoners were my neighbours, condemned like me to penal servitude
in Siberia. They were concerned in the “trial of the fourteen,” or “Vera
Figner Case,” as we usually called it, and had been sentenced at the same
time as myself. We introduced ourselves to one another, and talked through
the peepholes in our doors, which did not seem at all to disturb the warder,
who was on the landing. He soon after took us out for an airing in the little
court I had passed through, which was enclosed within high walls; and as
he left us alone here, we could talk as much as we liked to the tune of our
clanking fetters while we walked up and down.
I now for the first time saw other political convicts like myself, “deprived
of all civil rights” and condemned to penal servitude. It was a strange sight.
I noted their youthful but worn faces; both of them wore spectacles, and on
their heads were round caps with no brims. With their yellow sheepskins
and rattling chains my comrades gave one the impression that they could
not be real convicts, but were just dressed up for the part—so great was the
contrast between their refined faces and behaviour and this uncouth
disguise.
They were about my own age—twenty-nine or thirty. The elder,
Athanasius Spandoni-Bosmàndshi, was sentenced to fifteen years’ penal
servitude; the younger, Vladimir Tchuikòv, to twenty.
Neither of them looked as if he had ever been strong, and both seemed to
have suffered much in health during their long imprisonment in the Fortress
of Peter and Paul. With their pale, thin faces they looked as if they had just
come through a severe illness. But this obvious lack of health had been an

advantage to them, as on account of it they had escaped incarceration at
Schlüsselburg,C to which place their comrades sentenced in the same case
had all been sent.

TCHUIKOV SPANDONI

VERA FIGNER

STEFANOVITCH MIRSKY
To face page 112
We had not known one another while free; but as we had belonged to the
same society, and had worked for the same ends, we met in prison like old
comrades. During the first few days our subjects of conversation seemed
inexhaustible. We talked during our walks, and also in our cells, where only
a small space separated us, so that by speaking through the peepholes we
could hear one another perfectly well. My apprehensions on entering this
prison were soon quieted; for though the cells were certainly
uncomfortable, we gladly put up with that in view of the other ameliorating
circumstances.
On one of the first evenings I was sent for to the office, where the old
captain awaited me. My comrades had described him to me as very good-
natured and obliging, always ready to forward the wishes of the “politicals”
whenever possible. He invited me to sit down, and said he wanted to talk
quite frankly with me, to which I replied that I should be very glad if he
would do so.
“You want to get away,” he said; “don’t deny it. I know it very well. But I
think it right to warn you plainly that any such attempt can only harm
yourself and your comrades. We don’t want anyone to suffer needlessly
here; we do our best to lighten the fate of the prisoners. If there is anything
you want, you have only to set it down in black and white” (this I found
later was a pet expression of the old man’s); “we will send your request to
the Governor of Moscow, and he always does what he can to please the
prisoners, as far as the law allows him.”

Neither before nor since have I ever met an official who spoke so
candidly, and his manner inspired confidence. The old man seemed to
understand the people with whom he had to deal. He had evidently heard of
my two former escapes, and in his diplomatic way hoped to deter me from
similar attempts by speaking to me straightforwardly and convincing me of
his own goodwill. This pleased me, and I said to him forthwith that of
course every prisoner condemned to penal servitude in Siberia must have a
very distinct wish to escape; but that so far as I could see such an idea was
quite hopeless in this prison, and I had no intention of making any attempt
of the kind. This answer seemed to satisfy the old captain, and we separated
with the conviction that we should get on rather well together.

CHAPTER XIII
THE TRIAL OF THE FOURTEEN—RECOLLECTIONS OF VERA FIGNER—NUMEROUS
IMPRISONMENTS—“AGENTS PROVOCATEURS”

When I told the old governor that I was engaged on no plan of escape, I
spoke the simple truth. After my establishment in this prison I felt too much
wearied out to think of any such matter. Beyond everything else I wanted
rest, to recover myself after the frightful tension of the last months.
Naturally the desire for freedom did not leave me; no human being in my
circumstances could entirely abandon the thought of it. But it remained for
the time being in the background of my consciousness; I felt I had not the
energy to strive seriously for its fulfilment.
Time at first passed peacefully and quietly; I read a good deal, and talked
with my new friends. What they had to tell was in part new to me, and very
interesting. I had known nothing at all about the particulars of their trial. It
remains to this day an isolated case, in which nearly all the accused were
military or naval officers. Two of them, the naval lieutenant Baron von
Stromberg and Lieutenant Rogachev, were executed.[49] What most
interested me, however, and will most interest others, was to hear about the
heroine of this case, the celebrated Vera Figner.[50] At that time her name
was in everyone’s mouth, and for long she was the most popular personage
in revolutionary circles. All the young people worshipped her; and the
stories that were told of her talent for organisation, her astonishing powers
of invention, her wonderful perseverance, untiring energy, and boundless
readiness for self-sacrifice, testified fully to the part she had played in our
movement. The dignified and unselfish conduct of this exceptional woman
impressed even the members of the court-martial that tried her.
I had come to know Vera Figner personally in Petersburg, during the year
1877, at a time when she had already adopted the idea of going “among the
people.” Twenty-two years of age, slender and of striking beauty, she was
even then a noteworthy figure among the other prominent women

Socialists. Like so many other girls, she had thrown heart and soul into the
cause of the Russian peasants, and was ready and willing to sacrifice
everything to serve the people.
In the summer of 1879 I again came repeatedly in contact with her. While
two years before she had impressed me as a very young propagandist, ready
to accept without question the views of her comrades, she had now formed
her own independent and keenly logical powers of judgment. As I have
previously said, this was a time of hot discussion as to our future
programme. Some held the opinion that the whole strength of our party
should be concentrated on the terrorist struggle to overthrow the existing
machinery of State by attempting the lives of the Tsar and the lesser
representatives of despotism. Others contended that revolutionary
propaganda ought still to be tried and carried further than hitherto; that
revolutionists should work among the people, colonise the villages, and
instruct the peasants in the manner of the organisation Zemlyà i Vòlya (Land
and Freedom). Vera Figner was one of the most strenuous supporters of the
former view.
I remember well, how once, when our whole circle had met together at
Lesnoye, a summer resort near Petersburg, we were arguing hotly with her
as to how propaganda among the peasantry might be made to yield the most
fruitful results. She had just returned from a small village on the Volga,
where she had been living as a peasant, for purposes of propaganda. The
impressions she had received there had stirred her deeply, and she described
in graphic language the fathomless misery and poverty, the hopeless
ignorance of the provincial working classes. The conclusion she drew from
it all was that under existing conditions there was no way of helping these
people.
“Show me any such way; show me how under present circumstances I
can serve the peasants, and I am ready to go back to the villages at once,”
she said. And her whole manner left no doubt of her absolute sincerity and
readiness to keep her word. But her experience had been that of many
others who had idealised “the people,” and also their own power of stirring
them; and we were none of us prepared with any definite counsel that could
deter her from the new path she had determined to tread—simply because
she could see no other leading to the desired end.
When I went to Odessa in the late autumn of the same year I found Vera
Figner there. In conjunction with Kibàltchitch, Frolènko,[51] Kolotkèvitch,

and Zlatopòlsky she was busy with preparations for an attempt on the life of
Alexander II., who was about to return to Petersburg from Livadia. The
dynamite was stored in her house; she had now put aside all doubt, and
devoted herself with her whole soul to terrorist activity.[52]
She belonged to the Russian aristocracy; her grandfather had won a name
for himself in the guerrilla warfare against Napoleon’s invasion. Inflexible
determination and tireless perseverance were her most prominent qualities;
she was never contented with a single task, even the most enthralling, but
would carry on work in all sorts of different directions simultaneously.
While engaged in making ready for this attempt on the Tsar’s life she was at
the same time organising revolutionary societies among the youth of the
country, doing propaganda work in the higher ranks of society, and helping
us in Odessa with a secret newspaper that we were starting for South
Russia.
But Vera Figner was still only in the developing stage of her strength and
capacities. She was already highly esteemed by all who came near her,
winning their sympathy and confidence; yet even her greatest friends could
hardly suspect the depth of character possessed by this radiantly beautiful
girl. It was fully shown in 1882, when nearly all her comrades of the
Naròdnaia Vòlya were in prison, and the few who had escaped capture had
fled into foreign countries; she resolutely declined to entertain the idea of
flight, though the danger of arrest menaced her at every turn. In 1883 she
fell a victim to the treachery of Degàiev,[53] and was sentenced to death; but
“by favour” this was altered to lifelong penal servitude, and she was
immured in the living grave of the Schlüsselburg fortress, where she still is
(1902).

To return to my comrades in the Moscow prison, Spandoni and Tchuikòv;
besides their own narratives of their past experiences I could also avail
myself of their formal indictments, which they had with them. The chief
characteristic of these documents was their entire failure to show any
grounds for the exceptionally heavy sentences inflicted. I will set down here
what the Public Prosecutor had to say against these two companions of my
captivity.
“Athanasius Spandoni was connected with a secret printing press
discovered in Odessa in the house of the married couple Degàiev.” Thus
began the indictment, and it went on to state that he had refused to make

any confession, but that his membership of the secret society Naròdnaia
Vòlya was sworn to by Mme. Degàiev, who also stated that he had twice
visited her house. That was absolutely all. Two visits to a secret printing
office were punished with fifteen years’ penal servitude!
The “crime” of Tchuikòv was scarcely more serious. His indictment ran
as follows:—
“When Vera Figner was arrested in Kharkov, the authorities in that place
advised us that Vladimir Tchuikòv, among others, had been in
correspondence with her. His house being searched, there were found (1)
implements for setting up type, (2) implements for making false passports,
(3) prussic acid and morphia, (4) various seditious writings (some printed,
some in manuscript), (5) a list giving the names of different political
criminals, (6) lists for the collection of subscriptions to the Naròdnaia
Vòlya. Tchuikòv has acknowledged that he agrees with the principles of the
Naròdnaia Vòlya.” And on these grounds he was condemned to twenty
years’ penal servitude.
The charge brought against the rest of the accused in this case, the naval
and military officers, were of a similar description; and for these “crimes”
they were all condemned to death, the sentence being actually carried out as
regards two of their number.

For a time we three were the only inmates of the Pugatchev tower, but we
were expecting other companions. In about a fortnight after my advent the
condemned in the already mentioned Shebalìn case were to arrive from
Kiëv—four sentenced to penal servitude and four to exile, among the latter
two women. We awaited their coming with the greatest interest, but when
the party arrived only two were brought to our tower, the exiles Makàr
Vasìliev and Peter Dashkièvitch. Paraskovya Shebalina and a young girl,
Barbara Shtchulèpnikòva, also condemned to exile, were of course taken to
the women’s quarters; but the four other men had quite unexpectedly been
sent off to Schlüsselburg, as the outcome of a conflict with the prison
authorities, of which I will give some particulars.
I have already tried to give some idea of what all convicts must suffer
when their fetters are first put on and their heads shaved. Until the time of
which I write it had been customary (and still is, in the case of anyone
belonging to the “privileged classes”) to defer the performance of this
barbarous ceremony until arrival in Siberia at the town of Tiumen. But it

occurred to the officials that the condemned in the Shebalìn case (i.e.
Shebalìn, Pankràtov, Karanlov, and Borisòvitch) should be fettered and
shaved before their transfer to Moscow. This was hotly resented by the
victims themselves, and all the other “politicals” in the Kiëv prison joined
in their protest. The authorities then employed force to carry out their
intention, and thereupon the prisoners “demonstrated” in the usual fashion,
that is, by breaking windows, destroying furniture, etc. The occurrence was
reported to Petersburg, and thence the order was at once received to send
our four comrades to Schlüsselburg. What that meant I have already
indicated: burial alive in a state of perpetual martyrdom. Most of the
unhappy victims die in a few years, others lose their reason, and many
purposely offer violence to the officials in order to win for themselves a
speedy execution. It is easy, then, to imagine our feelings on receiving this
news about our comrades, especially as there were some among them at
whose door no accusation of any consequence could be laid. Karanlov, for
instance, had only been sentenced to four years’ penal servitude, the court-
martial having found it impossible to inflict a heavier punishment. He had
thereupon married, as his wife would by law be permitted to follow him to
Siberia; and his imprisonment in Schlüsselburg meant utter separation for
them, as he would not even be allowed to write to her.
The case of the Shebalìns was even more sad. The young wife had
scarcely parted from her husband when her child—an unweaned infant,
whom she had with her in prison—fell ill and died. She herself succumbed
to her grief, and late in the autumn died in the Moscow prison.

Soon after these arrivals there came fresh batches of “politicals,” until the
great prison was full to overflowing. The Lopàtin case contributed many.
Hermann Lopàtin is one of the best-known figures in our Russian
revolutionary movement. In 1884 he had returned from abroad (whither he
had earlier been obliged to flee), in order to resuscitate the organisation of
the Naròdnaia Vòlya, all the active members of which were in prison in
consequence of Degàiev’s treachery. Lopàtin had almost to begin at the
beginning again in reorganising that terrorist society, and travelled for this
purpose all over Russia, establishing fresh connections everywhere. As he
could not depend on his memory he had to write down the names of
members, with notes as to their capacity for usefulness, and he kept the bit
of paper with this list on it always about his person, meaning to destroy it if

in any danger. Unfortunately, this proved impossible, for one day he was
seized in the street by the secret police and overpowered before he could
manage to swallow the compromising document, though he had actually got
it into his mouth. All whose names were on his list were, of course,
arrested, and imprisonments were made all over Russia. The numerous
persons who were sent to the central prison in Moscow in consequence of
Lopàtin’s capture were for the most part scarcely out of boyhood, and their
guilt entirely consisted in their being named in Lopàtin’s list.
One case that especially moved me was that of Rubìnok, a young student
from Moscow University, aged only nineteen, highly gifted, and developed
intellectually far beyond his years. He was condemned to three years’ exile
in Eastern Siberia, and was eventually sent to one of the most forsaken
corners of the earth—in the province of Yakutsk, beyond the arctic circle.
While there he was somehow or other set upon by the half-savage natives
and nearly killed, in consequence of which violent treatment he lost his
reason and became permanently insane.
There was much said in our prison (and throughout Moscow, too) about
the fate of another young student of the Peter Rasoumòvsky Academy. His
name was Kovalièv; he had been arrested on some trifling count, and
confined in the police prison. A certain officer of the guard, Belino-
Bshezòvsky, was also there, under examination for some criminal offence.
This representative of our gilded youth entered into league with the
gendarmerie to take advantage of the young student’s inexperience; and
they planned no less than the concoction of a false attempt at assassination.
The officer pretended to Kovalièv that he himself belonged to the
revolutionists, and tempted the boy with the suggestion of killing the Public
Prosecutor of the Moscow Courts (the present Minister of Justice,
Mouravièv). The unwary youth fell into the trap, and the agent provocateur
furnished him with a loaded revolver; then, when Kovalièv was to be
examined by the Public Prosecutor, he was suddenly seized on his way to
the office by the gendarmes (instructed, of course, by Belino-Bshezòvsky),
searched, and the weapon found on him. He was at once charged with being
caught in an attempt to murder the Public Prosecutor. In his despair he tried
to commit suicide, but was prevented. The provocative rôle played by the
gendarmerie was here too flagrant to be concealed, and the representations
of the victim’s father were successful in rescuing him from their clutches.
An order was sent from Petersburg to hush up the affair. Rumours were

current everywhere that Mouravièv had been privy to the action of the
gendarmerie, his attempted assassination being designed to fix public notice
upon him and bring him to the front. But I have no means of knowing how
far there was any foundation for this report.

CHAPTER XIV
A NOT INCORRUPTIBLE INSPECTOR—BROKEN FETTERS—RESISTANCE TO THE
SHAVING PROCESS—VISITORS IN THE PRISON

In this Moscow prison we “politicals” had frequent opportunities of
intercourse, and we soon managed to get news of the outer world. This was
partly through our discovery that one of the inspectors was accessible to
bribes. This man—we will call him Smirnòv—was about five-and-twenty,
his family an impoverished branch of the smaller rural nobility. His sister
was the mistress of a personage of some importance, and he owed his
situation as prison inspector to her influence. Reckless, daring, and up to all
sorts of dodges, he was ready for any adventure, and would not even have
recoiled from committing a crime if it had seemed likely to be profitable to
him. Scarcely able to read and write, he had an almost superstitious
reverence for anything like education, and that made him anxious to
ingratiate himself with us “politicals.” He was doubly delighted at being
useful to us: first, because it flattered his vanity, and secondly, because we
were very willing to reward his services with coin of the realm. He had a
special affection for me, and often came to my cell for a gossip about all
sorts of things. Of his own accord he suggested that he might help me to
escape; but I turned every plan over and over, and could see none likely of
success.
“Just listen, though,” he said once; “we can work it out like this: I can
disguise you as a lamplighter or a stove-cleaner, and take you out of the
prison with me, and then we can go abroad together.”
This might indeed have been managed, but there was much to be said
against it; above all, the feeling of solidarity with my comrades prevented
me from wishing to escape alone. The other two, my neighbours, had
severer sentences than mine to undergo, and I could not have borne to leave
them behind. We should have needed a considerable sum of money, which I

had not at command; and then, besides, I should have had this man on my
hands for the rest of our lives. All this led me to decline his offer.
Meanwhile, my companions had a plan of their own for breaking through
the wall and so getting free, and although they had kept their preparations
carefully secret, Smirnòv got an inkling of them.
“Do you think I don’t know your comrades want to get out?” he said to
me one day. “Only tell them to manage so that I don’t get into trouble. I
shan’t betray them.”
I promised him he should not be let in for anything, and told my
comrades; but they very soon saw their plan was not feasible, and gave it
up. We had no reason to fear that this man would tell tales of us, he was too
much in our hands; but on one occasion I forced him to give information to
the authorities, as I will now relate.
It had come to our knowledge that the ordinary criminals in this prison
managed to disembarrass themselves of their fetters, not only at night, but
through the day, and that this was winked at by the officials. I therefore
resolved to follow their example, and get rid of my chains, but openly, not
in secret.
“Smirnòv,” I said, “bring me a hammer and a nail.”
“What do you want them for?”
“You shall see directly.”
He did as I told him; I stepped on to the iron landing, and in his presence
broke the rivets of my fetters.
“What are you doing?” cried Smirnòv. “I shall have to pay for that!”
“Not a bit. Go at once and tell the governor I have broken my fetters.”
“But I can’t go and denounce you!”
“Don’t be silly,” said I; “do as I say.”
He went, protesting and shaking his head, and soon after called me to go
before the governor. I fastened up my chains with twine in place of the
rivets, and followed him.
“What’s all this?” cried the old man in great excitement. “You’ve broken
your fetters? You are trying to make your escape?”
And he raised his hands in horror at this shocking discovery.
“On the contrary,” replied I. “If I were in your place I should feel
reassured about that, if a prisoner broke his chains openly.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said the governor; “this is a serious
business.”

“If I were contemplating flight,” continued I, “I should not break my
fetters in the presence of the inspector, but should carefully keep quiet about
it. I merely wanted to get rid of a perfectly unnecessary inconvenience, that
worries me day and night.”
“That’s all very well,” observed the governor, “but you can’t expect me
to give you permission to take them off as you please in this fashion!”
“You needn’t give me permission,” I returned. “You need only behave as
if you know nothing about the matter, and consider everything to be ‘in
good order,’ as you say in your reports.”
“That’s a nice suggestion!” said the old governor, amused and half
relenting. “But what do you suppose my superiors would think of it?”
“Unless you tell them, I don’t see that they will ever have cause to think
about it,” I replied. “It will never occur to the Governor of Moscow to
examine whether my chains are fastened with rivets or with string.”
“Then if an inspection is made you will be wearing your fetters?” he
asked, laughing.
“Of course! You see, I’ve come to you in full dress,” and I pointed to my
tied-up chains.
We parted quite amicably; and I took it that informal permission not to
wear our fetters had been conceded. It was not so easy to get dispensation
from having our heads shaved; yet that we also achieved. According to rule,
half the head should have been shaved every month; and there was no
getting out of this save by a downright refusal to submit. This we
accordingly made; and the barber reported it to the governor, who sent for
us to come to him singly.
“What do you want me to do now?” said the good-humoured old man to
me.
“Simply to report to the Governor of Moscow that such and such
prisoners refuse to let their heads be shaved, and declare that they will offer
determined resistance if forced. We have nothing against you,” I continued,
“but this is our only way of appealing publicly against barbarous and
humiliating usage.”
Whether he transmitted our protest I do not know; but anyhow, we were
not again asked to undergo this degrading process until the end of our stay
in this prison.

Russian prison regulations provide that prisoners belonging to the
different categories shall be treated differently: the “administrative exiles”
less severely than those banished to Siberia after a regular trial; and the
latter again somewhat better than those condemned to penal servitude. But
by the end of a month or two we had so contrived that this gradation was no
longer apparent. We hard-labour prisoners only differed from the other
“politicals” in having to wear the convict dress, and in not being allowed—
as they were—to see our ladies, who were imprisoned in their own special
tower. These interviews were only permitted to them when those who
wished to meet were related, married, or betrothed to each other. But this
was soon arranged. Various couples had an understanding on the subject,
and addressed simultaneous petitions to the Governor of Moscow, asking to
be allowed interviews with each other, as they were betrothed. In most
cases this was a purely fictitious engagement, as the staff very well knew,
and was only designed to vary the monotony of prison life; but not seldom
the pretence led to a veritable attachment, as may easily be imagined. These
were mostly young people of from eighteen to eight-and-twenty, and the
nature of their surroundings shed a romantic glamour over their intercourse.
The young pair met in the office of the prison, a dreary apartment with
grated windows; and every word was listened to by an official. Prison life
lent a poetical and spiritualised expression to their features, and there was
much to awaken mutual interest and compassion. Sometimes this affection
remained purely platonic; but in some cases an actual wedding was the
upshot. Of course, in the latter event the young couple received the hearty
sympathy of all their comrades, who also had personal reasons for rejoicing.
The ceremony always took place in the prison chapel, and was a great
occasion which pleasantly varied our dull existence.
Prisoners were allowed at intervals to receive visitors from outside.
These also must be near relations, and often other friends and acquaintances
gave themselves out as betrothed to such and such a prisoner in order to be
allowed entry. It occasionally happened in this way that an awkward
situation came about, if a young man or a girl appeared to be betrothed to
two or more different people; but the solution was generally a satisfactory
one in the end.
These visits were received in the office to which we had first been
introduced, but the room on these occasions took on a very different
appearance. The old captain sat in his place busy with his ledgers. By the

door stood the inspector in full uniform, with revolver and cartridge-bag at
his waist and his long sabre at his side; and round the walls would be
grouped the prisoners with their visitors. The dim light falling through the
grated windows shone on many a characteristic scene. All classes and ages
were represented—young and old, men, women, and even children. Here
would be a doctor or lawyer accompanied by his wife talking to their
brother, a banished student. There an old peasant-woman, who had made
the long journey by the Volga from some distant province to bid good-bye
to her favourite son, would tell him the village news or bitterly lament her
difficulty in living now he had been taken from her. Close by, the scions of
a noble race—Prince Volhònsky and his princess—would be chatting with
Malyòvany, his uncle; or Senator Shtshulèpnikov would sermonise his
young daughter for having allowed herself to be drawn into the
revolutionary movement, whereby she had now to suffer the penalty of
exile to Siberia. All around would be the babble of voices—condolences,
arguments, gossip, even jokes. One woman would furtively wipe away a
tear as she bowed a grief-stricken head; while another would break into
uncontrollable sobbing, because the sight of some beloved face now pale
and haggard from long confinement and anxiety had robbed her of self-
command. As everywhere else throughout the world, laughter and weeping,
hope and despair, went side by side; only here in prison emotion is more
openly avowed, ceremony more easily dispensed with, and franker
expression given to the feelings. Those who here sought out their friends or
relatives speedily got acquainted with one another and with all the prisoners
whom they were accustomed to see. Among the “politicals,” as Socialists,
there are no distinctions of rank or privilege; and the prison atmosphere
soon exercised its levelling influence on all, and bound together members
of every class with the common tie of sorrow and sympathy. Once only was
the rule broken, and the announcement of a visitor’s name and position
fixed all eyes upon him.
A grey-headed man in the garb of the Russian lower middle-class—a
long kaftan and broad girdle—had entered the room.
“Whom do you want?” asked the captain, looking up from his books.
“I should like to speak to a person whom you have here in the prison.
Làzarev is his name,” replied the stranger.
“Have you a permit?”

“Certainly, certainly; here it is,” said the man in the kaftan, and held out
the paper.
The captain settled his glasses and read. Suddenly up he jumped as if he
had had a blow, and began to stammer out a thousand apologies. “Pray sit
down, Count! I really did not recognise you!” And then to the inspector,
“Hi, Ivànov!” he cried, “ tell them to send Làzarev. The Count wants to see
him.”
The whole prison seemed waked up. Bells were rung, and people ran
about calling out: “ Làzarev! Send Làzarev! Count Leo Tolstoi has come to
see him!”
Yegor Làzarev, a peasant by birth, a very intelligent and well-educated
man, was from Count Tolstoi’s district. He was to be sent to Eastern Siberia
by administrative order for a term of three years, simply because he, being a
lawyer, had defended his poorer neighbours of the village in various cases
of exaction by officials.

CHAPTER XV
POLITICAL CONDITION OF RUSSIA AND THE REVOLUTIONARY PARTY—OUR LITTLE
SOCIETY—FÊTE DAYS—PROHIBITED VISITS-A LECTURE ON MANNERS

At the time of which I am writing the reactionary policy of the new Tsar
was already clearly indicated. Four years had passed since the accession of
Alexander III., and signs of his domestic policy were visible in frequent
death-sentences, favouring of Anti-Semitism (which had sprung up in
various towns in south-west Russia), the appointment of the universally
detested Count Dmitri Tolstoi as Minister of the Interior, the institution of
new regulations at the Universities, not only for students, but for professors,
and so on. In spite of all this there were still some incurable optimists who
hoped this might prove but a brief transition period, soon to be followed by
radical reforms; they even anticipated the granting of a Constitution to the
country. I remember well how various educated people-lawyers, physicians,
etc.—would, when conversing with us, make hopeful prophecies: “You’ll
see, in five years we shall have the Constitution.”
Undoubtedly many of the younger revolutionists shared these hopes; if
not all, at any rate the majority believed that sooner or later the Terrorists
would “remove” Alexander III., as they had his father, and that then, as a
matter of course, “the Constitution must come.” Some were so firmly
convinced of this that when I ventured to express a doubt, bets were often
offered me as to how few years would elapse before the great event came to
pass. “Before we have reached our place of exile Alexander III. will be
gone,” declared many young people.
This self-deception had one advantage in helping them to bear their fate
and keep up their courage; but these castles in the air were doomed to a
speedy destruction. As I have said already, the Naròdnaia Vòlya was
nearing its collapse, and the Terrorists were now scarcely any real menace
to the Government. The original trusted leaders of the society were either
dead or languishing in prison, and their successors showed none of the

capacity needed to carry on a conspiracy of that sort; while, on the other
hand, the police had learnt much, knew better how to spread their nets, and
left the young conspirators no time to develop their powers. The untried and
unskilfully managed societies were run to earth before they could undertake
anything definite, and the unity and interdependence that characterised the
original band of members disappeared.
In 1884 various fractions of the society came to life again. There was the
Young Naròdnaia Vòlya, whose members carried on a sort of minor
terrorism; that is to say, they directed their daggers and bombs against the
lesser officials, governors of gaols, agrarian and industrial employers, etc.,
holding that there should be an immediate forcible answer made to every
act of tyranny by constituted authorities against the workers. There were the
“Bombists,” who swore by dynamite as the sole and only remedy; the
“Militarists,” who thought a conspiracy within the army the best hope.
Finally a group entirely new to Russia made its appearance—the Social
Democrats, among whom I was numbered.
In our prison at Moscow all these different views had their adherents, and
naturally the liveliest discussions took place, though their course was
always fairly peaceful. Notwithstanding all our differences of opinion, we
formed together a sort of big family, in which there was absolutely no
distinction of high or low, rich or poor. All were equal, all shared alike.
The prison food was beneath criticism; even the most robust at their
hungriest could scarcely swallow a spoonful of the repulsive malodorous
broth in wooden bowls brought to our cells at midday. This is explained by
the fact that the sum originally provided by Government for our
maintenance was extremely small; and on its way through to us a great part
of it found its way into the bottomless pockets of officials great and small,
among whom there is an organised system of general peculation. The big
cauldrons used for cooking the food of several thousand prisoners were
filled up with the worst materials that were procurable; and we “politicals,”
after a very few specimens of it, decided to feed at our own expense. So we
founded a commissariat union, and elected as chief, to whose care our
domestic economy should be entrusted, Làzarev, the peasant-lawyer, whom
Tolstoi had visited. All the money that we had at command—either what
had been given in keeping to the prison authorities on our arrival or what
was sent us by friends and relations—was handed over to our chief of
commissariat, and he had to arrange our dietary so that all should share

alike. In the morning we had tea, milk, and bread ad libitum. For dinner at
midday we had a meal—generally of two courses—prepared from the
provisions in our larder by one of the ordinary criminals hired by us as
cook. In the evening there was tea and bread again. Nobody could say that
our table was exactly luxurious; but then our means were extremely limited.
Our poor housekeeper had often to rack his brains over the problem of
making both ends meet; and he at last hit on the expedient of buying horse-
flesh for us. Beef was cheap enough—ten kopecks (about 2½d.) a pound, if
I remember rightly; but horseflesh came to only about half that price, and
we agreed to try it. It proved quite eatable, if somewhat tough and tasteless;
but two or three among us were dainty, and declared that the meat gave
them indigestion, and they could not stand it. As the rest of us believed this
to be pure imagination, and simply the result of prejudice, our “chief”
determined to use a little art. He suggested that he might buy beef for these
“invalids”; but he really just had some of the horse-flesh cooked up a little
differently from the rest, and set it before them. The result was excellent;
our epicures much relished their “beefsteak,” and declared it made them
feel sick to see us eating horse; while we had some trouble in keeping our
faces straight! This lasted the whole time of our stay in Moscow, and not
one of our gourmands ever once complained of indigestion again! When
afterwards we let out that for months they had eaten and enjoyed horse-
flesh, of course they were furious, and asserted—to the common
amusement of the others—that they had always thought the meat had a
queer taste.

Besides our own friends there were many people personally unknown to
us who cared for our material needs, I mean the members of the “Red Cross
of the Revolution,” of which mention has been made in an earlier chapter as
the “old clothes society.” These were chiefly women, who undertook with
much zeal the small but very charitable and indispensable task of providing
for the political prisoners and exiles. Many a one, left deserted in the world,
had reason to value the unselfish activity of these good Samaritans. Often
enough have I seen the grateful emotion of some lonely soul, when the
strange hand of a kind woman—one of the society’s members—bestowed
on him cheerfully some useful and hardly spared article. Our little company
in the prison of Moscow seems to have come off particularly well in this
way. Long before the commencement of the journey to Siberia our

benefactresses warned us to let them have a list of what we should be
needing for our travels. When it is remembered that we were over fifty
persons, and that before many of us lay a journey of more than half a year,
it is evident how much opportunity there was for the thoughtful and minute
care of these noble women. There were hundreds of little things wanted that
gave them not only time and trouble, but personal inconvenience to
procure; and their self-sacrificing exertions to lighten the lot of the captives
were infinitely touching.
Easter and Christmas are special feast days in Russia. The Russian
revolutionists have definitely renounced all religious creeds, and there are
many among them who in any case would have nothing to do with the
Orthodox Russian Church—Jews, Germans, Poles, etc. Nevertheless, those
in prison or in places of banishment always take part whenever possible in
the common festivals of the people; and these days of rejoicing are doubly
welcomed when they come to break the dreary routine of prison-life.
Relations, friends, and the Red Cross ladies send food and even dainties to
the prisons, and the inmates hold high revel. In the Moscow prison we had a
specially merry time on Easter Eve. We had petitioned the Governor of
Moscow for leave to pass the night before Easter together, according to
Russian custom. This was conceded; and we all, including the women,
assembled in the quarters of the “administratives,” where the rooms are
large, because the prisoners are there grouped together, not confined in
single cells. All manner of good things had been sent us—Easter cakes,
eggs, hams, poultry, and all that is customary, including some bottles of
light wine and beer—so that our Easter table was a magnificent sight.[54]
Under the superintendence of the old governor and his staff we spent the
evening and half the night in a merry fashion not often witnessed in a
prison. Songs were sung, there were jokes and laughter; finally a harmonica
appeared, and the young people began to dance. Yet, despite so much hearty
and unfeigned cheerfulness, not one of us could forget our real condition;
indeed, the very sight of gaiety brought to the minds of many of us
remembrance of home, where our dear ones were at this moment
celebrating the feast-day, though with many sad thoughts of the absent.
For us hard-labour men this was the first chance we had had of getting to
know our women fellow-prisoners. The “administratives” met them not
only in visiting hours, but in the courtyard, although the latter was supposed
to be against rules. Those condemned to hard labour, on the contrary, were

not admitted to the visitors’ room. After this Easter festival, however, even
we “deprived of all rights” managed to break through the regulations.
Under the pretext that we had some business in the office we had ourselves
conducted across the big yard, and the warder left us at the door, supposing
we should go straight on down the corridor. Instead of that we raced across
the courtyard to the door of the women’s quarters. The flustered warder
came tearing after us, calling us back; but we had reached our goal, our
ladies were at their door, and we could exchange a few friendly words with
them. Of course, this was only a defiant frolic; we took pleasure in
trampling on the hated prison rules, and the authorities saw nothing very
wicked in it. The prohibition of meeting had no sense in it whatever, as in a
few weeks’ time all the “politicals” were to travel in company together to
Siberia. In this, as in many other cases, we were unnecessarily thwarted,
simply because in paragraph so-and-so of the regulations this or that is
forbidden.
These regulations are not nearly so strictly kept as regards the ordinary
criminals, who are often allowed to wander all about a Russian prison
without supervision, and manage to get admitted even to the women’s
quarters. Moreover, it not infrequently happens that a criminal who has
money at his disposal is allowed by the warders and overseers to be out all
night in the town, where he amuses himself or goes about his own business.
So far as the treatment of prisoners goes, we “politicals” are only too glad
to be put on the footing of “common criminals”; which but seldom happens
to us, however. Yet in one respect the “politicals” have an advantage—I
mean in the demeanour of the prison staff towards them. Every official,
high or low, knows well that he cannot go beyond a certain point with them,
and that he must behave with courtesy. This unwritten law arose from the
fact that for generations the “politicals” belonged exclusively to the
educated and privileged classes, and also from their proud conviction that
they have only acted according to the dictates of reason and conscience,
which upholds them in the firm feeling of innocence, and makes them
fiercely jealous for the preservation of both their own self-respect and their
dignity in the eyes of others. If any official ventures to ignore this sentiment
he may count on energetic protest, and in such cases the prison is often the
scene of a bitter conflict that may lead to tragic results. As a slight example
I may relate the following incident.

A certain great personage had come from Petersburg—Galkin Vrassky,
the head of the controlling department for all Russian prisons. His position
demanded the deepest awe and subservience from all minor officials, and he
himself was fully conscious of his power and bore himself accordingly. He
was a Privy Counsellor and extremely pompous. Before his promised visit
to our prison we had heard that it was this gentleman’s custom not to
uncover his head when entering the cells, but to keep his hat on all the time.
We instantly agreed together that if he behaved so here, the first of us
whose cell he visited should teach him a lesson in manners.
Galkin Vrassky came, attended by an imposing suite, and accompanied
by—among others—Prince Galitzin, the Vice-Governor of Moscow. He
began his rounds with our Pugatchev Tower, and went first to the cell of
Peter Dashkièvitch. Dashkièvitch had been a theological student; he was a
man of very calm but unyielding temperament, and permeated to an
uncommon degree with the instinct of justice and fairness. It was now
incumbent on him to beard this haughty official, who had scarcely begun
the stereotyped question—“Have you any complaints to make?”—when
Dashkièvitch interrupted him, saying quietly: “It is very impolite of you, sir,
to enter my apartment without removing your hat.”
Galkin Vrassky reddened to the roots of his hair, turned on his heel and
left the cell, the whole company following him in silence.
“In what case was he condemned?” we heard him ask, as he stood on the
landing.
“In the Kiëv trial,” someone answered.
“Aha, one of those fellows who made trouble in the prison over there!”
he said in a satisfied tone.
He visited the rest of us, holding his hat in his hand most politely, but he
did not forget to revenge himself on Dashkièvitch after his own fashion.

Dashkièvitch’s sentence had been “banishment to the less distant
provinces of Siberia,” a fairly mild punishment; but Vrassky now ordered
his transportation to the furthest wilds of the country, and he was sent to
Tunka, on the borders of Mongolia.

CHAPTER XVI
PREPARATIONS FOR OUR TRAVELS—THE BOAT JOURNEY BY THE VOLGA AND THE
KAMA—EKATERINBURG—ON THE TROIKA—“TO EUROPE, TO ASIA”

The spring of 1885 came, and we began to make ready for our long
journey. At the outset arose the very important question, what luggage could
we take? The rules prescribed that those “deprived of all rights” should not
have more than 25 lbs. in weight. The equipment provided by Government
weighed that by itself; so that all our own belongings would have to be
abandoned, including books, of course. This would have been a severe loss,
for in Moscow our private library had grown considerably. Count Tolstoi
had given us an edition of his collected works in twelve volumes, and also a
History of Russia in twenty-nine volumes. Happily, however, the authorities
decided that only the gross weight of the luggage should be counted for the
whole detachment of exiles; so that as the “administratives” were allowed 5
pood (about 180 lbs.) apiece, and many of them had but few possessions,
we managed to get our books in.
As everything we possessed had been through the hands of the officials,
of course there was no forbidden literature in our library; nevertheless we
were told to submit it all anew to inspection, and in the course of this the
appointed censor had opportunities for exhibiting to our delighted gaze his
special qualifications for the post. He was a high official, and had graduated
in jurisprudence at Petersburg. Our friend Rubìnok turned to him with the
question whether he might take Karl Marx’s Capital with him.
“Why, how can you take somebody else’s capital with you?” asked our
censor in a surprised tone.
“It is my own,” said Rubìnok, not comprehending.
“Well, if it is your own, of course you can take it,” was the reply, “only
you must hand it over to the officer commanding the convoy, who takes
charge of all money.”

We, who saw the joke, had great difficulty in repressing our mirth at the
idea of Rubìnok’s running off with the apparently unknown Karl Marx’s
property!

When the time of departure drew nigh the idea was mooted of giving
some substantial testimonial to the worthy old Captain Maltchèvsky, our
governor. He learned with pleasure of the project, but begged us not to
spend on him any of the little money we possessed, as we should need it on
our long journey. I forget whether in the end any present was actually
bought or not. At all events, the old gentleman was a great exception among
his kind. I have only known one other instance of “politicals” desiring to
testify their gratitude to a prison governor in such a manner. Yet an event
happened at the last moment which changed our hitherto friendly feeling for
Captain Maltchèvsky into resentment and dislike.
During the whole eight months of our sojourn in Moscow we had been
on a perfectly amicable footing with the prison staff. Our independent
proceeding in discarding our fetters and our revolt against head-shaving had
been silently condoned at the time; but it was just these two points that led
to a rupture of relations on the day of our departure. We were informed that
we must now submit to the head-shaving and chain-riveting processes,
because the officer who was to command our convoy insisted on it. We
roundly refused to comply; and the “administratives,” who were themselves
exempt from the proceeding, declared their intention of supporting us in our
resolve.
The hour for mustering the party arrived. We determined to keep
together, and on no account to go singly into the office for our enrolment.
The staff saw at once that any attempt to use force would lead to a row; so
they resolved to outwit us. We were given to understand that the idea of
subjecting us to the barbarous proceeding had been thought better of, and
we were committed to the charge of the convoy officer. The party was
almost ready to start, when we three “hard-labour men” were suddenly told
that if we liked we could get a medical certificate from the doctor to excuse
us from travelling on foot when we reached Siberia, as those condemned to
penal servitude were supposed to do. We said we were quite willing to be
examined for this purpose; but scarcely were we separated from our
companions than a party of warders hidden behind the door surrounded us.
We saw immediately that we had fallen into a trap, and determined to resist

to our utmost. We kept close together, and struck out with feet and fists
when the warders advanced on us; but, of course, we were ultimately
overpowered by their superior numbers. We were dragged away and each
held forcibly down on a bench while the barber shaved the half of our heads
and the blacksmith riveted on our fetters. Captain Maltchèvsky stood by the
while and gave the orders. This performance of his was enough to alter our
sentiments towards him, and our parting was distinctly cool.

Our journey began on a beautiful morning in the middle of May when
spring had just made its appearance in Moscow. The sunshine was bright
and warm, and the scent of spring was in the air. Our mood was by no
means in consonance with this aspect of outward things; but most of us
elected to go on foot to the station. Our procession must have been an odd
sight. Convicts with fettered feet and grey prison garb marched along
beside other men and women in ordinary clothes. Most of us were quite
young; few had reached middle-age. Of the twelve women in our party
three were voluntarily accompanying their husbands to Siberia.
The last violent scene had depressed us all, and we traversed in silence
the quieter streets of Moscow, where the few passers-by paused to look at
us, and here and there faces stared from the windows. The station, which we
reached after a short tramp, had been cleared of people; only some
gendarmes, prison officials, and porters were on the platform. Police were
keeping guard all round, and nobody who had not a special order was
allowed through to the train reserved for us. When we “politicals” were
established in the places assigned to us, a few persons—relations of the
prisoners—arrived to say good-bye. The gendarmes would not let them
come near to the carriages, and we had to shout our farewell greetings.
“Good-bye! Good luck! Don’t forget us!” sounded from the barred
windows.
“Keep up your courage! We’ll meet again soon!” came back the
response.
“Let us sing something together,” called out somebody. We had formed a
choral society in prison, and now started a song of Little Russia—“The
Ferryman.” Slowly the train was set in motion, and as we glided away the
affecting strains of the beautiful melody accompanied us. Many could not
restrain their tears, and sobs were heard which the rattle of the train soon
drowned. With faces pressed against the bars of the windows we gazed back

at Moscow as long as it could be seen. Then came the outskirts, and then
our eyes were refreshed by the sight of broad meadows.
When we halted at the next station there were a good many people on the
platform—peasants and workmen. Many of them came up to the carriage
windows unhindered, and seemed to be offering things to us.
“Here, take it, in the Virgin’s name!” said a voice close by me. I looked
out, and was aware of an old peasant woman who held out a kopeck[55] to
me.
“I don’t need it, mother; give it to someone who does,” I said; and felt
my heart warm towards this kindly old woman of the people.
“Take it, take it, my dear!” she insisted.
“Well, as a remembrance, then.” I agreed; and I kept the little copper coin
for a long time before I eventually lost it.
A whole chain of recollections was started in my mind by this
occurrence, and I sank deep in thought. The further we went from Moscow,
the sadder became my spirits; I felt as if I were leaving behind me there a
host of friends I should never see again. I did not want to talk to anyone, but
gazed silently out of the window. The line ran through a factory district; the
stations were crowded, and along the railway banks we saw many groups of
workpeople. Men and women in brightly coloured cotton garments stopped
and called out after the train, making expressive gestures. Whether they
knew us for exiles on our way to Siberia and meant to send us a message of
sympathy I cannot tell. Perhaps it is the custom in that countryside, whence
many prisoners are transported, to express in this way that feeling of
compassion towards the “children of misfortune”[56] so common among the
Russian people.
On the following morning we arrived at Nijni Novgorod, whence we
were to journey by boat to Perm, by the Volga and its tributary the Kama.
Our party attracted much attention both at the station and on the way to the
quay. The married and betrothed couples walked in front, arm in arm, and
the rest of us followed, the escort surrounding us all. Two large cabins, one
for the men and one for the women, were assigned to us on the big barge,
which was taken in tow by a river steamer. Here we were rather
comfortably lodged, and we were all in common allowed free access to the
roomy deck, which was enclosed by iron netting at the sides and overhead.
Food we provided for ourselves, and on that head had nothing to complain

of, thanks to the kindness of our friends and to the provident care of
Làzarev, our elected chief or stàrosta.
The voyage lasted some days; the weather was uninterruptedly fine; and
we sat on deck from early morning till late evening, revelling in the
charming scenes which passed before our eyes, on this giant among
European rivers and on its tributary stream. Especially lovely was it
towards sunset, when our choir, which boasted some exceptionally fine
voices, would sing our favourite songs. As one sat, with head supported
against the iron netting, and eyes following the shining ripples lit by
exquisite fairy-like tints, the impression made on one by those beautiful sad
songs was never to be forgotten. Gradually the colour would fade from the
sky, and the stars shine down from a cloudless heaven, to be mirrored in the
glassy surface of the great river; and everything around me—the river, the
stars, the songs—would recall to my mind another royal stream, the mighty
Dnieper, by whose banks my childhood had been spent.

“What are you thinking of? Why are you so sad?” on one such evening a
young “administrative” asked me. She was a girl of about twenty, with
whom I had become acquainted during the journey. We were soon engaged
in intimate and friendly talk. She could understand my mood, and
sympathised heartily. She was an unusually interesting creature of peculiar
and, some might say, eccentric character, but of keen intelligence. She told
me how she had come to adopt the principles of Socialism, and what kind
of life she had quitted to join the revolutionary movement. Like so many
others at that time, she had been possessed by the longing to do something
for the people—the peasants. Where and how to begin she did not know,
and she could find no one to advise her. She tried to discover some way for
herself, and read everything she could get hold of that bore on the subject.
At last, against her parents’ wishes, she left her home in South Russia for
Petersburg, where she hoped to find someone who could help her. In the
course of her quest, and before she had arrived at any definite solution of
the problems that perplexed her, she was arrested, and was now being sent
to Siberia for three years’ banishment. Like hundreds of others, this noble-
hearted girl had expended her strength and sacrificed her happiness to no
purpose, without benefit to others, without attaining her own peace of mind;
a victim to the cramping and illiberal political conditions that reign in our
native land. She died by her own hand in Siberia some time after this.

From Perm we were taken by rail to Ekaterinburg, where we arrived after
a wearisome day’s journey. Here we spent the night; and next day our party,
consisting entirely of “politicals” with their escort, was to drive to Tiumen,
the first town within the borders of Siberia. The construction of the Siberian
railway was only just being begun, and the journey—now very simple—
was then attended by all manner of difficulties.
At the outset we had a disagreement with the authorities that might have
had serious consequences. A number of troïkas[57] had been provided for the
transportation of ourselves, our escort, and the luggage; in each of them
four prisoners and two soldiers were to go, which, with the driver, made
seven persons. The younger members of our party thought this too many,
and appealed to the officer, Captain Volkov, who had accompanied us from
Moscow (and with whom I had previously travelled from Kiëv), to arrange
that only three of us and two soldiers should go in each carriage, or, if he
preferred, four of us and only one soldier. As there were not enough
carriages for this arrangement the captain refused the request; and our
young Hotspurs flatly swore that they would not get in. In other words, they
would oblige the soldiers to use force with them, and that would naturally
lead to a battle, the results of which might be very unpleasant. The
ispravnik[58] appeared, and declared that he could not hire any more
carriages, as this number had been specially ordered by his chief. There was
much arguing up and down, during which several of the young men and two
of the women got very angry. We elders, on the contrary, thought the matter
not sufficiently important to warrant a conflict which might well result in
the despatch of the “administratives” to distant stations for increased
periods of exile, and of ourselves perhaps to Schlüsselburg.
“I beg you to get into the carriages,” urged Volkov; and the ispravnik
joined in his persuasions.
“No, we will not. Use force if you like!” cried voices from our midst.
“We shall have to report you as refusing to obey orders.”
“Do as you please!” was the answer.
It is absolutely against the rules of our societies not to stand by each
other in all dealings with the authorities, whatever the occasion. Despite the
fact that the majority among us saw no ground for persisting in this revolt,
we were at the mercy of the hot-headed youngsters, and the situation was
becoming strained. A struggle seemed inevitable; but some of us had the
happy idea of trying the practical experiment of fitting ourselves into one of

the vehicles, to see whether the official arrangement were feasible or not.
The trial was made, and it turned out that with a little goodwill it was quite
possible to find room for seven persons in each troïka. In face of this simple
fact, the malcontents could hardly maintain their attitude; so with a little
further grumbling and delay they gave in. We had not gone far before each
carriage was lightened of one passenger; the soldiers preferred to ride on
the baggage-waggons, and only one was left to guard each four prisoners;
so we were more comfortable, and everything was peaceably settled.
During the voyage on the Volga and Kama we had fallen into various
groups of friends, who now naturally wished to keep together during the
land journey. The idea suggested itself of giving our ladies the right to
choose their cavaliers, and this plan found favour with the majority; but
there were one or two who objected to any sort of “woman’s privileges,”
and even some others who disliked travelling in female society, and
declared themselves hors de concours. These latter incorrigible
mysogynists were, as may be supposed, the youngest among us.
This travelling by troïka has, as is well known, a special charm of its
own. It can scarcely be called driving; one flies and rushes along at a most
exhilarating pace. On that side of the Ural Mountains spring was only just
beginning; everything was budding and sprouting, and the air was full of
song and other happy sounds of young life.
We flew along great stretches of the highway, raising enormous clouds of
whirling dust. Our drivers cheered on their horses with cries and whistling,
continually urging them to yet greater speed. At first we sat by fours in the
carriages, generally two men and two women; but soon we changed places
at every halt, and then five or six people might be seen in one carriage,
while only two would be left in another. Here there would be chatter,
joking, and songs; there, earnest quiet talk not to be overheard by the guards
—words of far-reaching import being perhaps spoken in those whispered
conferences. The intimate life in prison had brought many into close
relations that had been strengthened during the long journey by rail and
boat; and the drive together now gave fresh opportunities for bringing the
fellow-sufferers nearer to one another.

SIBERIAN HALTING-STATION (ÉTAPE)
To face page 146
Every day we left two stages behind us, each from fifty to sixty versts
(about thirty-three to forty English miles), on which the horses were often
only changed once, the change being made with lightning rapidity, as the
fresh steeds were generally waiting ready harnessed for our hurrying
procession. While the drivers were occupied over this business we usually
made a hasty meal, buying provisions from the market-women waiting in
the yard of the posting-station—hard-boiled eggs, milk, bread, etc. The
halting-station (étape) for the night we generally reached early, long before
twilight set in. Here the first thing was to prepare our meal—dinner and
supper in one; that was the task of the stàrosta and some volunteer
assistants. Afterwards we stayed out in the open air as long as possible.
Songs were sung in chorus; groups and couples wandered about in
confidential talk; or sometimes we held formal debates, of a very animated
description.
On one of the earliest days of our journey we made our first halt in the
open, far from any posting-station. We all got out and stood before a
boundary post; it was that one so often described, of such sad renown,
which bears in engraved letters the two words, “Europe,” “Asia.”
It was now the beginning of June. A year and three months had gone by
since my arrest in Freiburg, and I had now crossed the border between two

continents. The sight of this landmark, passed by thousands driven into
exile, brought thronging many gloomy thoughts. I had passed fifteen
months in German and Russian gaols. “How many years have I now to
linger in a Siberian prison?” I asked myself. “Shall I ever see this signpost
again on a return journey? or shall I find my grave over yonder in Siberia?”

CHAPTER XVII
IN TIUMEN—PARTING—ON THE SIBERIAN RIVERS—A STARTLING PROPOSAL

The town of Tiumen was at that time noted for the disputes that were
continually arising between the political exiles and the authorities. We
dreaded lest our party might be obliged to sustain a battle of this sort, the
causes of which were known to us of old from the letters of various
comrades; so we had intended to arrange together betimes how we should
behave under given circumstances, what we must insist on, and in what
manner we should conduct our dealings with the powers above us. But it
was so difficult to get any orderly discussion during the journey, that after
all we reached Tiumen without having made any definite plan of action.
Tiumen was then the place whence exiles took their several ways
according to their ultimate destination. Our party was to separate here, some
going south-west, others north-east. Among the latter were the hard-labour
prisoners, the judicially banished exiles, and some of the “administratives.”
Except us convicts none knew to what town or village they were bound;
they did not even know whether they were to go north or south from
Tiumen. Now, the difference in climate which this might mean, even if
between places in the same province of Siberia could be greater than
between Norway and Italy. The anxiety of the “administratives” in awaiting
a decision can be imagined, as so much depended for them on the direction
in which they were to be taken.
At the very gates of the prison we were within an ace of a squabble with
the officials; they wanted to take our ladies to a female prison far away
from ours. We opposed this, because such a separation would have upset all
our feeding arrangements, besides being otherwise very unwelcome to us
all, and the officials finally yielded to our representations.
We were only to remain for a few days in Tiumen, so our chief subject
for anxiety was soon settled; most of the “administratives” were bound for
the Steppes Government, and would be sent to the southern part of the

province of Tobolsk—a relatively pleasant neighbourhood. But we were
informed at the same time that they would travel by way of the etàppuy, or
convoy-stations, which would be by no means pleasant. To be taken by that
route, i.e. by land, means a journey of some weeks under most
uncomfortable conditions, and with all manner of hardships that can
perfectly well be avoided by the adoption of the route by water, on either
barge or steamboat. The choice of this wearisome route has been a frequent
source of trouble with the parties of “politicals.” The officials, therefore,
were quite accustomed to protests on the subject; but either on grounds of
convenience, or for some other reason not vouchsafed to us, they stuck to
their proposed arrangement. Our friends who were to go southward
resolved to keep up all possible opposition, and we all agreed to support
what we considered their perfectly reasonable attitude. We held heated
consultations, and ultimately it was decided to send a telegram to the
governor of the province, petitioning him that the journey of the
“administratives” should be made by boat.
The appointed day of departure arrived, and the “administratives” were
sent for to go singly into the office, but we others would not allow them to
leave the prison. If the staff had resorted to force there would undoubtedly
have been a serious struggle, but all passed off quietly, as they gave in for
the time being; only, however, to lay a trap for us later. Instead of answering
our telegram by another, the governor appeared in person (of course, he
may merely have come over by chance from Tobolsk) and examined into
the affair. He then declared himself quite willing that our comrades should
travel by boat, according to our request; and this promise, given by the
highest available authority, was sufficient for us, our minds were forthwith
at rest. But unfortunately, as will appear hereafter, the highest authority had
simply lied to us.
Soon after this the parting came; those of us going northward from
Tobolsk and those bound for Eastern Siberia received orders to make ready
for the start. There was a good deal to do, as a journey of some months was
in question; also our common housekeeping had to be wound up, the money
and provisions divided among the different parties according to their
respective needs and the distance they had to travel. Besides this, small
sums were set apart for any “administratives” or other exiles who were
unprovided with means, for use in emergency on their first arrival at their
destinations.

The parting was no light matter to us. During the next few days small
groups and isolated couples would be seen wandering up and down the
prison yard, deep in endless and engrossing talk. Most of us had first
become acquainted in the Moscow prison or during the journey; but apart
from the more intimate friendships that had been formed among us, we had
all been drawn very near to each other in the course of our half-year’s
sojourn under the same roof. Of course, in view of the separation many
resolutions were made of keeping up friendships, and of never forgetting
one another, whatever happened. Sad, sad, that external circumstances
should too often prove stronger than the firmest resolutions, and even than
the heart’s desire! After two or three years, with thousands of miles
between, and every possible hindrance put in the way of correspondence,
friends are gradually lost sight of, and the thought of them even passes from
the mind. With how many of those comrades did I share the hope of one
day meeting again! Eighteen years have passed since then, and I have only
seen one of them again.
As to the subsequent lot of our “administratives,” we learned later that,
the party being a large one, the officials had declared themselves unable to
carry out the arrangement expressly promised by the governor; and as our
comrades refused to go voluntarily by the land route, they were dragged
forcibly by soldiers from the prison and packed into the carriages. Much
rough usage ensued, but without any really serious result. We had been
quieted by lies, because so long as we were all together the authorities had
not dared to try conclusions with us by force.
The detachment to which I belonged, which was to travel north-
eastwards, consisted of five-and-twenty persons: four condemned to penal
servitude—Tchuikòv, Spandoni, Maria Kalyùshnaya, and myself; four
judicially exiled—Vasìliev, Dashkièvitch, and two ladies (Tchemodànova
and Shtchulèpnikòva); the rest all banished by administrative order—some
to the north of Tobolsk Government, some to Eastern Siberia—among these
latter being Malyòvany, Rubìnok, and our chief of commissariat, Làzarev,
who still fulfilled his old functions, our “housekeeping” arrangements
continuing as before.
From Tiumen we had to go by boat to Tomsk, our route being as follows:
down the Tura, on whose banks Tiumen is situated, to its junction with the
Tobol; by the latter as far as the Irtisch, by which to the Obi; and then up
stream to the Tomi, on which Tomsk stands. This made a voyage of about

3,000 versts (about 2,000 miles), lasting at least fifteen days. As on the
Volga, we were installed in the two cabins of a prisoners’ barge, and a
steamboat took our floating gaol in tow. This journey afforded little of
interest. Although we were in mid-June there were as yet no signs of spring.
Sometimes we passed masses of drifting ice; the nights were extremely
cold, and the sunshine gave no great heat by day. The rivers were in flood,
and everything looked dead and deserted; for miles round we could often
discover no trace of human existence. The deathly stillness, the absence of
any sign of growth at this awakening season of the year, the piercing cold,
ever increasing as we got further north—all this had an uncanny and
depressing effect. “Men and women live in these primeval forests and
swamps (tundra),” I thought, with a shiver, and I pictured to myself how,
after many years of prison had robbed me of strength and vitality, I should
be given the “right” of residing in a similar, or perhaps a drearier locality;
even then not enjoying the liberty possessed by the unfortunate natives—
Samoyedes and Ostiaks—who wander about these eternal woods and
steppes.
Our boat occasionally came to anchor, either to get wood for fuel, or at
the two or three halting-stations provided. The Ostiaks would then come on
board, paddling up in their wretched boats (yaliks) made of bark, and would
offer fish for barter. They hardly seemed to understand the use of money,
for when asked the price of a fish, they would only answer with the one
word “roup,” meaning “rouble,” and would then gratefully accept a copper
coin though a piece of bread or a little tobacco would elicit much more joy.
These people had a most pitiable appearance, and were treated with the
utmost contempt by our boatmen and the soldiers, who usually addressed
them all as “Vanka” (Johnny), which they accepted quite calmly.
Sometimes we saw their huts in the distance, cone-shaped structures, the
framework made of branches, the walls of birch-bark or reindeer skins.
Except the capital town of Tobolsk, situated at the junction of the Tobol
with the great Irtisch, throughout the length of some thousand versts we
only passed two inhabited places dignified with the name of towns—Surgut
and Narim. Here, and at Berèsov, on the northern coast of the continent,
some of our “administratives” were to take up their abode. We parted from
them at Tobolsk. The conditions of life in some of these places of exile may
be guessed at from our glimpses of them. A “town” of this sort consists of
some dozen wooden huts, the inhabitants of which are usually a mixed race,

Russian and native. These people make out a livelihood with difficulty,
subsisting almost exclusively on fish. An educated man must find existence
in such a place unspeakably miserable; yet the Russian Government sends
even minors here. I know a young girl who at the age of seventeen was
exiled to Berèsov, and had to languish there for twelve years. Fortunately,
none of the women in our company were destined for these waste places of
the earth.
When we began to go up the Obi there was scarcely any change of scene,
but ever the same hopeless wastes. Our little company had much
diminished; our choir was disbanded; and life on the barge was quiet and
monotonous as we slowly glided on to Tomsk.
This town, which counts as one of the liveliest in Siberia, only harboured
at this time a very small number of political exiles. When we arrived, two of
them came at once on to our barge, burning with curiosity to see who we
were, and to have news from home; and they unexpectedly found
acquaintances among our party. One young lady I had known six years
before; she stared at me now, and would scarcely believe that the shorn
convict was the same man she had known under such different
circumstances. “You are so changed, so changed!” she kept saying
thoughtfully.
The local prison authorities took us into their custody on the barge, when
our identity had been established by a careful comparison of our appearance
with the photographs in our record-books. We were then marched through
the town to the prison. On the way two young girls, scarcely over school-
age, suddenly broke through our escort of soldiers, and rushed upon us. The
surprised soldiers tried to catch hold of the intruders and send them off, but
that was not so easy. The girls ran like squirrels through our midst,
announced themselves as the two sisters P., gave each of us a hasty kiss, and
paid no attention to the calls of the officers and soldiers. Not till they had
attained their end did they quit our ranks, and then they walked beside the
procession, keeping us company to the prison gates.
We stayed a week in Tomsk, and during that time made acquaintance
with all the exiles there, as they were allowed to visit us in the prison. This
prison in which we were lodged was composed of a few wooden buildings
and some barracks. Every room was filled to overflowing, for there were
about a thousand prisoners of all classes, but mostly criminals—young and
old together. Like ourselves (for we were left fairly free here), they spent

the whole day in the spacious yard. Until now we “politicals” had been
entirely separate from the ordinary criminals, but henceforward the convoy
was composed of both classes, and I now learned to know the criminal
world from personal observation.
One day as I strolled about the yard one of these men spoke to me. He
was a powerful-looking fellow of about thirty, red-haired, and with well-
marked features. He was evidently a dandy among the convicts. Beneath the
long grey coat, which he wore thrown loosely over his shoulders, could be
seen a white linen shirt adorned at the throat with a gay tie; round his waist
was wound a brightly coloured scarf, and to this his chains were cunningly
attached, so that they made no noise whatever in walking. The leather
protections beneath the ankle-rings were artistically fastened to look like
the tops of his boots. A round cap pushed carelessly back on the side of his
head was the crowning touch to his elegance, which the moustache, curling
upward, finally completed. Everything denoted an aristocrat of criminal
society.
“How many years have you got?” he asked after a polite greeting. And on
my reply he continued, “And you mean to stay it out?”
“I can hardly do otherwise,” I said.
“That depends. If you like, we can arrange a ‘swop.’”[59]
I understood what he meant. In 1879 some political exiles—Vladimir
Debagòrio-Makrièvitch, Paul Orlov, and V. Isbitsky—exchanged identities
with three ordinary criminals, and got away. When this had become known,
however, the authorities had at once taken stringent precautions against a
repetition of the affair. The papers of political prisoners were most carefully
made out and photographs attached; they were sent by special convoy if
moved from one place to another; and besides this, each one was confided
to the personal charge of one of the soldiers. But when I set all this before
the man he was not in the least abashed.
“Nonsense! We can do it in spite of all their paraphernalia!”
I knew already from books and from the tales of comrades that a peculiar
organisation exists among the convicted criminals in Siberia, the principle
of which is in a manner oligarchic. A small band of the more strong-willed
and energetic gaol-birds governs the rest. They are called the “Ivans”; they
decide all matters relating to their “party,” both in prison and en route, and
institute their own rules quite independently of the recognised authorities.

The rank and file yield them slavish obedience, however unjust and terrible
their orders may be. I saw at once that I had one of these tyrants before me.
“I don’t see how it could be done,” said I; and indeed, the difficulties
appeared to me quite insurmountable.
“Do you see that brook?” said the “Ivan.” “Well, in the course of every
year one or two corpses are found in that brook. We arrange a ‘swop’; one
of us changes with you, and the chief person concerned disappears down
there. Do you understand?”
I could not quite see what he meant, and was horror-struck when he
explained his plan, which was as follows:—I was to make the exchange
before the warders got to know us “politicals” individually, and the man
with whom I exchanged must be as like me as possible. Of course, when the
“politicals” were to be sent on, their identity would first be inquired into;
but then it would only appear that Deutsch was missing. To accomplish this
the “Ivan” would simply murder his companion who had taken my place,
and throw his corpse into the stream. I should not be found; or if my
unfortunate substitute’s body eventually came to light, it would be taken for
granted that it was mine, and that I had committed suicide or been
murdered. I myself, in the meantime, should be sent to the dead man’s
destination as an ordinary criminal, and could afterwards escape thence—
not a difficult matter for that class of prisoner. For perpetrating this villainy
the man only asked a mere trifle—twenty or thirty roubles—which blood-
money he would have had to share with quite a number of accomplices. He
assured me that such enterprises were by no means uncommon, and always
succeeded.
I listened to him with the fascination of horror and astonishment. He
treated the subject with perfect calm and indifference, as if discussing the
simplest piece of business in the world, and seemed to find my rejection of
his proposal most incomprehensible. Afterwards, when I had come to know
the country better, I realised that this was a typical example of the manners
and customs of the ordinary criminals, and nothing out of the common. As I
have said, henceforward we were to have these gentry for travelling
companions, and it may be imagined what that meant.

Another batch of our comrades took leave of us at Tomsk, and we were
now only fourteen in number, including Maria Kalyùshnaya, Barbara
Shtchulèpnikòva, and Liubov Tchemodànova. We learned that the

authorities proposed to separate these ladies from us here, and send them on
for the remainder of their journey with a party of married convicts of the
ordinary class. As, however, we heard from those who knew that in such a
party, surrounded by the unruly band of criminals, they would have endless
disagreeables and hardships to put up with, we sent a petition to Petersburg,
with the consent of the governor, and obtained permission for our women
comrades to remain in our detachment.

CHAPTER XVIII
BY WAY OF THE CONVOY-STATIONS—A CLUMSY OFFICER—THE VAGABOND—A MAN-
HUNT

The real hardships of the journey now began for the “politicals.” From
Moscow to Tomsk, over three thousand miles, the conditions of travelling
had been more or less European; but henceforward we were to go entirely
by road, crawling from one halting-station to another by short stages. In the
terrible Siberian cold, in the glowing heat of summer, in all weathers,
without regard to the fitness or unfitness of the road, parties of a hundred
prisoners are despatched from Tomsk regularly on fixed days of the week,
parties which consist alternately of men only, and of families—men,
women, and children. The day’s march is a stage of from sixteen to twenty
miles, and every third day is a rest. At this tortoise-like pace—on an
average about thirteen miles a day—the long wandering lasts for many
weeks and months, under the most wretched conditions of life.
In the damp rooms of the convoy-stations, the air of which is loaded with
every evil odour imaginable, the convicts lie squeezed together on the bare
boards of the two sloping wooden shelves, one above the other, which do
duty for bed-places. These invariably swarm with myriads of parasites;
sleep is probably impossible for half the night, and early in the morning the
prisoners are driven forth to begin afresh the weary march. Long before
sunrise the criminal contingent will be standing drawn up in the yard, to
wait there in the cold until the roll is called, and at last the signal to start is
given. At the head of the procession march the older criminals, seasoned
rascals most of them, the “Ivans.” The majority of them have trodden this
path more than once already, and know every brook and copse on the way.
They go at a quick pace, in serried ranks, and easily do their four miles an
hour, or even more. Behind them the other criminals straggle painfully
along in irregular groups separated by long stretches of road. Then come
carts with the sick and exhausted and the baggage; and lastly, the

“politicals” in the rear, two or three together in each one-horse cart, under
the charge of their special escort.

IN A SIBERIAN PRISON
To face page 158
This strange procession extends itself along the road for about three-
quarters of a mile, and raises clouds of dust, from which we in the rearguard
have most to suffer. To add to our woes there is the special scourge of those
regions, the Siberian midge. Swarms of those terrible little creatures kept us
company, not only attacking our hands and faces, and getting into mouth,
nose, ears, and eyes, but inserting themselves beneath our clothing, and
inflicting tortures of irritation. The only—and even these inefficient—
means of protection are nets of horsehair, with which we had taken care to
provide ourselves.
After the first ten miles or so there is a halt in some woodland clearing,
or by a spring or stream. The criminals here break their fast, usually only on
dry bread, and perhaps some of them have not even that. Their feeding is
managed in this way: each man receives daily five to twelve kopecks,[60]
according to the locality through which they are passing (where prices

depend on the result of the last harvest), and also according to the “rank” of
the prisoner, for even here there are class distinctions and privileges. This
allowance is only under the most favourable circumstances sufficient to
satisfy hunger; it covers, at a pinch, the cost of bread, tea, and a few
vegetables. But gambling is so deeply rooted a passion among the criminal
prisoners that they will stake their last coin, and he who loses everything
has to go hungry. His only resource then is to beg; and whenever we passed
through a village some of the most destitute always went begging, under the
soldiers’ supervision. They would station themselves before a hut and start a
pitiful song, when the Siberian women would throw out pieces of bread to
them. Travellers, too, whom we met would give them alms, and these gifts
were shared among the whole party, for the criminals too had their artèl, or
union.
After the short rest the party would set out again in the same marching
order, and try to reach the halting-station before the noonday heat began. As
soon as they arrived at the station the advance party would crowd round the
door, ready to rush in directly it was opened; and then would begin the
battle for the best sleeping-places, the weaker being thrust aside or trampled
down by the stronger. At our first sight of this mad fighting and struggling
among some hundred men in a narrow space we thought they would kill
each other, but generally the wild tumult of blows, kicks, and curses did not
result in anything serious. Of course the “Ivans” came off triumphant,
having secured the best places for themselves, while the old and weak had
to be content with the worst corners. The crowding, dirt, stench, and noise
made these prisons veritable hells on earth.
The halting-stations were usually tumbledown, one-storied buildings
made of rough-hewn tree-trunks, and were divided inside by passages into
two, three, or four rooms. Near this prison building would be a house for
the officer in command and another for the soldiers, the whole enclosed by
a stockade of posts about fifteen feet high, closely fitted together, and
pointed at their upper ends. There are two classes of halting-stations:—
larger ones, where the days of rest are spent, and where an officer is always
in residence, and smaller ones, which are only used as lodging for one
night.

ROLL-CALL OF PRISONERS AT A HALTING-STATION
To face page 160
When the question of places had been settled the prisoners would all
come out into the yard. Here there were generally market-women with their
wares outspread, and a regular bargaining would ensue. Of course, the
convicts were always ready to cheat the women and steal from them, and
the latter would then raise loud cries of lamentation; as, however, in such
cases the convicts all stuck together like one man, no inquiry could ever
elicit any evidence in favour of the complainants.
Washing and cooking also went on in the yard, a big fire being kindled in
the middle of it; and no one ever thought of danger to the wooden buildings
and stockade.
The “politicals” were given a separate room; and our first task on arrival
was always to screen off a part with sheets and rugs to make a place for our
ladies. The position of these poor women, obliged to camp out in such close
proximity to us men, was in many ways very uncomfortable, especially as
soldiers were often quartered with us; but we did our best to spare them any
unpleasantness that could be avoided.

For some of our party the greatest hardship of our long journey was the
early rising; they needed sleep beyond everything, and from force of habit
could not get it early in the night. As the ordinary criminals liked early
hours—and the earlier the better—there were often disputes between us on
the subject. We usually arranged the evening before with the officer of the
convoy, and also with the headman of the ordinary convicts, and appointed
six a.m. as the hour for starting; but once we had a regular battle on this
point. We “politicals” seldom made use of the courtyard until the criminals
were shut up for the night; there was no room for us till then, and it was
therefore only toward nightfall that we could get out into the open air. One
evening, however, some of us were in the yard, when the officer came up
and ordered us to go inside. We were exceedingly surprised at this piece of
gratuitous interference, and asked what it meant.
“Make haste, and be off, or I shall order the start to be made at four
o’clock to-morrow morning,” said the officer.
“But you have just agreed that we shall start at six,” said we.
“Well, and now I say that we shall start at four.”
“We shall stick to the original arrangement, and won’t stir before six,” we
returned.
“We shall see about that!” was the rejoinder; and off he went.
Evidently we should have a tussle, but we were unanimous in our resolve
not to give in to any such arbitrary proceeding.
Next morning the watch awakened us while it was still dark, and said the
officer had given orders that we must be moving. We paid no attention to
this. The ordinary convicts had been already called out, and were in the
yard ready for the start, when at four o’clock the sergeant came and
repeated the order. Some of us then dressed, but the others remained lying
on the plank beds. Meanwhile the convicts began to grumble at being kept
freezing in the cold; they cursed and threatened, and made a great to-do
outside our windows. The officer himself now appeared, accompanied by
one of the soldiers, and again repeated his order to start. We did not stir, and
he called to his people—
“Drive them out with the butt-ends of your rifles!”
This would now most certainly have become a serious affair if the
soldiers had obeyed at once, for we were prepared to defend ourselves.
Fortunately they hesitated a moment, and that saved us.

“What are you doing?” cried some of us. “Do you want to have
bloodshed? That would not be pleasant for you. You have broken your
promise, and in no case are we obliged to begin the march so early; the
instructions only say that a party must reach its destination before sunset.”
At this moment the sergeant came up in haste.
“Captain,” said he, “the convicts are in rebellion; they want to break in
here.”
“Let us get at them!” we heard them shouting outside; “we’ll soon make
them show their legs!”
“There you are!” we cried to the officer. “You have brought this on
yourself. It is your fault for having inflamed those men against us.”
The man lost his presence of mind in face of this danger; and, scared out
of his wits, instead of giving orders, appealed to us for counsel.
“In God’s name, what’s to be done?”
We advised him to let the fellows start off at once, under command of the
sergeant, so as to get them out of the way.
“At six o’clock we will be ready, and will go after them; but we won’t
start a minute sooner.”
He went off somewhat humbled, and gave the order as we had suggested.
We drank our tea very peacefully, and got ready at our leisure. From time to
time the orderly appeared, and asked if we would start; but we always
looked at the time and said it was only so many minutes to six. Punctually
on the stroke of the hour we got up and set off after the rest of the convoy.
This occurrence had the effect of winning us the respect and sympathy of
most of the convicts. Our firmness and decision pleased them and
impressed them. They were surprised that such a handful of us—fourteen
men and women—should have successfully resisted the domineering of an
officer, who had at his command a hundred soldiers and their own
contingent into the bargain.
Friendly relations were established between our two divisions, and
throughout our journey we never came into collision. One only of the
convicts had a grudge against us, and took every opportunity of evincing his
dislike. He was an old hand, had repeatedly escaped from prison, and was
now being transported as a criminal of “unknown antecedents.” He was
evidently from the working-classes, but was distinguished by keen
reasoning powers, and had read an astonishing amount. Reading seemed to
be his master passion, but the works of reactionary authors exclusively had

fallen into his hands—Katkov, Meshtchèrsky, etc.—and his views were
according. He had formed really remarkable opinions on politics in general,
and Socialism in particular. He was genuinely convinced that the
revolutionists had killed Alexander II. solely because he had emancipated
the serfs! He accused us before all the other convicts of being either
discontented aristocrats or their paid agents. After this, several of us entered
into discussion with him, and tried to convert him. By degrees our
arguments began to take effect; he begged us to lend him books, and sought
our society whenever possible. I had many talks with him, and tried to get
him to tell me about his past and his wandering life; but I never succeeded
in learning who and what he really was. He remained to the end the “Ivan
of unknown antecedents,” as he was called in his record-book. Yet he would
readily tell us tales of his vagabondage. I asked him on one occasion how
he managed to get through to European Russia when he escaped from
Siberia.
“Oh, where’s the difficulty?” he replied. “The chief thing is to have the
Urals behind your back; then you get a train or a steamboat, and stop
wherever you like. I would go in that way to Kharkov, or Kiëv, or Odessa,
or Rostov, hire a room, and live quite comfortably. I was always respectably
dressed; my passport was all right (that we see to ourselves), and so nobody
bothered about me. The one thing I cared about was to subscribe to a library
and get books. I’ve read all sorts of good things—Gaboriau, Paul de Kock,
Ponson du Terrail, and lots more beside. At midday I would dine at a
restaurant, and go to the theatre in the evening sometimes.”
“That sounds very nice. But where did you get the money for all that?” I
inquired, with interest.
Of earning a living in the ordinary sense there was evidently no question
here. One would suppose the gentleman to have been living on private
means.

ESCAPED CONVICT-TRAMP
(BRODYAGA)
To face page 164
“Money? Oh, I took whatever there was to take!”
“Well, tell me just what that means,” I asked him. And he thereupon
explained his theory of life.
“Above everything, it’s my motto that ‘Self’s the man.’ I don’t hold with
joint-stock business in our way of life. Thieves make bad partners, you
know. You run the chance of being murdered or split on at every turn; so I
always work on my own hook.”
He then related how he “worked” at burglary, pocket-picking, or petty
thefts, each as occasion served.

“Of course,” he observed, “sometimes you have a bit of bad luck and get
caught. Then off you go to Siberia, and have to begin all over again. I
expect I shall go on all my life ringing the changes on Europe and Asia,” he
concluded, with perfect composure.
I realised from the narrations of this man and other criminals the
astonishing numbers belonging to this vagabond class. It is generally
recruited from the ranks of those condemned to transportation for the less
serious offences; but some among its members have been sentenced to
penal servitude, and have then “swopped.” As soon as the sun of spring
shines out, not one of them remains at his place of exile; they all manage to
get away and make for European Russia. They usually choose byways and
tracks known only to themselves through the taigà or primeval forest, but
occasionally they wander quite calmly along the great Moscow high road—
until the completion of the railway the only regular way of transit between
Eastern Siberia and Europe. We ourselves often met these tramps on the
road, travelling in couples or in quite considerable bands. They came along
in their prison clothes, a bundle and a small kettle on their backs; always
skirting the edge of the forest, so as to vanish within its recesses if need be.
At sight of our party they would stop for a chat with the convicts, among
whom they often found old acquaintances. The officers and soldiers seemed
not to trouble their heads about them in the slightest degree.
“Where are you off to?” the officer of our convoy once asked, when
some tramps saluted him, cap in hand.
“Your Excellency knows; we’re going to the Government’s lodgings,”
the rogues replied, grinning.
“Oh, get along with you, then, in God’s name!” the officer laughed; and
then told us that he had escorted this very lot into exile a few months back.
“Government lodgings” was the recognised euphemism for prison, and it
was perfectly true that most of these vagabonds would find their way back
there soon enough; by autumn hardly a man of them would be still at large.
Meanwhile they begged their way along. The Siberian natives were liberal
in almsgiving; partly from obedience to their religion, which enjoins
charitable deeds, but not a little from fear, as, if refused, these tramps are
not slow in revenging themselves. In many places there was a regular
custom of putting out food on the window-sill at night—a bowl of
thickened milk, a piece of bread, or some curd-cheese. The peasants would
even leave open the door of the bath-house (generally placed at a little

distance from the other houses), that the wanderers might find shelter. They
were admitted very unwillingly to the dwelling-houses, from a not
unjustifiable mistrust of their conduct; and that reminds me of the following
episode.
One day as we were on the march a criminal told me that he had known
Tchernishevsky.[61] This naturally excited my interest, and I asked him how
and where he had met that great martyr to our cause. He told me that he had
once before been exiled, and sent to Viluisk, in Yakutsk. Tchernishevsky
was there at the same time; they were let out of prison together, and
interned in the same town. The man could tell me nothing except some
details of the way in which Tchernishevsky had passed his time in exile; but
that was enough to make my heart warm towards him. It seemed to me that
a criminal who had known personally one of the noblest men in Russia
must have something in him a little different from the rest. When he had
told me all he could of Tchernishevsky, I asked him how he himself came to
be going back into exile.
“I got sick of that cursed hole, Viluisk,” he said, “and got away with
some other tramps. We’d been a few days on the road when one stormy
night we came to a village. It was pouring in torrents, and we could find
nobody who would let us in, till at last an old man opened the door of his
hut. We begged him in God’s name to give us shelter.
“‘Well,’ he said, ‘will you promise to leave us old folks in peace?’
“‘What do you take us for, grandfather?’ said we. ‘Have pity on us!’
“So he let us in, and the old woman gave us something to eat, and they
allowed us to lie on the stove by turns. Well, they went to sleep, and we just
did for them, and went off with everything that could be of any use to us.
We didn’t get far: the peasants came after us and caught us; and then there
was the usual game—trial and sentence to penal servitude. But on the way
here I made a ‘swop,’ and now I’m going into exile as ‘of unknown
antecedents.’”

On their side, however, the people of Siberia are often guilty of great
brutality towards the convict-tramps, sometimes shooting them down like
beasts of the chase simply in order to steal their clothes, boots, and the
products of their begging. I have been told, for instance, by people whose
evidence is to be trusted, that the following is a typical instance.

A tramp had hired himself out to a peasant for the winter. When spring
laid the road open, he received the whole sum due to him, and took his
departure. His wages amounted to the veriest trifle, for the peasants drive
hard bargains with the poor rascals; but his master grudged parting with
even this miserable pittance, and after his departure took his gun and went
on the chase. Siberians are keen huntsmen and dead shots; they are as much
at home in the forest as the wild animals. This man soon got on the
convict’s trail, caught him up, shot him down ruthlessly, and left the body to
the beasts of prey, while he went home with the spoils.
Throughout our journey we constantly heard tales of unrecognised
corpses found, and shocking crimes never unravelled. Siberia was then a
wild, forsaken land, untraversed by roads save for the one great Moscow
highway. The government of the country districts, entirely in the hands of
the police, was corrupt from top to bottom. What wonder if events that chill
one’s blood with horror take place there without exciting more than a
passing comment? The life of a human being is not valued highly in itself
anywhere throughout the Tsar’s dominions; but in Siberia it counts for
absolutely nothing, as my own eyes often testified. Even now, when distinct
progress has been made in many respects, and the administration of justice
greatly reformed (since 1897), this state of things is little changed.

CHAPTER XIX
THE FOREST—UNSUCCESSFUL ATTEMPTS AT ESCAPE—THE PEOPLE WE MET—THE
CRIMINAL WORLD—THE CONVOY OFFICERS

Our journey was for the most part accomplished during the Siberian
summer. The forest, through which the highway runs for thousands of
versts, is then in fullest beauty; and from the many different species of trees
is wafted an indescribably delicious perfume. Countless birds flit among the
branches, and fill the air with song. Life seems everywhere the more
ebullient for its long winter sleep, and throughout all nature the tide of
energy is at its highest. A riot of joy was visible everywhere, and we alone
seemed to strike a discordant note, as we wandered on towards the prison
that awaited us. Yet even we felt born anew; our open-air life worked
wonders, following on our long imprisonment. Many who had left Moscow
weak and ill became robust in health during the journey.
The Moscow high-road is, as I have said, the only means of transit,
nevertheless it is kept in an incredibly bad condition. It has never been
properly made, and during the damp weather of early spring, or after a
downpour in summer, vehicles are often axle-deep in mud. Along the road,
at intervals of fifteen to twenty versts, there are villages, or sometimes
small towns. To the north and south no traces of human dwellings are to be
found; the eternal forest extends for thousands of versts, and only a few
nomad tribes of half-savage hunters or herdsmen roam through its depths.
Whilst our party rested, or even during the march, we “politicals” would
often leave the road, and accompanied by a guard would dive into the
woods to gather flowers and berries. A strange feeling would steal over one.
A dozen steps into the thicket, and one is absolutely alone, not a soul to be
seen. One dreams of being free and one’s own master; but the rattle of
fetters, or the glitter of a bayonet brings back grim reality, and soon we are
recalled by the soldiers, for the party must not be kept waiting.

The officers make no difficulty about these little excursions, although
they are forbidden by the regulations. At first this surprised me; but I soon
saw it was simply because everyone was convinced that escape was quite
impracticable. For although at first sight it may appear an easy thing to hide
in the undergrowth and get away, as a matter of fact very few “politicals”
have ever even attempted it, and only one—Dzvonkyèvitch—when actually
on the march. He had been condemned to penal servitude for life, and ran
away from his escort into the forest; but the soldiers caught and frightfully
maltreated him. If the officers had not come up he would have been
murdered out of hand. He was taken half dead to the hospital in
Krasnoyarsk, where—thanks to his strong constitution—he recovered from
his severe wounds, though he will bear traces of them for the rest of his life.
This had taken place just a year before our arrival at Krasnoyarsk.
Several attempts have also been made to escape from the halting-stations,
but with no greater success. It must be remembered that Siberia is so
sparsely populated that every traveller on the road is an object of universal
attention, and the authorities are therefore soon made aware of the
whereabouts of a runaway, if he be a “political” whom they are anxious to
capture. Besides, the fugitives are often forced to come in of themselves.
They do not know the paths through the forest, so familiar to the ordinary
criminals, but wander helplessly about, and are thankful at last if they
chance to hit the high-road once more, and—half famished—seek the
nearest village. In such cases the peasants are eager to assist the authorities
and thereby earn a reward; and as soon as they discover a political runaway
they unfailingly deliver him up to the police.

AN ATTEMPT AT ESCAPE
To face page 170
Up to the present time the Russian Government has been amply justified
in regarding Siberia as one vast prison, whose natural conditions offer more
insuperable obstacles to escape than do iron bars, high walls, or any number
of guards. But this is only to the “politicals,” to whom the forest ways are
strange. The criminals, as I have said, are quite at home in the wild woods;
and it is easily conceivable that to many of us the thought has occurred of
making common cause with these people, and escaping in their company.
Such attempts, however, have more than once had a fatal ending. The
rascals are always ready to murder for the sake of gain; a “political’s”
money, and even his clothes, are quite sufficient bait. In this manner it is
supposed that Ladislas Isbitsky came by his death in the year 1880. He had
successfully negotiated a “swop,” had escaped as an ordinary criminal—
and then disappeared for ever, probably murdered by the tramps to whose
guidance he had entrusted himself.
Another instance of this kind was related to me by a political exile, who,
when himself a fugitive in company with some convict-tramps, chanced to
overhear them planning to murder him in his sleep. For weeks he was

obliged to feign sleep at night while really remaining awake—a terrible
task, as may readily be imagined.
These criminals do not, indeed, even trust one another when on the road;
and it is said that when two of them have to enter a narrow path, there will
be a sharp dispute as to who is to go first, the one in front never feeling safe
from an attack in the rear by the companion of his march.
Other dangers also lie in wait for the wanderer. Our comrade
Vlastòpoulo, sentenced to penal servitude for life, narrowly escaped being
devoured by a bear, during his flight in company with Kòziriov (another
revolutionist condemned to penal servitude). He described to me how the
bear came so suddenly upon them that they had no time to fly, and could
only back against a tree, supposing their last hour had come. Bruin,
however, must have had a full meal, for he trotted quietly by, apparently
without noticing them! These two fugitives suffered terribly from hunger
and thirst during their wanderings through the woods.
Although we had had no personal experience of these various dangers,
most of us were so well aware of them that no plan of escape during the
journey entered into our calculations; but two of our comrades could not
resist the temptation to weave schemes of the kind. These were Maria
Kalyùshnaya and the student Yordan—the former condemned to twenty
years’ penal servitude, and the latter “administratively” exiled to Eastern
Siberia for five years. They were both young, barely twenty, and their
longing for freedom was overpowering. None of their projects of flight
were practicable, however, and they did not attempt to carry them into
execution. Both these young creatures died in prison; Maria Kalyùshnaya’s
story, which I shall have to relate further on, being a specially sad one.
We had many opportunities, during our long march, of becoming
acquainted with the people whose dwellings are beside the great highway. A
certain air of comfort and well-being was often visible about them, and
some of the larger settlements had the pleasant appearance of a Russian
provincial town. Roomy, well-built houses, occasionally of more than one
story, decorated with carving and provided with tidy hedges and gates, lined
the road sometimes for several versts. Curtains and flower-pots showed in
the windows; the rooms were often carpeted and furnished comfortably,
sometimes even exhibiting the luxury of Austrian bentwood furniture. The
cattle, so far as we could see, were finer and better kept than is usual among
the Russian peasantry.

This well-to-do appearance was only in part to be ascribed to the
productiveness of the husbandry in these regions. Trade and the conduct of
traffic were the principal resources of the inhabitants; for this road was the
only means of communication by land between Europe and the northern
parts of Asia. Caravans in lengthy processions, sometimes in such numbers
that the road was practically blocked, travelled along the great highway;
and the country people found employment in the transport of both goods
and passengers. The regular posting-stations were often unequal to the
demands made upon them, and travellers—merchants especially—were
obliged to hire private vehicles and pay dearly for them. Besides these
legitimate industries, the inhabitants had another extremely lucrative source
of gain. Many villages had won for themselves an evil name in this
connection, and were known as “thieves’ towns,” because no caravan ever
passed through them without paying toll of its wares; sometimes a chest of
tea would be stolen, sometimes a horse, and so on. It was asserted that in
some of these places the inhabitants made raids on travellers by night, and
lived by highway robbery. It is characteristic of the country that this
reputation lowered no man in public estimation. Anyone was received in
“good society” if he were rich, no matter whether he were well known to
have robberies by the score upon his conscience; he might, indeed, even be
asked to fill the most honourable offices—such as churchwarden, mayor, or
head of the commune. Later, when I was living in a Siberian town as an
exile released from prison under police surveillance, I was frequently told
by trustworthy persons, with every detail, how such and such a citizen,
universally respected and esteemed, had made his fortune by cheating and
robbery, or even by downright murder. There were numbers of people
whose past could not bear inspection; and many of them, even after
becoming possessed of wealth in superfluity, could not quite give up their
old practices. It so fell out, for example, at the end of the eighties, that
General Barabash the military governor of Tchita (the capital of the
Transbaikalian Government), gave a banquet, to which all the notabilities of
the place were invited, and that the highly respectable merchant and mayor
Alexèiev broke off in the middle of the feasting and went straight from
table to waylay the passing night-mail. This worthy citizen, with one of his
friends, galloped after the mail-coach, murdered the driver, seriously
wounded the guard, seized the bag containing the registered letters, and
made off. The guard, however, whom they had left for dead, was rescued;

and as an unusually energetic magistrate took the matter in hand, the whole
story came out, and could not be hushed up in the customary manner. The
case was brought before a court-martial, and the highway robbers were
condemned to death.
These colonies by the great road had had very diverse origins, and were
sharply differentiated from each other in character. There were more or less
pure Russian villages, neighboured by barbaric Buriat settlements; and
there were also villages inhabited exclusively by members of various sects,
exiled from Russia and forcibly established there as a punishment for their
daring to fall away from the Orthodox State religion. Those that I found
specially interesting were the villages of the so-called Subòtniki
(Sabbatarians). The members of this sect are Russian by nationality, yet
their religion is the Mosaic in its strictest form.
It was curious in the extreme to find these typical representatives of the
Slav race considering themselves Jews by virtue of their religion, and still
stranger to hear them boasting of the prerogatives of their Israelitish faith.
In their manner of life and occupations they differ in no way from ordinary
Russian peasants; although in decency and prosperity their villages are far
above those of their Christian neighbours.
Those of our criminal contingent who had travelled this way more than
once already were well acquainted with the manners and customs of the
Siberian people; many of them were veritable mines of information, and
could relate tales of uncommon interest. In their narrations the Siberians
usually figured in an unfavourable light; for the criminals hate them from
the bottom of their hearts, and ascribe all kinds of evil qualities to them,
being, one and all, firmly persuaded that although their own standard of
conduct is by no means exalted, they are infinitely higher in the moral scale
than the Siberians.
“Heaven knows we are rascals through and through, good-for-nothings,
and all that; but that lot are far and away worse,” was their dictum. They
showered on the Siberians all sorts of contemptuous names, which were
quite incomprehensible to us, but seemed to provoke their recipients
terribly. This mutual antipathy probably arose from the fact of the parties
knowing one another only too well, and from the injuries inflicted by each
on the other during past generations.
We came into such close contact with the world of crime during our
travels that we could soon recognise what Lombroso calls “the criminal

type.” On the whole, the criminals made a more favourable impression on
me than I had expected. Certainly there was much about them unpleasant,
and even repulsive; but this was, I think, less due to their character as a
class than to the special influence of the “Ivans”—a quite peculiar type,
who imparted their tone more or less to all the others. With the exception of
these leaders, and of a small number of the worst criminals, who had not
succeeded in “swopping,” the majority consisted of very average men of the
working class, with the good and bad qualities of their order. Their leading
characteristics were dumb acquiescence in their lot and a shy dread of
anyone who would attempt to better it.
They were for the most part just as good-natured and ready to help one
another as is commonly the case with workers of the lower classes. Among
the ordinary prisoners, too, were to be found many individuals who could in
no sense be ranked as criminals. Russian village communes have the power
of rejecting from their midst members whom they consider undesirable; and
these outcasts can then be sent to settle in Siberia, without any judicial
sentence, but simply by the desire of a majority in their commune.
Moreover, this verdict of the commune is often delivered without any real
majority being convinced as to the unfitness of the offending member; the
clerk to the commune and two or three of the richer peasants and usurers
(Kulaki) can easily manage to get rid of a poor wretch who does not happen
to please them. It would be impossible to calculate how many crying
injustices are thus perpetrated on the destitute and helpless among the
peasantry. The victims of such barbarous and arbitrary proceedings who
were among our party, had many sad stories to tell, which only corroborated
what I myself had seen going on in country districts. With one or two
exceptions, the exiles belonging to this category were quite average
specimens of the Russian peasant.
There were also included among these ordinary prisoners members of
various religious sects, exiled on that account, and they were very far
removed from the criminal type. These sectarians are admitted, by all who
know Siberia best, to form the steadiest and the most industrious element of
the population. The sectarians in our party of ordinary prisoners always
avoided any participation in the fights, quarrels, and rowdyism of the
others, and tried not to fall out either with the leaders of the convict band,
on the one hand, nor with the authorities on the other. It was their custom to

accept humbly all insults and injuries inflicted on them as trials sent them
by God.
Those prisoners who had minor punishments to undergo, and who had
least on their conscience, were for the most part timid, submissive, even
broken-spirited. Among them were the unfortunate wretches whom I have
described as gambling away their food-money for whole weeks together.
They then literally starved, or sold themselves into the hands of the “swop”
organisation for a beggarly sum. They were treated with utter contempt by
the other criminals, and among them went by the name of “biscuits,” a
rather descriptive title for these pale, dried-up, emaciated creatures. These
“biscuits” were the pariahs of their society, and all the dirtiest and most
disagreeable work—cleaning out of privies, etc.—fell to their share as a
matter of course. They seemed to have lost all power of will; and gambling
—the source of all their sufferings—was the only thing they cared for. They
were always ready to steal anything that came in their way, except from the
“Ivans,” which would have had dire results for themselves if discovered,
probably a murderous thrashing. I only knew one case of that kind, when a
poor young fellow stole a piece of bread from one of the “Ivans,” and the
artèl at once decided that he should be punished exemplarily, “because he
had stolen from his own people.”
I have spoken before of this artèl, an extremely interesting institution
which has existed among criminals from time immemorial. It is based on
stringent and unalterable rules, the chief of which is that each individual
must yield implicit obedience to the will of the whole artèl. All members
are supposed to have, de jure, equal rights in the organisation; but, de facto,
the confirmed criminals, the old experienced rogues and vagabonds, are the
preponderating element, and it is the “Ivans” that govern the rest ruthlessly
in their own proper interest. It is their will that passes for the will of the
whole body. Without the sanction of the artèl no agreement between
individuals has any force; only with its consent can any “swop” be carried
out, and thus a portion of the price always goes into the common exchequer.
Once the sanction of the artèl is given there is no holding back; a criminal
who refused to fulfil his “swop” when he had agreed to it and received his
pay would have the whole combined artèl against him. But such a case
never occurs; and fear of the artèl’s vengeance is too great for any treachery
by its members. The lawful authorities would have no power to shield such
a traitor, and could not get him out of the clutches of the organisation; for if

he were moved to another prison the artèl there would take on the feud and
mete out vengeance to him, the leaders invariably finding means to
communicate with each other. In one respect the solidarity of the artèl is
especially strong: it is represented in all dealings with the authorities by its
stàrosta or head-man, elected by the prisoners themselves from among their
own ranks. This is a post of honour, and is naturally always obtained by an
experienced and crafty rogue. He makes all arrangements concerning his
constituents, receives their food-money, and sees to its distribution. His
authority over the common herd is limitless; but he is directly dependent on
the leaders—the “Ivans”—who have carried through his election, and
would be powerless without their support, so that he has to keep on good
terms with them. The office of stàrosta has its pecuniary advantages, and it
often happens that candidates for the post pay a considerable sum for the
votes of the powerful “Ivans.”
A less important, but equally profitable post is that of the storekeeper,
who trades with the other prisoners in tea, sugar, tobacco, and other things
of the kind, and—secretly—in spirits and playing-cards. This privilege is
granted by the artèl for a fixed time to one of the candidates for the office,
who pays for it a certain sum into the common chest. The chief profits
accrue from the illicit sale of spirits and hiring out of playing-cards. At
night, as soon as the ordinary prisoners were shut in, and often even by day,
they might be seen squatting together in groups to indulge in a game of
chance. They would gamble away not only their meagre food-allowance,
but clothes, linen, boots, the property of the State; for which they were of
course accountable, and for the loss of which—if discovered—they were
liable to severe punishment. Half naked, save for some miserable rags, the
condition of the wretched “biscuits” in bad weather was pitiable indeed; and
when the cold days of autumn came on they could be seen shivering from
head to foot, running instead of walking when on the march, to try and keep
warm. It was hard to understand how these men could endure the hunger
and cold they brought on themselves. We attempted to relieve them, but
could do very little; as, firstly, our own means were very limited; and,
secondly, they staked everything we gave them, at the first opportunity,
despite the most solemn promises. There was always an eager crowd around
any players, following the game with as much excitement as the principals
themselves could manifest; and occasionally a lucky winner would share
some of his gains with his starving comrades. It was the custom, too, for the

storekeeper to treat the whole company when his term of office expired;
that was a feast-day for the hungry, and you might hear them say: “To-day
we’ll eat our fill; the storekeeper pays”!
The officers of the escort on principle never interfered with the affairs of
the artèl, the prisoners themselves managing to keep order so as to avoid
any occasion for such interference or coercion. It was certainly remarkable
that this crowd of people, many of whom were hardened robbers and
murderers, should have been so easy to rule; for the numbers of the escort
were relatively small. No prisoner attempted to escape, that being strictly
forbidden by their rules during the journey for fear of reprisals by the
authorities against the artèl. There were squabbles and scuffles, but never
anything that necessitated the interference of the soldiery; and though
doubtless there was an inordinate amount of drinking (for spirits were
always to be had), no drunkard was allowed to carry on any brawling under
the eye of the officer. The others saw to that. There was a tacit
understanding between the artèl and the officer; the latter knew that if the
prisoners were allowed a free hand in certain matters he could count on
them to keep order among themselves, and never to cause him any trouble.
He therefore looked the other way when regulations were disregarded, as,
for instance, in the matter of fetters, which were always merely tied
together, not riveted; so that though worn on the march they could be taken
off at night—which was of course against rules. Among all the different
convoy officers (and there were forty stationed on the route between Tomsk
and Kara—men of very varied types), not one made any exception to this
rule. I have never observed any abuse of their power in regard to the
prisoners, nor that they were particularly rude and rough in dealing with
them; still less that they ever attempted to mulct them of their food-money
or other allowances. On the other hand, it often happens that these officers
are prosecuted for shortcomings of this kind in connection with their
subordinates, and even for direct peculation. It must be remembered that the
halting-stations are established in the wilderness, far removed from the
reach of the central authorities, military and civil. It is easy, therefore, for a
commanding officer to abuse his position. Most of them get but a scanty
education in the lower military schools, and are then sent out into the
Siberian wilds, where many are naturally led to give the rein to their worst
qualities. The majority of them know no pleasure but debauchery, and when

drunk commit all kinds of excesses, gamble away the excise-money,
maltreat their inferiors, and so on.
There were a few officers with a taste for economy, and they were less
inclined to excess, but the soldiers were scarcely better off under their rule
—perhaps worse—than under that of the rakes and drunkards; for these able
financiers established such a thorough control of ways and means in their
department that their unfortunate men were not only mercilessly fleeced,
but made to do all sorts of work in house and field in order to save paying
for labour. However, this class was not a large one.
To us “politicals” most of the officers behaved with formal correctness,
and tried to avoid any conflicts. But apart from their general attitude, there
were numerous petty details—slight enough in themselves, but of great
importance to us on such a long journey—that were sometimes subjects of
dispute; for instance, the hour of starting in the early morning, as I have
already mentioned; and we had discussions with various officers about
other things, such as keeping the wooden tub in our room all night, which
we declined to do, as it poisoned the air, and also on account of the ladies
who had to share the room with us. If the officer were ill-tempered or
obstinate, trifles like these might be the occasion of insults and bullying on
his side that would lead to revolt and violence on ours; and then a court-
martial with its cruel verdict loomed before us. Fortunately, things never
went so far as that,—thanks partly to our having in our midst a few older
and wiser heads, who exercised a calming influence over the rest, besides
three men who had had considerable experience of intercourse with the
authorities, as they were going to Siberia for the second time, having
previously been “administratively” exiled—Malyòvany, Spandoni, and
Tchuikòv. We owed much also to the exertions and tactful counsel of our
head-man, Làzarev.
It happened sometimes that we came across officers who were ready to
show us many small kindnesses—lending us newspapers and paying
attention to our comfort in any way possible to them. On one or two
occasions we had unexpected bits of good fortune. An officer, recognising a
school-friend in one of our comrades—Snigiriòv, a veterinary surgeon—
was much moved at the meeting, and during the two days of his
accompanying us did all he could to help us. Another officer announced
himself as a sympathiser with Socialism. He had mixed in revolutionary
circles, and made no secret of his views, being in entire agreement with us.

He told us he read a good deal of forbidden literature, and we discussed
many political problems with him. Naturally it was a pleasant surprise to
find a man of kindred opinions among the instruments of despotism.
The polite behaviour of most officers towards us may possibly have been
due to an amusingly mistaken notion, of which by chance we discovered
symptoms. On entering one of the halting-stations we found in the room to
which we were shown a plainly dressed man with handcuffs on his wrists.
He turned out to be a political exile named Stephen Agàpov,[62] a factory
hand, who was now being removed from Eastern to Western Siberia as a
mitigation of his punishment, in accordance with the coronation manifesto
of 1883. His wife, a Siberian peasant, accompanied him. Agàpov explained
to us that when our party was expected the officer had ordered him to quit
that room, because a party of “politicals” was coming, composed entirely of
counts and princes, and that these noble personages would never put up
with having a common workman in the room with them. Agàpov and his
wife thought this no reason why they should be turned out of the room
intended for political prisoners like themselves, and they refused to obey,
which led to a violent scene, and Agàpov was put in irons. Worse still, the
irate officer had another punishment in store for him. The pair had with
them all their belongings—the fruits of hard work in Eastern Siberia—
making a weight of luggage beyond what was permitted by the regulations.
The officer immediately ordered everything above the prescribed weight to
be sold by auction to the people of the place—a pure piece of malice, as
even the ordinary exiles were always allowed excess luggage, and still more
those who were benefiting by the act of grace.
This tyrannical performance incensed us highly, and our good head-man
went at once to the officer with an appeal for the release of our comrade
from his fetters, which was granted without much ado. The comic part of
the affair was that we ourselves should figure as princes and counts! In
reality there was not one among us of such rank, but the legend had
probably arisen from the addresses of letters sent by members of our party
to Prince Volhònsky, Count Leo Tolstoi, and other well-known people of
title. The affair had further consequences for the poor Agàpovs, as the
officer reported them for disobedience, violence, etc., and they were sent to
one of those “towns” to the north of Tobolsk that I have previously
described—a far worse locality than that from which they were being
brought as an act of clemency.

CHAPTER XX
FROM KRASNOYARSK TO IRKUTSK—MISUNDERSTANDINGS AND DISPUTES—THE
WOMEN IN IRKUTSK PRISON

The distance from Tomsk to Krasnoyarsk is about five hundred versts,
and took us a full month to accomplish—twenty days on the march and ten
days of rest between the stages. In Krasnoyarsk we were to wait a week, the
ordinary prisoners being taken to the deportation prison and we ourselves
lodged in the town gaol. On arriving there we were struck by the orderliness
of the arrangements. The spacious new building was freshly whitewashed,
and the whole place spotlessly clean; there was light and air in abundance,
and there were no bars to the windows. We might have imagined that we
had been brought to a decent hotel; I have certainly never seen another
prison like it in either Siberia or Russia. When we entered the corridor,
however, the air of comfort was somewhat lessened by inscriptions on the
cell doors—“For murder”; “For robbery”; “For theft,” etc. The governor, a
pleasant-looking man, came up and ordered briefly and decisively that we
should be placed in separate cells, and each according to his special class—
convicts, exiles, and “administratives”—as that was the rule of the place.
This did not suit us at all, and we explained to him the upset it would mean
to our feeding arrangements; besides which, as during our two months’
journey we had clubbed all our luggage together, it would be very awkward
to change all that at a moment’s notice. Moreover, we told him, we did not
wish to be treated in any different way from that prescribed by the
regulations; that we were on transport, and therefore not supposed to
conform to the rules of the place, which only applied to prisoners on
remand or under sentence there. It had nothing to do with us, we said, that
we had not been taken to the deportation prison where we belonged; and—
to sum the matter up—we intended to do here as everywhere else, i.e. we
should divide into groups convenient to ourselves in the different rooms,

and might be locked up by night, but not by day, as set forth in our
instructions.
The governor was much put about at receiving this answer, and declared
he could on no account permit such an infringement of his regulations; but
we refused to be lodged separately, and remained firmly planted in the
corridor, bag and baggage. The chief of police was now sent for: a perfect
Falstaff, and—as it turned out—a very ignorant fellow. He likewise
pronounced that we must conform to the regulations; to which we made our
former reply, claiming our rights. As we were reasoning with him, one of
the ladies happened to mention the word “goumànnost” (humanity), and—
like the postmaster in Gogol’s immortal comedy, who did not know whether
“mauvais ton” might not mean something worse than “rascal”—so this
good man became uneasy as to whether the unfamiliar word might not
contain some offence, and demanded an explanation, with which—
repressing our amusement—we furnished him. In the end this functionary
decided that a still higher power must be referred to—the governor of the
district; meanwhile there next successively appeared the colonel of the
gendarmerie and the public prosecutor, to whom we again explained our
position. They could find nothing to say against our representations, and
after the discussion had lasted a long time—we camping out in the passage
all the while, unable to unpack or prepare a meal (although we had eaten
nothing since early morning and were fearfully hungry)—at last the good
people agreed that, pending the arrival of the governor’s decision, we
should make our own arrangements.
Next day as we sat at dinner the chief of police appeared in full parade
uniform, with his helmet on.
“Gentlemen, I am to inform you of the governor’s decision,” he began
ceremoniously, when our head-man interrupted him with the request that he
would uncover his head.
“Gentlemen, you see I am in parade uniform, and the helmet is part of it;
I cannot take it off,” he stammered, doubtful if this were not some new form
of insult.
“We do not care what sort of uniform it is,” answered Làzarev, with
imperturbable calm, “when you come into our room you will have the
kindness to remove your head-covering.”
“Now this is too much. I cannot, I really cannot take off my helmet,” he
declared, growing warm.

“Do as you please; but in that case we will not listen to the decision of
the governor,” said Làzarev.
The poor man looked from one to another, hesitated, and finally bared his
worthy head and imparted to us the formal decision: the governor granted
our desire.
I wonder how many officials have had to learn this elementary lesson in
politeness from us.

In Krasnoyarsk our party was diminished to eleven in number. The
veterinary surgeon Snigiriòv and the student Korniènko were to remain in
the government of Yenisei, and we had to leave Spandoni behind in the
prison, as he was ill.
We were two months on the journey from Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk, a
thousand versts. In that whole distance there is only one town, Nijni-
Udînsk; and even this scarcely deserves the title. Here we met comrades—a
married couple named Novakòvsky—also on their way to Eastern Siberia. I
had known Novakòvsky in Kiëv; he had taken part in the 1876
demonstration in the Kazan Square in Petersburg, and had been banished to
Siberia. After the coronation manifesto in 1883, he was moved from
Balagansk, in the government of Irkutsk, to Minuisinsk, in the government
of Yenisei; but now he and his wife were being sent out to the East, on the
following account. For some reason or other Novakòvsky had fallen out
with the ispravnik[63] of Minuisinsk. Another of the political exiles had
occasion to apply to the ispravnik for something; the latter, mistaking him
for Novakòvsky, received him with the grossest incivility, and when he
discovered his error, apologised by explaining the mistake he had made.
The thing was talked about, and came to the ears of Novakòvsky and of his
wife, who had voluntarily followed him into banishment. For some days the
exiles consulted together what should be done, but before they had decided
to take any steps, Novakòvsky’s wife took the matter into her own hands;
she went into the office and gave the ispravnik a box on the ear, with the
words—“That’s for my husband!” She was had up for trial, and sentenced
by the court to deportation into Eastern Siberia, whither her husband was
now accompanying her by his own desire.
Later I learned to know and esteem Novakòvsky’s wife. She was a clever,
courageous woman, of lively and resolute disposition. I believe that both
she and her husband died in Siberia.

Our journey now proceeded much as heretofore, only in course of time
the regulations were less and less strictly observed. We left off our fetters
altogether, without any comment being made, and were never bothered
about head-shaving.
I looked forward with impatience to arriving at Irkutsk prison, where I
hoped to meet a friend of early days—Maria Kovalèvskaya. We had
become acquainted in 1875, belonged to the same section of the Buntari,
and—as was then customary among all the revolutionists—said “thee” and
“thou” to one another. Maria Kovalèvskaya[64] was one of the most
remarkable women in the movement; she was the daughter of a man of
property named Vorontsov, and had married Kovalèvsky, a tutor in a
military gymnasium. In the early sixties she joined the revolutionary
movement, left her husband and little daughter, and devoted herself to the
work of the party. She was small of stature and had something of the gipsy
in her looks; was lively and energetic in manner, keen of wit, ready and
logical in speech. She distinguished herself at all theoretical discussions,
always penetrating to the kernel of the question in hand, and bringing life
and point into the debate, without ever becoming personal or hurting
anyone’s feelings. She was esteemed very highly; and people who were
quite opposed to the Socialists fully appreciated her exceptional gifts. In
any other country she would have played a distinguished part; in Russia she
was condemned to fourteen years and ten months’ penal servitude, because
she was found in a house where some revolutionists made armed resistance
to the gendarmerie.[65] By her courageous bearing during trial and in prison,
as also later in Kara, Maria Kovalèvskaya became one of the best-known
characters in revolutionary circles. In the prison, where she was witness of
the shameless unfairness and bad faith of officials at every turn, her
irrepressible energy found vent in upholding and defending the prisoners.
Whether the matter were really serious, or a comparative trifle, whether the
offence was committed by a functionary of high position or by the meanest
underling, her determination knew no compromise; she made her protest
regardless of consequence to herself, would not rest till she had gained her
end, and would rather have died than have given in. She always stood
firmly for the tactics of the Buntari, i.e. to use the strongest and most radical
measures for enforcing a protest against official oppression. If there were
any discussion on this head her advice was always to annoy the staff

actively, to break windows, furniture, etc. It was only her strong sense of
comradeship that could induce her to bow to the will of the majority and
adopt more passive means, such as hunger-strikes or boycotting officials.
She had fought out a whole series of such conflicts, and one of them—a
dispute at Kara—had led to her being removed, with three female
comrades, to Irkutsk. No sooner, however, were they there than a contest
arose with the head of the police; and the four women in consequence
refused food, fasting so long (ten or eleven days, I believe,) that the prison
doctor became apprehensive of the result, and the pressure of public
opinion being brought to bear on the governor of the district, he granted the
requests of the women “politicals.”

At last, towards the middle of September, we arrived at Irkutsk, the
capital of Siberia, and were taken to the local prison—celebrated like that of
Kiëv for many escapes of political prisoners.[66]
We men were given a room in common, and the ladies were shown to
another. The moment we were shut in I flew to the window, climbed up, and
called the name of Maria Kovalèvskaya, for we had soon found out that her
cell was over ours. She answered at once, and we talked together far into
the night. In our walks we had subsequently many opportunities of meeting
during our eight days’ stay here. The long years of separation had in no way
impaired our intimacy. On the contrary, from the first moment of meeting,
our mutual sympathy found expression without the need of many words,
and we understood each other as old friends do. The sufferings she had
undergone moved me to the deepest compassion. The hunger-strike of
which I have spoken had taken place only a short time before our advent,
and she bore terrible traces of its effect, looking as if but newly risen from
the grave, though her spirit was unbroken. It was still the same enthusiastic,
untameable, combative nature I had known so well. Even the officials could
not withstand the fascination of her personality, but yielded respect to her
strong sense of right and her inflexibility of purpose, as I soon observed. We
had each, naturally, much to relate; and I marvelled that she could have
retained such elasticity of mind, that the range of her quick intellect should
have in no wise contracted, that despite all she had gone through she could
laugh and jest as ever. Everything that was going on in the distant lands of
freedom interested her keenly; she never wearied of questioning me about
the state of public life in Western Europe and in Russia, and she soon

managed to find out in what each of us could best instruct her. I, for
instance, spent two or three evenings in describing to her the working-
men’s organisations in Western Europe, and giving her my own impressions
of life abroad. It was characteristic of her that she was able to appreciate the
peculiar social conditions of other countries, although there was so much
that was unsympathetic to her as a Russian. She was especially indignant
about my treatment in German prisons.
In her own views she still adhered to the policy of the Buntari, and this
could hardly have been otherwise. Her past life entirely belonged to the
period when their views and those of the Naròdniki governed the whole
revolutionary movement, and there could be no question of criticism. The
simple programme of “stirring up the people to uprisings and rebellions
against the existing régime, in accordance with varying local
circumstances,” was in consonance with her fiery temperament, impatient
of all restraint.
Her three friends were also interesting characters, and I soon had
opportunities of talking to them and hearing the story of their connection
with the movement. First came the young Sophia Bogomòletz;[67] her
maiden name had been Prìsyetskaya, and she was the daughter of a rich
landed proprietor in the government of Poltava. She had attended a higher
grade school for girls, and later the medical course in Petersburg; had
married a physician, and then—like Maria Kovalèvskaya—had left her
husband and child to devote herself entirely to revolutionary work. In 1880
she was arrested as a member of the South Russian Workmen’s Union and
sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude. She attempted to escape,[68] but was
recaptured, and was then given five years more, which was again increased
by a year in consequence of a dispute with an official. Besides this she was
placed in the category of “on probation” prisoners, which means, as I shall
explain later,[69] that the term of actual confinement in prison is lengthened.
She, too, was by nature an advocate of revolt, and throughout her
imprisonment kept up a constant feud with the officials. She went even
farther than her friend Kovalèvskaya, for while the latter only fought
against injustice and tyranny, Sophia Bogomòletz looked on all prison
officials as her natural enemies, and held even the smallest compromises,
such as most prisoners are obliged more or less to give in to, as
unprincipled and inadmissible; for example, she looked upon the medical
examination of prisoners as a personal insult. She was influenced by no

considerations of health, and was always prepared to risk her own life, if
she judged there was any reason for doing so. The staff simply trembled
before her, for they knew that their only means of extorting submission—
the fear of punishment—was here of no avail.
The story of the third member of this little band was as follows. In the
spring of 1879 the sum of 1,500,000 roubles was stolen from the offices of
the Finance Department in Kherson, the depredators having broken in
through the wall of the adjoining house. On the same day the police arrested
a woman driving through the town in a country cart with some suspicious-
looking sacks. The woman was identified as Elena Ròssikova, wife of a
landed proprietor in the neighbourhood, and the sacks contained a million
roubles. With her another lady was also arrested; and in consequence of the
latter’s confession the rest of the money was found, with the exception of
some 10,000 roubles. It turned out that this wild undertaking had been
organised by Elena Ròssikova, who had planned to rob the imperial purse,
with the intention of applying the money to revolutionary purposes. She and
some other persons implicated were tried before a court-martial, and she, as
the ringleader, was sentenced to penal servitude for life. She, too, waged
unceasing war against the whole staff of the prison, and was daunted by
nothing when a “protest” was in question.
The fourth of these women “politicals” was Maria Kutitònskaya. She had
been a pupil in a girls’ school in Odessa, and while still very young had
joined the revolutionists. In 1879 she was arrested as a comrade of
Lisogùb[70] and Tchubàrov, was condemned to four years’ penal servitude,
and sent to Kara. At the expiration of her sentence she was interned in the
town of Aksha in Transbaikalia; but she was soon back in prison. The
authorities had ill-treated the male prisoners in Kara (as to which I shall
speak later); and Kutitònskaya resolved to take vengeance on the chief
offender in the matter, the governor of the province, Ilyashèvitch by name.
She fired a pistol at him, but missed. The court-martial condemned her to
death, but this was altered to lifelong penal servitude.
Beautiful and distinguished-looking, with fair hair, and gentle, winning
manners, Maria Kutitònskaya won hearts by the score. While she was under
trial for the attempted assassination of the Siberian potentate she was
subjected to the most cruel and inhuman treatment; thrown into a damp,
gloomy dungeon, and allowed only bread and water. Help came to her from
the ordinary convicts, who had seen her in the prison, and worshipped her;

they brought her food at great risk to themselves, and did her various other
services. These criminals had changed her name a little to suit themselves,
and always called her “Cupidonskaya”; having thus unconsciously hit on a
charming pet-name for the beautiful woman. But for their assistance she
might not have survived her treatment at that time; as it was, her long
imprisonment undermined her health, and she became a victim of lung
trouble, to which she succumbed in 1887.

CHAPTER XXI
THE CHIEF OF POLICE AT IRKUTSK—MEETING WITH EXILED COMRADES—FROM
IRKUTSK TO KARA—STOLEN FETTERS—A DUBIOUS KIND OF DECABRIST—ANOTHER
CONTEST—ARRIVAL AT OUR JOURNEY’S END

The detailed narrative of all that these women had gone through
impressed us greatly; for their sufferings had been severe, and often caused
by the most paltry tyranny. The wonder was that they had ever been able to
hold out. Our indignation against the chief of police, under whose auspices
this sort of thing had gone on, was naturally roused to such a pitch that we
longed for an opportunity to testify our abhorrence of his conduct. This
opportunity was soon forthcoming. A higher official from Petersburg, who
was inspecting Siberian prisons, came one day with his suite into our cells,
and the chief of police was in attendance. The moment he entered, Làzarev,
our head-man, went up to him, (in accordance with a predetermined
agreement of our party,) and said in loud and distinct tones—
“We are astonished at your impudence in daring to appear before our
eyes, after having by your treatment forced our women comrades into a
terrible hunger-strike.”
The whole company of our visitors hastily took their departure, to the
tune of our comments and ejaculations, which contained nothing flattering
to the evildoer! No untoward results followed our action, and the ladies
heartily rejoiced at this humiliation of their torturer.
From these four we heard much about the conditions of life in Kara, our
appointed destination; as also from another comrade now in Irkutsk, who
could give us his personal experience of the prison there. This was
Ferdinand Lustig—formerly an artillery officer, and afterwards a student at
the Petersburg Technological Institute—who had been sentenced in 1882, in
the case of Suhanov and Mihaïlov, to four years’ penal servitude. He had
now ended his term in Kara, and was going to be interned elsewhere, under
police supervision. What he told us was not comforting: the régime was

severe, and the governor of the political prison—a captain of gendarmerie,
named Nikolin—of the worst repute.
Four of us only were to travel eastward together: Maria Kalyùshnaya,
Tchuikòv, Làzarev, and myself. The other seven were to be sent to various
places in the government of Irkutsk; and the nineteen-year-old Rubinok,
whose sad case I have already described, was to go northward to the deserts
of Yakutsk.

At the end of September we started, in company with a party of ordinary
prisoners. We had now before us a journey of some twelve hundred versts
(eight hundred miles), which would take at least two months. Winter in
Siberia begins much earlier than in other places of the same latitude, even
in European Russia, and therefore we had to expect many hardships. In two
days the last steamboat was to start for Listvinitchnaya, across Lake Baikal,
and if we missed that we should have to winter in Irkutsk.
The tempestuous Baikal treated us kindly on the whole, though usually
the autumnal storms are a real danger to voyagers on its waters. It is often
asserted that the scenery of its shores rivals that of the Swiss mountain
lakes; and without myself instituting any comparison, I can vouch for it that
the impression those magnificent hills made on me was unforgettable.
We had to pass a night at the landing-station on the opposite shore—
Mysovaya; and we had been already shut into our prison, when the grating
of the lock again sounded, and the warder brought in a young lady, who
came straight towards me.
“Sonia!” I cried, in joyful surprise, as I recognised in her Sophia Ivànova,
a dear friend whom I had not seen for six years. Like Sophia Perovskaya,
Vera Figner, and other prominent women of the terrorist organisation, she
had joined the new party of the Naròdnaia Vòlya in the autumn of 1879,
when the society of Zemlyà i Vòlya (Land and Liberty) was dissolved. It
was just during that transition period that I became acquainted with her and
with other Terrorists; and shortly after, in January, 1880, she was arrested in
Petersburg, where she had been assisting at the secret printing-press whence
issued the organ of the party, named like it, Naròdnaia Vòlya (The People’s
Will). At the time of the arrest an armed resistance was made, in which
Sophia Ivànova took an active part, for which she was condemned to four
years’ “katorga.”[71] This sentence having been fulfilled, she was now being
sent for internment into the government of Irkutsk.

We were both heartily rejoiced at seeing one another again, but our
meeting could be only a brief one; the steamboat was to start almost directly
on its return journey, and Sonia could not miss it. We hurriedly exchanged
news of ourselves and of our common friends; then came our parting, and I
have never seen her since. To the best of my knowledge she is still living in
Siberia.

Soon after this we arrived at Verkhny-Udinsk, where—as in most
Siberian towns—the prison was filled to overflowing, and no room could be
found for us “politicals.” The sergeant (in Transbaikalia the convoys of
prisoners are always commanded by a sergeant, instead of by a
commissioned officer, as on the previous part of the journey) took us on to
the police-station. As, however, it was late the place was all deserted, and
no official could be found, which disturbed the sergeant no whit; he simply
left us there by ourselves in the office, with unbolted windows and doors,
and went his way. We also were free to go or stay as we pleased, and were
rather surprised at his calm way of solving the difficulty. But the man knew
what he was about. It was true enough that we could walk off without
anyone being the wiser; but what then? It was, indeed, always easy to
escape from prison here; but it was well-nigh impossible to get any further.
Elizabeth Kovàlskaya had twice escaped from prison in Irkutsk (once
disguised as a warder), but on both occasions she was caught before she had
left the town; and if she had found concealment impossible in a relatively
big place like Irkutsk, with all the allies and money she had at command,
the case must certainly have been hopeless for us, strangers, in a little hole
like Verkhny-Udinsk. Still, it was a curious feeling at the time, as I well
remember, to know oneself free and under no kind of observation, and yet
to be so helpless. We finished by waxing restive and miserable over the trap
we were in.
In this place we met another comrade on his way from Kara, going off to
be interned elsewhere. This was Steblin-Kamensky,[72] whom his wife
voluntarily accompanied. They had been too late for the steamer, and were
now obliged to wait in Verkhny-Udinsk till the way again became open—
three or four months probably. During that time he was at liberty to go
about in the place as he pleased, and naturally we spent together the two
days of our sojourn here, Kamensky telling us all he could of life in Kara.
He was a brilliant talker, and described with an inexhaustible flow of

humour the doings of our comrades in every particular. True, our laughter
over his stories was mingled with much sorrow and indignation, for what he
related was often sad enough. He told us of the bitter hardships inflicted on
our comrades by an inhuman gaoler, and he described Captain Nikolin, in
command over the penal settlement for “politicals” at Kara, as a malicious,
ill-natured man, continually devising petty humiliations for the prisoners.
These various comrades, from whose personal knowledges we had
information about Kara, all made the same impression upon us. They bore
the stamp of their long imprisonment; their voices were muffled in tone;
anxiety, deep and constant, was painted on their faces; the hair of nearly all,
despite their youth—hardly any had reached thirty—was prematurely grey.
But discouraged and broken-spirited they were not; or at least with one or
two exceptions only. Very few of them could regard the future with any
hopeful feelings for themselves personally. Long years of exile lay before
them, doomed as they were to vegetate in some forsaken corner of Siberia,
victims to all sorts of hardships, far from friends and civilisation. To many
it seemed questionable whether their future lot might not be more dreary
than prison life itself. Yet even the semblance of freedom attracted them—a
doubtful freedom certainly, for the exiles, or “colonists” as they are called,
are subject to a thousand and one restrictions at every turn.
I met one only who looked forward with a steadfast confidence in the
bright side of things, and this notwithstanding the fact that he was bound for
the worst part of Siberia—the government of Yakutsk. Ivan Kashintsev[73]
was then only twenty-five, and full of youth and high spirits; he declared to
me, on the occasion of our meeting at one of the halting-stations (we
already knew each other), that he meant to escape at all hazards. This, in
fact, he accomplished later, and he is now living abroad.

Before those who were released from prison, to live in exile under police
supervision, reached their appointed destinations, they had at that time
many difficulties and delays to encounter. We ourselves went at a snail’s
pace on our way to Kara, but prisoners coming thence progressed far more
slowly. They had to wait at nearly every halting-station until some convoy
on the homeward journey could pick them up and take them on for a certain
part of the way, and sometimes they were kept in this manner nearly a week
at a station. On an average they barely made five versts a day, and when the

distance they had to travel was some hundreds or even thousands of versts,
the journey might take months to perform.
At each meeting with comrades on the return journey from Kara, I could
not help thinking of my own future, and saying to myself, “What will you
feel like when after long years you tread this path again? Or, indeed, will
you ever tread it?”

One day I found I had sustained an odd loss: someone had made off with
a bag in which I kept some of my belongings, the chief item among them
being my fetters! I had to make the somewhat curious confession to the
commanding officer that, instead of wearing my chains, I had allowed them
to be stolen; and I was rather surprised that, while commiserating me on
account of my personal losses, he did not seem at all agitated about the loss
of the Government’s property.
“What am I to do without my fetters?” I asked him, when I saw that the
absence of this important detail in the attire of a convict left him unmoved.
“Well, of course we must get some for you somehow,” opined the officer.
“Just wait a moment; there ought to be things of the kind lying about
somewhere.” And he gave the sergeant orders to look in the lumber-room,
where a new pair of fetters was discovered.
“Take care you don’t lose these!” said the officer, as I packed them
among my luggage.
This is a specimen of the indulgent, almost fatherly demeanour which our
guardians more and more assumed towards us as we got further east.
We were by this time in the thick of the Siberian winter and its severities.
We had passed the Yablonovoi mountain ridges, and were nearing Tchita,
the capital of Transbaikalia. At the last station before our arrival there we
observed a great bustle going on among the ordinary prisoners; the sergeant
and the soldiers were occupied with them all night, continually going in and
out in a quite unusual manner. We racked our brains to imagine what could
be on foot; but the riddle was only solved next day, as will be seen further.
Although the distance from Tchita was considerable for one day’s march,
—about forty versts (twenty-six miles), I think,—we started very late on the
following morning; but after about twenty versts’ march we came to a
lonely farmhouse, standing all by itself on the high-road. We had heard
from our comrades who had been in Kara that an old man lived here who
gave himself out as a Decabrist.[74]

Our party halted in the courtyard, we “politicals” were shown into a
room, and the master of the house presently paid us a visit. He introduced
himself by the name of Karovàiev; and was a vivacious old gentleman, of
eminently respectable appearance. According to his account of himself he
had been an ensign in the Guards, had taken part in the revolt of the
Decabrists, and had been exiled to Siberia; he claimed to be eighty years of
age, but did not look more than sixty-five. He made himself very agreeable,
and was most anxious to show us hospitality, declining to take any money
from us. Meanwhile in the next room and the corridor things were very
lively; there seemed to be a sort of combined market and feast going on,
soldiers and convicts eating, drinking, and hobnobbing together like boon
companions.
It was already dark when we arrived at the gates of the prison in Tchita,
where we had at once to engage in a struggle with the governor: first,
because he received the ordinary prisoners first, leaving us to wait; and
next, because he gave us a room which was absolutely unfit for us to spend
the night in. Only after we had made a great fuss, and threatened him with
complaints, did he give us proper accommodation.
Next day, when the party was mustered for departure, it became apparent
that the ordinary prisoners had hardly any clothes! Their things had
vanished, and they were literally half naked. A light was now cast on the
events of the preceding night, when there had been such a carousal at the
house of the Decabrist. That respectable and hospitable old gentleman was
evidently in league with the escort, and had provided the convicts with
vodka and other delicacies, in exchange for their clothing, which no doubt
he had obtained at a bargain. That the transaction might not be discovered
before our arrival in Tchita, the soldiers saw to it that it should be as late as
possible before we got in, so that the inspection should be gone through
hurriedly, and the absence of the clothes not perceived.
In short, the respectable Karovàiev had not established himself in that
lonely spot for nothing. The jollification of the unlucky criminals had evil
consequences for themselves. In proportion as their clothing and other State
property were deficient they were treated to the soundest of thrashings; and
only when that had been administered did they receive a fresh outfit.
In Tchita we had to part from our good stàrosta Làzarev, who was to be
interned here. We three others determined to secure for ourselves a
thorough rest in this place; for we had been six weeks on the march from

Irkutsk, and were thoroughly tired out. We felt in no hurry to go on; a prison
awaited us, while on the journey we had at least a certain amount of
freedom and variety. Moreover, we knew that there were a number of our
comrades interned at Tchita, and we should be able to see something of
them; while apparently all intercourse with the outer world would cease for
us after this stage, where we must make our last adieux before the prison
doors closed on us. We therefore reported ourselves sick, and easily got the
prison doctor’s consent to our breaking the journey here; which meant that
we should be picked up by the next convoy in about a fortnight’s time. Our
comrades paid us frequent visits; that is, they came to the prison gate when
we were in the courtyard. The most interesting news they gave us
concerned the travels of the American writer, George Kennan, who had just
arrived in Tchita on his return journey from Kara; and our friends were full
of praise for that excellent man.
During the last days of November we started again, this time in company
with a so-called “family party” of ordinary prisoners—women and children
as well as men going forward to prison and exile. There had not been much
snow that winter, and instead of sledges two-wheeled carts were our means
of transport, travelling in which was a positive martyrdom. The cold
became more intense every day, and tried us severely, although we wore
every warm garment we possessed, so that we moved with the greatest
difficulty. The only way to keep warm was to march beside the carts, and
one can imagine the sufferings of the unfortunate children who were
accompanying their parents into this inhospitable desert. One longed for the
next halting-station and for possibilities of warming oneself, which even
there were not always all that could be desired. The halting-stations had
sometimes not been heated for a good while, and the ordinary prisoners had
first to chop wood with their numb and frozen hands; even then there was
not always sufficient fuel. The stoves, too, were often out of order, and
smoked so badly that to stay in the room was a misery. It happened
repeatedly that we three “politicals” were accommodated in a peasant’s hut,
and sometimes the whole party had to be quartered in like manner. We were
always glad when this happened, for the wretchedest cabin seemed
comfortable in comparison with even the best étape. How often we wished
we could be by ourselves in a hut of this kind during the rest of our
imprisonment!

I have said that relations between prisoners and escort were now very
easy-going; strict discipline was no longer the watchword on either side.
This had its disadvantages, the soldiers being often very rough with the
ordinary prisoners. One day, as we were marching to Nertchinsk, I saw a
soldier behaving very brutally to a poor feeble old convict, knocking him
about with his rifle-butt for climbing on to one of the carts, and apparently
only because the soldier had meant to ride on it himself. I intervened, and
called to the sergeant in command that I should report him for not keeping
his men in order. Next day, as we went through the town on our way to the
prison, I stepped into a sausage shop to buy some provisions, when the
soldier whose party I had left called after me, “Where are you going? What
do you want?” I let him shout, and concluded my purchases. I then saw that
the sergeant had driven on and disappeared, but I only thought that he had
taken some short cut to the prison and would meet us there, and I was much
surprised when the governor of the gaol received me with the information
that the sergeant had reported me for insulting the guard and leaving the
ranks without permission. I suppose he wished to forestall the complaint I
had threatened him with, about which I had quite forgotten, and I now
turned the tables on him by making it in due form. The upshot was that the
sergeant apologised to me in the presence of witnesses, and we were
respectively pleased to withdraw our complaints!
At Nertchinsk, Tchuikòv and I were taken to the men’s prison, and Maria
Kalyùshnaya was given a separate cell. I shall never in my life forget the
picture that prison presented. From the dimly-lighted corridor one could see
into the various rooms, where the prisoners were already lying down, as it
was late. Packed closely side by side they lay not only on the wooden bed-
places (which were two wide shelves running along the walls one above the
other), but all about the floor; there was literally not an inch of vacant
space. Most of the men were clad in shirt and trousers, but many had only
trousers on, and lay uncovered on the filthy floor. The throng was so dense,
that in order to get to the “privileged” room we had actually to step on the
bodies of the sleepers. The stench was pestilential, the wooden tubs filled
with excrement were everywhere about, and as they were leaky their
contents had been trodden over the whole floor. Although most of the men
were asleep, here and there groups of excited card-players squatted on the
floor or the bed-places, and throughout the whole place there was a

deafening babel of sounds. The general effect was most gruesome, a circle
of the Dantean Inferno was the only possible comparison.
The “privileged” room was also full of people, and we found there some
comrades from Kara—Tchekondze and Zuckermann. They were lying close
together on the crowded floor, and we with difficulty found a vacant spot,
so that we could lie down near our friends. Zuckermann was known to me:
he was a compositor, who in the middle of the sixties had trudged on foot
from Berlin into Switzerland, where I subsequently had made his
acquaintance. He had gone to Russia later, and had worked at the secret
printing-press of the Naròdnaia Vòlya, where he was arrested at the same
time as Sophia Ivànova. I had been told by comrades how heroically he had
behaved during the trial. In order to shield the others he had taken all blame
on his own shoulders, declared that it was he who had fired the first shot in
resistance to the gendarmerie, and so on. He had been condemned to eight
years’ “katorga” and sent to Kara, where he had become the darling of the
whole prison. Always sunny-tempered, full of wit and fun, he spread good
humour everywhere; moreover, he was unselfishness personified, ever
ready to help others at his own expense, one of those people who are called
“too good for this world.” Even as we lay on the floor in that horrible place
he told stories and jested, drawing the most glowing imaginary pictures of
his future life in Yakutsk, whither he was being sent for internment. The
reality, unhappily, turned out widely different from his sanguine prophecies.
Poor merry Zuckermann could not hold out against the hardships and
loneliness of his place of exile, and he put an end to his own life.
Tchekondze I had not met before, but we had many common friends. He
came from Gruzia, and had graduated in the Petersburg college for artillery
officers. With other Caucasians he had then participated in the Propagandist
movement, had been arrested in 1875, and sentenced in the “Trial of the
fifty” to banishment; but he had escaped from Siberia, and had been
recaptured and condemned to three years’ penal servitude. He was now
going into exile in Yakutsk. He impressed one as a strong-willed, careful,
practical man, who would never be at a loss, but would find a sphere of
usefulness under any circumstances; and so indeed he proved in his after
life. The privations he suffered during long years of exile undermined his
health, however. When sent to Western Siberia in the early nineties he fell
seriously ill and died in Kurgan, on the threshold of Europe, in 1897.

At last, on the morning of December 24th, 1885, we arrived at Ust-Kara,
a little village wherein is situated the prison for ordinary convicts and the
prison for women “politicals.” Here we had to part from Maria
Kalyùshnaya, and I saw her that morning for the last time. Tchuikòv and I
had fifteen versts more to travel to Nizhnaya Kara, where was the prison for
male “politicals”; and we had to wait till next day for the commandant, who
received in charge both ourselves and the ordinary criminals. Our luggage
was put into a cart; and accompanied by a guard, we marched off, having
previously donned our fetters in due form.
It was a frightfully cold day, and despite the chains and our heavy
clothing, we stepped out briskly as though we were in a hurry to get under
lock and key. We knew that this was our last tramp in the open, that for
many long years there would be only a trot round the prison-yard for us,
and our thoughts dwelt dismally on the prospect.
“There is your prison,” said one of the soldiers, and pointed out, a little
way ahead, a stockade made of tall posts set side by side.
Suddenly there appeared coming towards us a group of people—two
women, a Cossack, and a man in civilian dress. “Victor!” I cried,
recognising the latter as we approached nearer. It was my old friend Victor
Kostyùrin, whom I had not seen for nine years.[75] He was now being
removed from prison to his place of internment.
After hasty greetings he introduced me to the two ladies who
accompanied him—Natalia Armfeld and Raissa Prybylyèva, both
“colonists” in Kara. Kennan has given Natalia Armfeld’s story in his book,
[76]
and I will only mention here that in 1879 she (with Maria Kovalèvskaya)
was implicated in armed resistance to the gendarmerie, and sentenced to
fourteen years and ten months’ penal servitude. Raissa Prybylyèva had been
a member of the Naròdnaia Vòlya, and had been sentenced in 1883 to four
years’ “katorga.”
Victor and I had, of course, much to say to each other, but our time was
short, for our guards naturally did not see the fun of remaining longer than
necessary in the freezing cold of the open field, and a few brief sentences
were all we could exchange.
“A Frenchman would have had a lot to say about this,” I said: “we two
friends meeting on the threshold of a prison, one going in, the other coming
out.”
Another pressure of the hand, and we parted.[77]

“Shall we ever meet again?” I asked.
“Ah yes!” cried one of the ladies. “We shall all meet in Petersburg at the
triumph of the Russian revolution.”
For her, at least, that hope was vain. Natalia Armfeld died at Kara in
1887, and Raissa Prybylyèva (who married afterwards the exile Tiutchev) is
also no longer among the living. Kostyùrin still lives in Tobolsk; but since
that day our paths have never again crossed.

Tchuikòv and I were now taken to the guard-room, which was close to
the prison. Our arrival was notified; and soon there appeared, accompanied
by some of the gendarmes, the governor of the prison, an officer of
Cossacks named Bolshakov, a man who had been described to us by our
comrades as respectable and humane.
We and our luggage were carefully searched. Of our clothes only our
warm under-garments were left in our possession; everything else was to be
taken to the wardrobe-room, except certain articles which were reserved
that Commandant Nikolin might decide whether we should be permitted to
retain possession of them.
“You need not put the fetters on again,” said the captain of the guard,
Golubtsòv. “They are not necessary here.”
It was evening before we were ready to be taken on by the gendarmes to
the prison—the goal of my long wanderings. Since my arrest in Freiburg
twenty-two months had elapsed; I had travelled about 12,000 versts (nearly
8,000 miles), and I had visited more than a hundred different prisons.
“Guard, there!” cried our escort. A bolt flew back with a crash, and we
stepped across the threshold.

MARTINOVSKY STARINKYEVITCH

SUNDELEVITCH ZLATOPOLSKY

PRYBYLYEV YEMELYANOV
To face page 208

CHAPTER XXII
FIRST DAYS AT KARA—FRIENDS OLD AND NEW

We entered a long, dimly-lighted corridor. Close to the door stood a man
in convict dress beside a mighty chest. “Good day, Martinòvsky!” said I; for
although I had never seen him before, I knew from our comrades’
descriptions that he, being stàrosta, remained on duty from early morning
till late evening by this big chest, which was the prisoners’ larder. He
looked a little surprised at the greeting, but on our announcing our names a
pleasant smile lighted up his grave features, and he shook hands with us
warmly.
“Deutsch goes to No. 2 and Tchuikòv to No. 4!” The gendarme’s
announcement interrupted us. A door was opened, and I stepped into my
room. It was a large apartment; a long table and benches stood in the
middle; round three walls ran the bed-shelves; there was a huge stove, and
three great windows admitted plenty of light.
My new companions welcomed me warmly. There were fifteen men in
the room, two of them—Sundelèvitch and Paul Orlov—being already
known to me from of old. The first question to be settled was where my
sleeping-place should be, and it was decided that I should lie next to
Sundelèvitch, which meant that Starinkyèvitch, whose place this had been,
must find room elsewhere. I found later that it was a great sacrifice this
comrade had made for me, for Starinkyèvitch was thereby separated from
his friend Martinòvsky. In a room where so many men lived constantly
crowded together, the only possibility of close intercourse and the sharing
of intimate thoughts between two friends was when they lay side by side on
the bed-shelf, and it was only subsequently that I found out what
significance this had in our situation.
When we arrived, supper was already over, but we were given each a
glass of tea with a tiny scrap of sugar, and a piece of black bread. I was
overwhelmed with questions, and was made to tell all about my arrest, my

adventures, and what was going on in Russia. We chattered, joked, and
laughed as only the young can, for except Berezniàk and Dzvonkyèvitch,
who were forty and forty-five respectively, we were all between the ages of
twenty-four and thirty. I had an odd feeling, as if after a long absence I
found myself once more in an intimate family circle. Time flew, and it was
late at night before I lay down to sleep, spreading on the wooden boards of
the bed-shelf a little mattress that I had brought with me. My journey from
Moscow had lasted seven months; I was sick of moving about, and now
experienced a real feeling of comfort at the idea of having come to anchor
for years.

I had been rejoicing much beforehand at the prospect of meeting in Kara
my old friend Jacob Stefanòvitch,[78] from whom I had last parted four years
ago, in Switzerland. He had then returned to Russia, had been arrested in
February, 1882, convicted in the “Case of the Seventeen,” and sentenced to
eight years’ “katorga.” He had been two years in Kara before my arrival. As
he was lodged in another room I could only pay him a flying visit that
evening, for soon after our entrance the rounds were made and the doors all
locked for the night. Next morning, as soon as the rounds had been made
and the roll-call got over, I called to the gendarmes through the peephole in
our door, and made them take me to No. 1 room, where Stefanòvitch was.
During the daytime we were permitted to go from one room to another—a
privilege obtained by the “politicals” only after a long, hard fight, although
in the criminals’ prison the doors of the rooms had never been kept locked
by day.
In No. 1 there were also sixteen men, that being the complete number;
and now that we had arrived every room was full. After greeting the
comrades here and chatting with my friend, I visited all the other rooms. Of
course, the advent of a new-comer is a great event in the prison, and is
generally expected beforehand, for notwithstanding all official precaution, a
good deal of intelligence from without finds its way through the walls. The
arrival is awaited with the greatest impatience, as may be imagined; and for
a few days the monotony of the life is enlivened by the new-comer’s tidings
of the world in general and of the revolutionary movement in particular.
Not only had I much to tell, but I was much interested in learning the
views of my comrades, though all that I heard was not entirely to my liking.
I recollect a conversation I had with an old acquaintance, Volòshenko,[79]

who passed for a very intelligent man. He had been arrested at Kiëv in
1879, and sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude, afterwards increased by
eleven years more in consequence of an attempted escape. When I spoke of
the new tendencies in the Russian revolutionary movement, and mentioned
that a Socialist group had been formed calling itself the “League for the
Emancipation of Labour,” and professing the Marxian views held by the
German Social Democrats, Volòshenko seemed highly amused.
“Social Democrats in Russia! That’s a comical idea! Who are these
people?”
“You see one of them before you,” I replied.
Volòshenko and many others in the room stared in blank astonishment.
Had I announced myself a follower of the prophet Mahomet they could
scarcely have been more surprised. The ideas of Karl Marx were at that
time but little known in Russia. It was indeed thought one’s duty to read the
first volume of Das Kapital, which had appeared in a Russian translation,
and it was usual to find educated people in European Russia recognising
Marx’s services to the science of political economy; but in Kara they had
not progressed even so far. As to the philosophical basis of Marx’s theory of
Socialism practically nothing was known; nevertheless it was rejected,
partly owing to the influence of Eugene Dühring, partly to that of the
Russian author N. Mihailovsky, and finally on account of a dictum of so-
called “sane common sense” that Marx’s ideas were quite inapplicable to
Russia. This last was Volòshenko’s contention, fortified, however, by no
personal knowledge of Marx’s writings.
I was in a position to give more than verbal tidings of the new tendency.
We had succeeded, despite all official scrutiny, in smuggling various
prohibited writings into the prison, and among them the first publication of
our group, Plehànov’s Socialism and the Political Struggle. For a long time
no forbidden literature had penetrated to Kara; the excitement was great,
and the new material for thought was seized on with avidity. I was very
anxious to discover Sundelèvitch’s attitude towards this problem, for in the
old days, when we were nearly all Terrorists, he was considered as more or
less of a Social Democrat—at any rate, he had been known to approve of
the German development on those lines, so far as that country was
concerned. We had been acquainted in 1878, when he had in charge the
transport of forbidden literature for the Zemlyà i Vòlya (Land and Liberty)
group; and he had made use of his special experience in such illegal traffic

to get Stefanòvitch and myself safely across the frontier after our flight
from Kiëv prison. At that time we had had many hot discussions with
Sundelèvitch over the methods of conducting our struggle in Russia; for I
was then a decided opponent of the Social Democrats, and as a Terrorist and
“Naròdnik” (i.e. member of the party whose object it was to organise
revolts among the peasants) held the peaceful tactics of German Socialists
to be utterly ineffectual—naturally, therefore, I would have all the more
scouted the idea of introducing them into Russia. Sundelèvitch, on the
contrary, did not believe in “the People,” and thought agitation among the
Russian working-classes quite futile. In his opinion the first thing to do was
to fight for political freedom; and then, as soon as that was obtained, to
resort to the constitutional methods of the German Social-Democratic party.
Consequently, he did not join the terrorist party till it began its political
activity in 1878; and he was one of the first to enunciate the idea that its
methods were only temporarily adopted because they offered the sole
possible means in Russia of overthrowing the existing political order. He
was one of the most energetic in organising terrorist conspiracies, and the
party owed much to his help in carrying through their active work; he was
invaluable in striking out the most effective and practical suggestions. He
was arrested quite by chance in a public library in Petersburg during the
autumn of 1879, and was prosecuted in the “Case of the Sixteen,” when
Kviatkòvsky and Pressnyàkov were sentenced to death, and he himself to
lifelong penal servitude.
I had been thinking much about our former arguments, for I had since
been converted to the views Sundelèvitch then advocated, and I now hoped
to find a kindred spirit in him. Even on purely personal grounds I desired it;
for when a man is convinced of the rightness of his own plan of action, it
must be irksome to live for years with others who, while sharing his
principles, differ entirely as to the best means of carrying them out; and this
is especially so when what one holds most sacred is in question, no matter
how tolerant one may be. I earnestly hoped I should not be alone in my
views, and I could have asked for no better friend than Sundelèvitch, who
was incomparable as a comrade—one of the finest natures I have ever
known, unselfish, trustworthy, judicious.
As I now lay beside him during the long evenings we talked of our
common friends still in freedom and fighting for the cause, of the victims of
that fight who had died the death of heroes or were languishing in

Schlüsselburg; but instinctively I shrank at first from touching on
theoretical subjects, dreading that we might be out of sympathy, for I soon
heard that he was no longer of his old way of thinking. Like many others
during their first years of imprisonment, Sundelèvitch experienced a
reaction; he absolutely threw over the Marxian doctrine, and would not
admit the economic teaching of Das Kapital to be sound. In time we fought
many a tough battle on this head, my friend declaring that for Germans
Social Democracy might do, but that such ideas would never effect
anything in Russia.
With my other friend, Stefanòvitch, I had less opportunity for
conversation, as we inhabited different rooms; but to him also my opinions
came unexpectedly, and seemed strange and incomprehensible. When we
had parted four years back we had been quite at one, and he had remained,
as he was then, half Naròdnik, half Terrorist; while I, having thoroughly
assimilated the new ideas, had, with some other companions, founded the
Social Democratic organisation, Tchòrny Peredyèl (Redivision of the Land).
He learned this now for the first time, and could not tell off-hand how he
should regard it; but being unusually thoughtful and far-seeing, he
appreciated the importance of the change that had come over the opinions
of his comrades in the struggle. He grasped the trend of the new doctrine,
and tried to comprehend it fully. It was clear to him that through our
organisation a way was being laid in Russia for a perfectly new outlook on
the world; he doubted whether it would find favour in our country, but was
far from meeting the idea with enmity or contempt, as the shallower minds
among the revolutionists did both then and later.
This common life of so many young people in the prison had led to the
development of a peculiar jargon. Each room had its nickname: the first was
“the Sanhedrin,” the second “the nobles’ room,” the third “Yakutsk,” and
the fourth “Volost,” i.e. “the commune.” These names had their origin in the
dim and distant past, and I never discovered what had given rise to them.
The inmates of the “nobles’ room,” in which I was located, were all
clever, well-educated young men, full of life and vigour; each in a way
represented a different type, and some had a really remarkable force of
character. Among these latter I would especially class Nicholas Yatzèvitch,
who was the son of a priest in Poltava. When a seventeen-year-old student
in the Veterinary College at Kharkov he was arrested for attempting to
rescue Alexei Medvediev[80] from prison, was tried, and sentenced to fifteen

years’ “katorga.” He had escaped (as I have said before) from the Irkutsk
prison, had been recaptured, and condemned to another fourteen years’
penal servitude. He was barely nineteen when brought to Kara, where he
gained the goodwill of everyone by his admirable qualities. Modest even to
bashfulness, silent and reserved, he yet exercised over his companions a
quite wonderful influence. His thirst for knowledge was without limit; he
studied various subjects with unflagging industry while in prison, especially
natural science, philosophy, and literature, besides learning several
languages. He found time, too, for manual work, at which he proved
himself very quick and adroit. He was on friendly terms with every one of
his comrades in prison without exception, always affectionate and ready to
help. No wonder he gained the esteem of all, and was willingly looked up to
as an authority, despite his youth (he was but five-and-twenty when I first
went to Kara); whether the question were one of household affairs or an
abstruse theoretical problem, his opinion was sure to find favour with the
majority. The bent of his mind was towards metaphysics, and in philosophy
as well as social science he gave himself out as an eclectic; he shared the
opinions of Dühring and the Neo-Kantians, and in political economy was a
follower of Carey, Bastian, and similar bourgeois theorists. Of course,
therefore, he counted among the opponents of Marxism.
Of very different character were the two bosom friends Martinòvsky and
Starinkyèvitch, usually called “the two Vanitchki,” though really only one
of them answered to the name of Ivan. Starinkyèvitch was another favourite
of our little society, invariably good-tempered and full of fun. His jokes,
bon-mots, and nonsense would often send us all into fits of laughter, when
his own hearty ringing laugh was sure to dominate all the others. He too
was talented, but not steady and persevering like Yatzèvitch. He was one of
those fortunate beings who are able to get the gist of a passage with one
rapid glance; but he squandered his gifts, attempting everything, and doing
nothing thoroughly. He was almost girlishly tender, clinging, and confiding
by nature; but could on occasion become passionate and violent. Moscow
was his birthplace, and he was sent straight from the University in 1881,
when a mere boyish student, to twenty years’ imprisonment, simply because
he refused to say from whom he had received a manifesto that was found in
his possession. He was an enthusiastic member of the Naròdnaia Vòlya.
They say that two friends are generally of opposite temperaments, and
the two Vanitchki certainly bore out that theory. While Starinkyèvitch was

gay and lighthearted, Martinòvsky was grave, sedate, almost morose. He
seldom smiled, and I can never remember hearing him laugh. He was a man
of iron will, commanding and even despotic in character. I cannot imagine
his ever being brought to yield a hair’s-breadth on any subject; on the
contrary, he seemed always to contrive to bring others round to the
fulfilment of his wishes. He was without doubt an extremely gifted and
capable man, who might have made his mark as a leader in public affairs if
he had had the chance. He was above all things practical; yet could immerse
himself on occasion in theoretical problems, and was one of the first in the
prison to take up the study of Marxism. He too came from Moscow, and
like his friend Starinkyèvitch, had been condemned to twenty years’
imprisonment. Martinòvsky had been sentenced, in the same case as
Sundelèvitch, Kviatkòvsky, and others, to fourteen years’ “katorga,” and an
attempted escape brought him an addition of another six years. His having
been chosen stàrosta (head-man) by his comrades proves the complete trust
they placed in him, and he was in every way a model representative of our
interests.
The following story concerns another of my fellow-prisoners at Kara. On
the 25th December, 1879, General Drenteln was driving in his carriage
through the streets of Petersburg. He had just been appointed chief of
gendarmerie, in succession to General Mezentzev, (killed by the
revolutionists; see pp. 92 and 263,) and was also the head of the notorious
“third section.”[81] Suddenly a man riding a beautiful thorough-bred stopped
the carriage and fired several shots at the General through the window, none
of the bullets hitting their mark. The rider made off, the General cried to the
coachman to follow him, and a wild chase began. The people in the streets
understood nothing about what had occurred, and saw with amazement this
strange race between the General’s carriage and a magnificently mounted
horseman. More than once the latter seemed on the point of being brought
to bay, but always escaped down some side street, closely followed by the
General’s fast trotters. At last the rider made a dash, left his pursuers
behind, and was in hot flight, when his horse stumbled and fell. The fugitive
did not lose his presence of mind, however; beckoning to a policeman, he
said: “My good man, this horse is hurt; just look after it for me while I go
and fetch the groom.” The policeman obediently took the bridle, and the
horseman vanished round the corner, cut through a passage, called a
droschky, and was seen no more. General Drenteln foamed with rage when

he found the horse in such safe keeping, but the rider gone. The police were
set to work, and easily discovered the steed to be a racehorse named
“Lady,” which had been hired from a riding-school by a student named
Mirsky,[82] already under police observation. Mirsky was by this time no
longer to be found in Petersburg; he had escaped to South Russia. Several
months later, however, he met his fate at Taganrock, while under the roof of
a friend and comrade named Tarhov, a lieutenant in the artillery. Another
officer, having suspicions about Tarhov’s guest, put the police on the scent,
and the house was surrounded. Mirsky, unwilling to surrender without a
struggle, fired several revolver-shots at the police, and tried to break
through their cordon. He was overpowered, however; was made prisoner,
and in 1880 was brought before a court-martial, together with Tarhov, the
poet A. Olchin, and some others. That was a time when even people not
actually implicated in terrorist attempts were condemned to death off-hand
by the courts-martial, and no one doubted that Mirsky—whose assault upon
the chief of gendarmerie was undisputed—would be executed. Only he
himself seemed to think otherwise. I remember how, shortly before the trial,
somebody who had visited him in prison came to us and said that Mirsky
wanted us to send him black clothes and a white tie, to wear when he went
before the court. We were all very much surprised, and laughed rather
mournfully over his odd whim. It was the first time it had occurred to any
revolutionist to trouble himself about what sort of coat he should put on to
face his judges. But of course we provided him with the means of shining
for the last time in public; the papers remarked that “the chief defendant
presented a very gentlemanly appearance,” and his speech of defence was
reported with approval in various foreign journals. He was condemned to
death; and although this sentence was commuted to one of penal servitude
for life, he very narrowly escaped suffering the full rigour of the law. Had
the attempt—planned for that very day—to kill Alexander II. at the station
in Alexandrovskaia been successful, or had the trial taken place two days
later, after the 19th November, when the Tsar’s train was blown up at
Moscow,—all would have been over for Mirsky. As it was, however, he
escaped with his life, and was confined in the famous Alexei-Ravelin tower
of the Fortress of Peter and Paul, where at that time the most important
“politicals” were imprisoned. Four years later he was brought to Kara, and
he was one of my companions in the “nobles’ room.”

Instead of a slender, aristocratic youth, as Mirsky was described at the
time of his trial, I knew him as a robust, somewhat undersized but well-built
man, of about twenty-seven. And he had changed in more than outward
appearance; he was no longer the hot-headed boy, ready for any rash deed,
but a serious man who had been through much and had thought deeply.
Keen-witted and well educated, he had formed his own conclusions as to
social conditions in Russia and their development in the future. The
teaching of Marx was unknown to him, but he had attained a similar
standpoint by following out his own reasoning. He was particularly
sceptical concerning the views then prevalent among Russian revolutionists,
according to which a purely Russian programme should be based on the
organisation of the artèls (workmen’s unions), and on the already existing
system of the joint ownership of land by the village communes; a
programme which must differ essentially from that of Socialists in all other
civilised countries. He did not believe that anything further could be built
on these remnants of patriarchal institutions. He was of opinion that the
complete overthrow of the existing political régime was the first thing to be
aimed at in Russia, but he was convinced that terrorist tactics would never
entirely bring this about; and he expected equally little from any uprising of
the working classes, since the mass of the people were sunk in apathetic
resignation and hopelessness. Yet still the question tortured him—how
should this task be approached?—and he was of all the prisoners in Kara
the best prepared for the philosophical arguments of a Marxist.
Mirsky had been a medical student; but during his imprisonment he took
up the study of jurisprudence, and was credited with such a thorough
knowledge of legal affairs that his judgments were more trusted than those
of some graduate lawyers who were among us. Mirsky was of Polish
extraction; but having been brought up in Russia he was in every respect a
thoroughly Russian Socialist.

CHAPTER XXIII
THE ORGANISATION OF OUR COMMON LIFE—THE “SIRIUSES”—WAGERS

On my arrival at the Kara prison I found in existence there an extremely
elaborate organisation regulating the prisoners’ daily life, a system that the
course of time had evolved and tested. The fundamental principle of the
arrangement was equality of rights and duties; the inmates of the prison
forming for all domestic purposes a commune or artèl, although the needs
and wishes of individuals were taken into account as far as possible. It was
free to anyone to enter this artèl or to remain outside, and whichever they
did, material conditions—in the way of food, etc.—were the same for all.[83]
The Government provided a certain quantity of food per day for each
prisoner—about 3¼ lbs. of bread, nearly 6 oz. of meat, a few ounces of
meal, and some salt. Friends of prisoners were permitted to furnish them
with the means of obtaining extra provisions, and some of us, though,
indeed, only a few, received such contributions regularly, this money as
well as the governmental allowances becoming the common property of the
artèl. The money was distributed as follows: part was set aside to
supplement the food-rations, especially for buying more meat (this was
called in our lingo “provisioning the stock-pot”); another portion was
reserved for what was called common expenses—assistance to those who
were leaving the prison and going to their appointed place of exile,
subscriptions to such newspapers as we were allowed, postage, etc.; and a
third part was divided equally among all for pocket-money. This last was
spent according to the fancy of each individual, usually on tea, tobacco,
fish, butter, and such things as were considered “secondary necessaries,”
though sometimes these were sacrificed and the money saved up for
months, or even for a year or more, in order to buy a book or some special
luxury. Our funds were very scanty; during my whole time in Kara there
was never more than three or four kopecks[84] per man per day for the
“stock-pot,” and the pocket-money for each never amounted to more than a

rouble[85] a month, often much less. In consequence of the primitive means
of transport everything imported into Siberia cost three times as much as in
Europe—a pound of sugar, for instance, cost thirty-five to forty kopecks—
and the prisoners had to deny themselves many of the smallest comforts of
material existence. Most of us used only brick-tea, i.e. tea of the commonest
kind, and drank it without sugar; others thought even that a luxury, and
drank hot water; while those who used sugar had to make one lump do for
the whole day—that is, for three meals.
Actual money was never given us, everything was on paper only. All
remittances were received by the commandant, who kept us informed of the
amount he had in hand. Then we would order various articles, which would
be given to our stàrosta to keep in the common chest, and whenever he
gave anything out he made an entry in his account-book. At the end of each
month the accounts were made up, each man being told whether he had
overdrawn his pocket-money and so must start the next month with a minus
of so many kopecks, or whether he had saved and was credited with a plus.
The former would try to make good their deficit during the following
month; but there were some who—with the best will in the world—could
never make their expenditure and income balance, and were always in
default, thus acquiring the nickname of “minuses,” while the thrifty were
called “pluses.” No shame was attached to the being a “minus,” though it
was scarcely a title of honour, and no one cared for the position. The
“minuses” always aspired to get straight at any rate at Christmas or Easter,
when pocket-money was generally increased by an influx of gifts, but it
sometimes occurred that someone found it impossible to get his head above
water, and it was then the custom that at one of our festivals—at Christmas,
or on the commemoration of some revolutionary red-letter day—the
stàrosta or someone should suggest the “whitewashing” of the bankrupt by
wiping off his debt to the artèl. This proposal was always accepted by the
majority, only the “minus” himself protesting, or refusing to consent.
Every morning the stàrosta presented himself with his order-book at the
doors of the different rooms, and asked what was wanted. One would order
a “sou’s” worth[86] of sugar, another a “brick” of tea, and so on. These orders
were entered, to be later transferred to the account-book, and soon
afterwards the stàrosta would bring the articles and give them to us through
the peephole. The stàrosta also received from the steward for distribution
all things that were due to us in the way of clothing, linen, and so forth, and

he was our representative in all our dealings with the commandant. The
election of the stàrosta was by ballot, and for a term of six months. The
person elected was, of course, free to decline the post, and this occasionally
happened, as, though an honourable office, it was one which entailed
trouble and responsibility, and sometimes even a degree of unpleasantness.
Not only the stàrosta, but any member of the artèl might make proposals
for changes in our arrangements, such proposals being written down,
considered by the inmates of the different rooms, and then voted for or
against in writing. It was the stàrosta’s business to collect the votes and to
announce the results through the peepholes. Proposals of this kind were
often most excitedly discussed, parties being formed to support or oppose
them; and occasionally a subject would develop into a “cabinet crisis,”
though the moving or rejecting of votes of confidence in the “government”
(for we had a whole ministry, other officers being necessary besides the
stàrosta) was not customary.
All work within the prison precincts we shared among us; but such
services as made it necessary to go outside the yard (carrying wood and
water, sanitary cleansing, etc.) were performed by ordinary criminals,
whom we tipped, although not in any way obliged to do so. Our own duties
were of two kinds: work for the community—such as cooking, cleaning the
rooms, attending to the steam baths; and private work—washing clothes,
mending, etc. Everyone except the weak or ill had to take his share in the
former. The cooking was undertaken by groups of five men, each group
serving for a week at a time. There were eight or nine such groups in all, the
choice of belonging to any particular group being left free without regard to
rooms. Each group had its head cook, his assistant, a cook for the invalids,
and two helpers. The work was not light, and was in no way attractive; it
began between six and seven in the morning, and was not usually over
before five in the evening, by which hour one would be thoroughly tired
out; and when the end of the week came it was delightful to think of idling
for a time. On the other hand, the labour was a welcome relief to the
monotony of our lives, and the kitchen was a meeting-place for the
inhabitants of different rooms, forming a sort of clubhouse for those
engaged in the cooking. Even when the work was hardest we had merry
times there, discussing news, gossiping, and joking, the work itself often
serving as a basis for fun and all sorts of nonsense. The head cook would
give a raw hand some ridiculous job; one, for instance, would be set to pick

potatoes out of the pot with a fork; another ordered to stand by a hole in the
wall with a big stick and to knock on the head any blackbeetles that might
make their appearance. I myself was given the task of chopping up millet-
seed with a large knife, and other such absurdities would be invented.
Our cooks had to manage with very scanty materials. Vegetables
frequently ran short, thus making it most difficult to vary the bill of fare. At
the time of my arrival there were no potatoes to be had, and at midday, from
motives of economy, only broth was provided, from which the meat had
been taken to be served up separately for supper. When I sat down to dinner
on my first day in Kara I was prepared for a frugal meal, having heard
beforehand how poor the dietary was in this prison; but when I had spooned
up the meagre soup without any accompaniment but bread and realised that
this was my whole dinner, I felt somewhat downcast. I rose from table as
hungry as I had sat down; and it was a long while before I could accustom
myself to this sort of nourishment. Our culinary skill was chiefly displayed
in the way of serving up the soup-meat at a subsequent meal. It was
generally minced and heated up with some vegetables. The dish most
favoured by the majority was meat cut into small pieces and mixed with
groats; this was called “Everyone-likes-it,” and it was the pride of the cooks
to decorate our menu with this original name at least twice a week. The
greedy ones among us used to spy around the kitchen, and never failed to
spread the joyful tidings: “They’re making ‘Everyone-likes-it’ to-day!” The
cooks generally put their best foot forward on Saturday, when their week of
office expired. For years it had been the custom to have an extra dish on
that day, a piròg or sort of pie made of flour, rice, and mince. The cooks
used to save up scraps of meat for it all through the week, and sometimes
the piròg would attain such dimensions that we could not dispose of it at
one sitting, and a remainder would be left over for Sunday’s breakfast. On
the whole our food was insufficient, not very nutritious, and still less
appetising. Bread only had we at discretion, as the rations given out by the
steward were so large that some was always left over. Only those who had
no stomach for a quantity of dry bread need go hungry. But we hardly ever
had our fill except on great feast days, when not only was our pocket-
money augmented, but an extra allowance of food was given. The cooks
would then indulge us with various dainties and luxuries; roast meat would
come to table, or cutlets, and white bread. Praise must not be denied to our

cooks; there were among them virtuosi, whose handiwork was quite artistic
—worthy, as we expressed it, “of better houses.”
Invalid diet was not provided specially; the cooks had to arrange for that
as best they could, and make it as varied as was compatible with economy.
During my time there was no severe illness, and special diet was only
needed for those who were delicate or who suffered from some chronic
ailment. The question who was to be given invalid fare was decided by
Prybylyev[87]—one of our number who acted as our medical adviser, and
who showed much skill in that capacity, though at home he had only been a
veterinary surgeon. His fame in the art of healing became widespread, and
afterwards when he was living out of prison he was consulted by many
people, though there were three qualified physicians in the neighbourhood.
The helpers in the kitchen generally either knew nothing whatever of the
culinary art or else preferred rough work. I fulfilled both conditions, and
never made anything of actual cooking; my duties consisted in carrying
water, chopping wood, taking water and charcoal for the samovar to the
different rooms, apportioning the food in the wooden bowls out of which
we ate, washing up, attending to the stoves, and cleaning the kitchen.
Everybody working in the kitchen got rather larger portions of food than the
others: that was an ancient custom.
Besides the head-man, who had charge of our larder, a special “bread-
dispenser” was appointed, whose office it was to cut up the loaves and
divide them among the different rooms; he had also to collect all scraps and
crumbs that were left, and send them on to our comrades in the penal
settlement,[88] where they were used to feed a horse and a couple of cows
which belonged to the artèl.
The “poultry-keeper” was another of our officials. We kept in the yard a
number of fowls which we cherished most carefully, and they were a great
amusement to us, especially when a brood of chickens appeared or when
the young cockerels showed fight.
Two other comrades were “bath-keepers”; had to see to the cleaning of
the steam-bath, etc., and—like all our “officials”—were excused from
kitchen work.
Finally, there was the very important post of librarian, which ranked next
to that of stàrosta, and, like it, was decided by ballot, while the other
dignitaries generally chose their own offices. In the course of years our
library had attained quite imposing dimensions; it was composed partly of

books brought by the inmates, partly of those sent to us as gifts. Nearly all
branches of knowledge were represented in it, but particularly history,
mathematics, and natural science; there were also books in almost every
European language, including the classics. Two enormous cupboards in the
corridor contained this treasure, but the greater part of it was usually in the
hands of eager readers. The custodian had to look after the binding and
mending of the books, in which he found many willing helpers. The tools
and materials used were of the most primitive description; we had no
pasteboard, for instance, and had to contrive some by pasting paper
together. My travelling companion, Tchuikov, proved a first-rate librarian,
not only invariably remembering what books each person had borrowed,
but being always able to tell the whereabouts of any particular article or
treatise in our files of newspapers. He was to the last always re-elected
librarian.
Housework in the rooms was likewise done by strict rule; according to
our turns we had to be on duty twice a day, seeing to the stoves, carrying
the unsavoury wooden tubs in and out at night and in the morning, and so
on. Our rooms were kept scrupulously clean and neat, and every fortnight
there was a tremendous thorough cleaning; the boards were scrubbed with
hot water, beds aired, tables and benches washed in the yard. We were very
particular about proper ventilation, and observed all hygienic precautions
most carefully; each man used the steam-bath once a week, and each
washed his own clothes—not one of our easiest jobs.
Remembering that most of us were students fresh from the universities,
or at any rate had hitherto had little practical acquaintance with domestic
labour, and taking into account external circumstances generally and the
scanty supply of materials, I think we might fairly pride ourselves on the
practical and efficient organisation of our household affairs. Of course our
system was liable to modification in details if necessary, but the principles
on which it was based were fixed and unchangeable.
That our life must have had much in it irksome in the extreme and hard to
bear is only too evident; living in such constant and close intimacy for years
with the same set of people must necessarily lead to all kinds of petty rubs
and differences; all the more because the forced inactivity was such a strain
to the nerves of many. These were evils not in our power entirely to avert.
In the middle of each room hung a lamp with a dark shade—lamps that
we had ourselves provided. Our table was narrow and long, so that a

number of persons necessarily sat where the light was very poor,
insufficient for work of any kind; and this, of course, was a misfortune for
everyone, as those condemned to idleness disturbed the more
advantageously placed who wanted to study. Even had there not been this
drawback, serious concentration of mind would have been difficult in a
small room wherein were congregated sixteen men of very different
temperaments and inclinations. The needful quiet could rarely be obtained,
for it would have been impossible to enforce silence during the long winter
evenings; on the contrary, when one sat down to work at night tongues were
loosened, and there began a constant hubbub of chatter and laughter.
Anyone who was really bent on earnest study had to devise a special plan:
he became what we called a “Sirius.” This meant that as soon as it became
dusk he went to bed till midnight, and then, while the rest were asleep, got
up and worked till dawn, when Sirius rises above the horizon; after which
he lay down for another two hours’ rest. It needed an overwhelming desire
for learning and considerable powers of endurance to become a “Sirius”; it
was difficult to rest when the comrades were chattering and making a noise
all around one, and when one had at last managed to get off to sleep, it
seemed immediately time to wake up again. The dividing of the night’s rest
is not an easy thing to stand; in spite of my efforts I could never accustom
myself to it; yet there were some among us—though not many—who were
numbered among the “Siriuses” all the time I was at Kara. Yatzèvitch, and
two others of whom I shall have more to say, Kalyushny and Adrian
Mihailov, kept to this mode of life during that whole period.

I must mention one custom that had taken root in the prison, into which I
was very soon initiated. We were in the middle of a lively conversation one
morning, just after my arrival, when M., one of the comrades, turned to me
with the question—
“What do you say, Deutsch; will the Tsar soon be made an end of?”
“Oh no,” I replied, “I don’t think he’ll be killed. The man will probably
end his days peacefully in his bed.”
My answer met with violent opposition, everyone assuring me that
Alexander III. must meet his father’s fate. At that time nearly all
revolutionists had still a firm belief in the indestructible power of the
Naròdnaia Vòlya, and saw in terrorism the only practicable means of
fighting Russian absolutism. To me, on the contrary, things showed

themselves in quite a different light. I had taken part in the revolutionary
organisation when the terrorist idea was in its infancy, had witnessed its
development until finally it reigned alone and absorbed all the fighting
energy of the party, had known personally Terrorists both great and small,
and I had now come to the conclusion that the Naròdnaia Vòlya had
outlived its time. The tide of feeling that had fostered the growth of this
party had reached its height in 1881; while after, and in consequence of, the
assassination of Alexander II. it had ebbed rapidly away. As I have
explained before, all the leading Terrorists were then removed from the
sphere of action, and the younger ones who tried to replace them had no
chance of proving and tempering their own powers. Both in Russia and
abroad I had seen how the earlier enthusiasm had given way to a fatal
scepticism; men had lost faith, even though many would not have allowed
that it was so. It was clear to me that a reaction had set in, to last for many
years.
When I now gave expression to these views, M. asked suddenly—
“Will you back that opinion?”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Well, we simply mean by that, will you take a bet on it? I declare that
the Tsar will be killed; you maintain the contrary. I offer you a wager that
the Tsar will be killed by the revolutionists within a certain time.”
“Very well, I accept.”
“Shall we say five years—till December 15th, 1890?”
“All right; what is the stake?”
This was not so easy to settle. Bets of this sort, I then learned, were quite
the fashion, and were made on every kind of occasion—sometimes as the
result of a serious argument, sometimes about a mere trifle; but there was
rarely a controversy that did not terminate with the question, “Will you back
that opinion?” If the other party tried to make excuses, there would be a
chorus from the bystanders of “He shirks it!” and the reputation of a
“shirker” was not a flattering one. The stake was usually some small matter,
perhaps a little tea or tobacco, varying according to the importance of the
subject in dispute. A “sou’s worth” of sugar was a common offer; but if the
loser undertook to brew tea for the whole room that was considered a high
stake, and the result was awaited with interest. Although these bets were
more or less of a joke, they had also a more serious side. There are people
who will dispute about every imaginable thing, and make the wildest

assertions simply for the sake of arguing; and it must be confessed that after
such heedless talkers had lost a few wagers they were more inclined to hold
their tongues occasionally, though neither the chance of losses nor of
earning the nickname of “shirker” could quite restrain some of our number
from arguing in the air.
My wager with M. was duly recorded, and it was agreed that the loser
should provide cakes for all the inhabitants of the “nobles’ room.” This was
a very high stake, costing several roubles, and the loser risked being
without pocket-money for “secondary necessaries” during several months;
but the question being one that might not be decided for a long while, the
stake had to be considerable to sustain interest. Time proved me right. At
the end of 1890 M. had lost his bet, and wished to pay his debt of honour;
but I refused to allow him to do so, on the ground that circumstances had
changed, and the former inmates of the “nobles’ room” would no longer be
able to partake of the feast, many having by that time left the prison. M.
would not hear of it at first, but ended by giving in.

PRISONERS GOLD-WASHING AT KARA

To face page 232

CHAPTER XXIV
SOME DETAILS OF THE PRISON’S HISTORY—THE “TOM-CAT”—THE “SANHEDRIN’S
ROOM”—MY FIRST SIBERIAN SPRING

In conversation with those who had been imprisoned at Kara for some
time one often heard the expressions: “That was before the May days,” or,
“That happened after the 11th of May.” This mode of reckoning time had
become current among us; everybody knew the story of the “May days,”
which had been an epoch in the prison life of Kara, just as the “February
days” had been a turning-point in French history. All that lay behind the
“May days” was a sort of golden age, and after them came a time of storm
and stress, years of gloom and misery. I will briefly narrate the story of
these events.
The Kara prison for political offenders dates from the year 1880. Before
that time “politicals” were not confined in a special gaol, but in one among
a great number of such prisons in this penal district, where along the River
Kara are many gold-washing settlements, the private property of the Tsar—
or “property of His Majesty’s Cabinet,” as it is officially termed. The
“politicals,” like the ordinary prisoners, had to wash gold for the Lord of All
the Russias; but the work was not hard, and they rather enjoyed it. It was at
any rate pleasanter and more wholesome to work for a few hours in the
fresh air than to vegetate in prison. At that time the “politicals” enjoyed the
same privileges as the ordinary convicts; e.g. they had better rations than
were subsequently given them, they might correspond with their relations,
and at the expiration of their appointed sentences they were allowed to
settle in the “free colony” outside the prison. The “politicals” were not
dissatisfied with this state of things; but in December, 1880, the then
Minister of the Interior, Count Loris Melikov, ordered that they should no
longer be allowed in the penal colony. Shortly after this was made known
one of the prisoners, a graduate of the Petersburg University, named
Semyanovsky, took his own life, leaving a letter to his father, in which he

declared that the idea of being permanently shut up in prison had driven
him to commit suicide.
This cruel decree came at a time when the political movement was
particularly strong, and we were believed to be on the eve of a great
upheaval; news of revolutionary doings, though much delayed, reached the
ears of the prisoners in distant Kara, and naturally made the yearning for
liberty more fervent than ever. Some of those who still had a long term of
punishment to suffer resolved on flight; but not till May, 1882, was it found
possible to execute their plans, and the work at the mines to which they
were daily led furnished them with the opportunity. It was arranged that two
men were to escape each night; and by common consent the first to go was
Myshkin,[89] a well-known revolutionist, who chose as his companion one of
the most able of his comrades, a working-man named Nicholas Hrùstchov.
[90]
These two got away successfully, and to conceal their disappearance
their comrades made dummies which they laid in their places on the bed-
shelves when the roll was called. Galkin-Vrassky, the head of the Prisons
Department, was just at that time visiting the prisons of Kara, accompanied
by the Governor, Iliashèvitch; but nothing was discovered, though the
fugitives were already well on their eastern journey, nearing the shore of the
Pacific. After a few days a second couple escaped in the same manner, and
as successfully, and then a third pair. But as the last man of a fourth pair
was making off, the sentry fired and alarmed the watch; the shot missed, but
the absence of eight prisoners was discovered. That was on May 11th, 1882;
Galkin-Vrassky and Iliashèvitch were still in Kara, and the presence of their
chiefs fired the local authorities to special exertions in following up the
fugitives; six were soon captured,[91] only the first two remaining at large.
Reprisals were at once taken against the other political prisoners; some
were conveyed in small parties to different prisons, and treated with terrible
severity on the way; the Kara prison was rebuilt, the large common rooms
being each converted into three cells so small that one could scarcely turn
round in them; while within a special enclosure a building was erected with
narrow cells for solitary confinement, wherein some of the revolutionists
were incarcerated. All books and other possessions were taken from the
“politicals”; they were allowed no food except that provided by the State;
and were subjected to so many hardships and privations that they
unanimously resolved to put an end to their lives by refusing to eat; and

only when they were at death’s door were some concessions made by the
authorities.
Myshkin and Hrùstchov were for some time lucky in evading detection.
They got as far as Vladivostock, and were in the act of seeking safety on
board a foreign vessel when they were recognised as the long-sought
fugitives, and captured. All sacrifices had been vain, and the prisoners of
the mighty Tsar were once more secured in the Kara prison, which had
meanwhile undergone further changes. The “politicals” were separated from
the ordinary convicts, and the male and female divisions of the political
prison placed under the control of the gendarmerie. Koros, a staff officer of
gendarmes, was sent from Petersburg and installed as commandant; and a
number of inferior officers of gendarmerie were made warders. The whole
system was at the same time completely altered; the workshops were
removed, and the prisoners forced to remain idle; they were not allowed to
leave the precincts of the gaol, and correspondence with their friends was
forbidden. Moreover, as has been said elsewhere, thirteen of their number
were despatched to the Fortress of Peter and Paul and thence to
Schlüsselburg, where now (1902) only one of them survives.
During the four years that had elapsed since the “May days” there had
been four changes of commandant. One of these gentlemen had been
superseded and sent to Yakutsk for appropriating to his own private uses
one thousand roubles of money sent to the prisoners. Each change of
commandant meant some modification of arrangements, and thus by
degrees various small improvements were made, among others the breaking
down of the partition walls in the rooms; while, in consequence of an
appeal made by a prisoner’s influential relations, the Loris Melikov order
was finally annulled, and “politicals” were once more allowed to reside in
the penal colony when their proportion of years in prison was past. The
legal regulations concerning the latter privilege were as follows: in the
fulfilment of all hard-labour (or “katorga”) sentences the first one or two
years—according to the length of the sentence—are called “probation
time”; the remaining years are called “time of alleviation,” and in them
every ten months count as a year. In this way, for example, my thirteen
years and four months became eleven years and five months; and being
sentenced on October 12th, 1884, I should finish my term in February,
1896. The entire “probation time” and two or three years of the “time of
alleviation” must be spent in prison; but after that the law provided that the

prisoner should be allowed to reside in the “colony,” under police
supervision, instead of within the prison walls. Such partially freed
prisoners might take up their abode in some house assigned to them, or built
by themselves; but they were subject to the rules and regulations laid down
for the convicts residing there, ordinary and political alike. It was a great
matter to be no longer cooped up day and night in a common room of the
prison; the “politicals”—people of culture and refinement—appreciated this
particularly, and the withdrawal of the privilege had been a terrible
deprivation. The greater, therefore, was the rejoicing when, two years after
the “May days,” the new commandant, Captain Burlei, who had succeeded
the thief Manayev, informed the captives in the political prison of Kara that
some time previously a resolution of the senate had rescinded the adverse
decree. The dishonest Manayev had suppressed the document proclaiming
this, that he might the more easily continue to conceal his malpractices.
Captain Burlei immediately proposed to the governor of the district that
steps should be taken forthwith for the release from prison and internment
in the “colony” of all those who had become entitled to that right. Before
this could be arranged, however, the humane commandant was replaced by
Nikolin, who would only allow the new rules to come into force under
certain restrictions. The senate had made their decision; the law was there,
and must be complied with; but by “administrative methods” he continued
to limit its operations.
Captain Nikolin was a malicious, small-minded man, always on the look-
out for ways of annoying the prisoners; and now, on the pretence that he
had not a strong enough force of gendarmes to supervise the “colony,” he
asked that instead of releasing all who were entitled to the privilege, only
fifteen persons at a time should be set free. His excuse was groundless, for
under the circumstances the same force of gendarmes could have equally
well controlled the greater or smaller number of “colonists”; but of course
the wish of the commandant was acceded to, and it thus came about that
those who should have obtained the right of living outside the prison had
often to wait years until there was a vacancy, and even then there might be a
dozen candidates for it, from among whom Nikolin arbitrarily selected a
recipient of the favour. Of course this curtailment of their rights earned
Nikolin the ardent dislike of the prisoners; and his conduct was such as
continually to aggravate that sentiment anew.

I had an opportunity of seeing this man soon after being placed under his
charge. He often came into the prison—into the corridor, that is, for he
never entered the rooms. He might have been nearly fifty-five, rather big,
with an imposing “corporation”; his broad round face, cunning little eyes,
and bristling moustache, gave him the look of a fat, spiteful old tom-cat,
and he was always designated by that nickname. The expression of his eyes
was particularly catlike; he looked as if just ready to pounce on a victim and
stick his claws into it. He always spoke in a low voice, this “tom-cat”; but
he chattered unceasingly, and kept smacking his lips all the time, his
expression being always peevish and discontented. When he visited the
prison he generally remained for some time standing by our stàrosta, who
would be busy beside his big chest; and Nikolin would talk away, quite
regardless whether his conversation were agreeable to the listener or not.
During these endless monologues he would brag and boast in the most
inflated way. Could we have accepted his own account of his exploits, he
would by this time have been at least a general. He had begun his career
during the sixties under Mouravièv, the oppressor of Vilna, and he would
recount the inestimable services he had rendered at that epoch. Yet he was
still only a captain! Possibly an excess of zeal had spoiled his prospects; at
any rate, he used to relate the following story of what had happened to him
in Kara. He had once addressed a communication to the governor of the
province, asking this highly important question: “When the floor of a room
was being scrubbed, and the prisoners were consequently turned out into
the corridor, should the warder take them into another room or not?”
“Imagine!” the “tom-cat” would cry. “The answer I received was this:
‘Arrange the matter for yourself according to Paragraph 13 of the
instructions.’” Now the instructions only contained twelve paragraphs, but
the irony of the rejoinder never struck Nikolin, and he continued to fuss on
every occasion over any sort of trifle. He seemed, too, to think that his
position as commandant of the political prisoners did not give him enough
scope for grumbling, but poked his nose into everything that went on in the
district of Kara. Once, indeed, he did actually succeed in discovering a
series of thefts from the coffers of the State. There was a certain Major
Pohùlov, governor of the ordinary convicts’ prison (with whom Mr. Kennan
stayed during his visit to Kara). One fine day a storehouse under his charge,
supposed to contain some thousands of poods of grain for the prisoners’
use, was burnt down. Now grain stored in great heaps does not burn away,

but simply gets roasted; yet on this occasion there was no trace of it to be
found, the gallant major having had a little deal with the purveyor, and then,
with the help of his subordinates, having arranged that the warehouse
should be burnt down in the nick of time.
Probably this transaction would have remained in the dark, like many
others of the kind, had not our “tom-cat” taken the matter up and by his
denunciations forced the Government to appoint a commission of inquiry
on which he himself served.
He then revealed the full range of his talents, and brought to the light of
day a whole system of robbery and fraud. The “hospitable gentleman,” as
Kennan described Major Pohùlov (and indeed so he was), had had more
than one device for enriching himself at the State’s expense. For instance,
hundreds of prisoners figured on his list who had long since either been
released or had escaped, and for these “ghosts” he had regularly charged his
books with clothing and food allowances, whilst he and the purveyor had
fraternally shared the money between them. This man was dismissed from
his office, but was never brought to justice, as he had influential friends
who shielded him.

Although my comrades in the “nobles’ room” were most sympathetic
companions to me, I had a great wish to be transferred to the room
inhabited by my friend Stefanòvitch, and permission for this had to be
asked of the “tom-cat.” He at first refused it, on the excuse that he must get
the governor’s sanction; but I heard in a roundabout way that he pretended
to fear lest if Stefanòvitch and I got together we might manage to escape.
This was arrant nonsense, as since the gendarmes had had charge of the
prison there had been no faintest possibility of escaping from it; but the
“tom-cat” had to find some pretext or other for tormenting us. A few weeks
later he finally gave his consent, and I became my friend’s “chum” in the
“Sanhedrin room.”
The whole aspect of life in this apartment differed materially from that in
the “nobles’ room.” A good many of the inmates were artisans, and some of
the others had a turn for manual work, in consequence of which the room
had quite the look of a workshop. The possession of tools was forbidden,
but they had them notwithstanding, though nothing of the kind was ever to
be seen when an inspection took place. These inspections, though minute,
were “superficial,” as the gendarmerie expressed it; that is, we were never

personally searched, so we simply put our tools in our pockets when the
inspection began.
Some of our workmen were past masters in their craft. Hrùstchov, a hero
of the “May days,” was one of these, and another proficient was the
locksmith Bubnovsky. With scraps of iron, old nails, and such-like he made
a tiny lathe that could go into his pocket. With this little lathe he fashioned
all the parts of a clock, and, though he had never been a watchmaker,
produced a most artistic timepiece, that later found place in a Siberian
museum. Almost all kinds of handiwork were carried on in our workshop,
many of them having been learned entirely from books. Patience and
endurance—lessons taught by prison life—had fruitful results when applied
to such ends; and the theoretical studies that were undertaken, one comrade
learning from another, also profited by those qualities. Knowledge was
eagerly sought after in this room, and the quondam students helped the
working-men. Yatzèvitch and Zlatopòlsky came there every day to give
instruction in mathematics and natural science; Fomitchov occupied the
chair of Russian languages, and so on. On this account our room was
sometimes called “the Academy.”
Among the workmen a certain Karl Ivanein interested me much. By birth
a Finn, but thoroughly Russified, his passion was for the finer branches of
literature, and in these he was very well read. He was an enthusiastic
adherent of Tolstoi’s teaching, and any hostile criticism of that sage stung
his proselyte to eager defence. His was a highly gifted but eccentric
character: soon after I became acquainted with him he was released from
prison and sent to live in the penal settlement, where in a very little while
he committed suicide.
Fomin and Fomitchov were noted among the other students in our room
for their determined industry. Fomin I had known in Switzerland, where he
had lived for some time as a refugee. He had been an officer of infantry;
was arrested for making propaganda among the soldiers, and imprisoned in
Vilna, but escaped by the help of a comrade. He could not long endure to
remain abroad, and returned to Russia, where he managed to conceal
himself for a time, but was arrested in 1882 in Petersburg and condemned to
twenty years’ penal servitude. While in Kara he occupied himself with the
study of natural science, particularly mineralogy.
Of Fomitchov I had heard much, as a very active revolutionist, but had
never met him before. The son of a poor sacristan, he had studied in

Odessa, where in 1877 he was arrested, and charged before a court-martial
with making propaganda among soldiers; but even under martial law it was
found impossible to convict him, and he was set free amid the applause of
the onlookers, who gave both him and his counsel a perfect ovation. Soon
afterwards, however, he was again imprisoned, and was condemned
together with Lisogùb, Tchubàrov, and others, his sentence being penal
servitude for life. In consequence of his attempted escape while on the
journey, which I have already mentioned,[92] he was chained to the
wheelbarrow[93] for a year. He busied himself with historical studies, more
especially in Russian history, and had read a great deal on that subject; but
unfortunately our library was one-sided in this branch, and only provided
him with voluminous and rather out-of-date works, such as those of
Schlosser, Weber, Mommsen, Soloviev, and Kostomarov. It may have been
partly owing to the bias of these guides, partly to some odd twist in his own
mind, but anyhow our friend Fomitchov—a clever and extremely
painstaking student, an excellent comrade, and a man of strong character
generally—came to adopt most extraordinary views for a political prisoner.
He was not only an ardent patriot and Russsophil; but also—which seemed
especially incomprehensible—an extreme monarchist, and a passionate
upholder of the Romanov dynasty! A political offender, a convict for life,
yet a fanatic for Russian absolutism: a strange combination, truly! If a man
holding such opinions had petitioned for pardon it would have seemed only
logical; not one of us would have seen anything dishonourable in his taking
such a step, but Fomitchov abstained from doing so. He persisted in the
curious view that it was his duty to abide his fate and wear out his life in a
Siberian prison, as expiation of his rebellion against the Tsar, of whose wise
policy for the government of his subjects Fomitchov had now not the
slightest doubt. It might have been confidently asserted that among all the
courtiers and dignitaries surrounding him, Alexander III. had no more loyal
and devoted adherent than this political convict in Kara prison. The most
unjust and cruel ukase of the Tsar’s Government found in Fomitchov a
defender who could always discover therein some salutary principle
intended to promote the welfare of the people. That people he loved beyond
everything, even to the sacrificing of his own life, if need were; and
therefore was he compelled to be for ever attempting the theoretical
reconciliation of governmental Tsarism with the people’s good. Any attack
on the Tsar incensed him to such a degree that he would often break off all

intercourse with anyone who made His Majesty the object of hostile
comment. Many of us seriously doubted if the man could rightly be
considered sane.
Naturally Fomitchov stood alone in this exaggeration of royalist
enthusiasm, but as a Russophil he found many sympathisers. A certain
number among us were firmly persuaded that Russian social and domestic
conditions were far superior to those of Western Europe, and disputes about
this supposed Russian perfection were endless; they were the occasion of
many a wager, and not infrequently caused serious estrangements between
friends, or—as our double-Dutch expressed it—“climatic disturbances.”
This strange belief in the superiority of backward Russia was a ruling craze
of the time in our country. The entire progressive press was Russophil in
that sense; and the tendency had manifested itself even in Socialist
literature, in the passionate insistence that, Russian conditions being
perfectly different from those of any other country, the revolutionary
struggle must proceed on essentially distinct lines. I must confess that I was
often pained to hear men suffering for their convictions giving vent to
opinions so strongly resembling the arguments of hardened reactionaries.
One of the most strenuous advocates of these views in our room was a
man who—strange to say—bore the reputation of being among the ablest in
the prison. Nicholas Posen had been a village school-teacher who had taken
no specially active part in the revolutionary movement, but had chanced to
participate in armed resistance to the gendarmerie at Kiëv, and had been
brought to trial in consequence, together with Maria Kovalèvskaya and
others. He had been condemned to fourteen years and ten months’
“katorga,” subsequently increased by another fourteen years, for an attempt
to escape from prison in Irkutsk. He was well educated and intelligent, but
he had no political convictions worth mentioning. He had a passion for
argument, and would discuss anything and everything by the hour, always
ready to prove any given proposition, and seizing any pretext for a debate—
a philosophical problem, or any everyday trifle. Serious study was not his
forte, and his everlasting chatter disturbed others at their work; hardly had
his eyes opened in the morning before his tongue was set in motion, and it
never rested all day long.
A favourite theme with him was speculation about the day’s food: “What
do you think we shall have for supper to-night?” he would ask, buttonholing
somebody; “I am sure they are making ‘everyone-likes-it.’” “Perhaps; but

perhaps it is mince and groats,” his interlocutor might say, just to please
him by falling in with his humour. Then Posen’s tongue would be loosened,
and he would prove his important point beyond question, giving all his
reasons; he would dilate on it for half an hour, and would wind up with,
“Will you back your opinion?”
“All right, we’ll have something on it; what shall it be?”
“Three matches!” cries Posen; everyone laughs; and he himself seems
thoroughly pleased with his joke. He had at bottom a vain and petty spirit,
and showed later that he could come to any compromise with the authorities
in order to satisfy his own small desires.

Deficiency and poverty of nourishment soon affected my health, although
I had all my life hitherto been thoroughly robust. After a few months I felt a
weakness in the legs, and could no longer hold myself upright; then black
and blue patches made their appearance on the skin of my legs, my gums
began to suppurate, and my teeth became loose. I betook myself to our
medical adviser, Prybylyev.
“Hullo, my friend, you have got a beautiful attack of scurvy!” said he;
“you’ve been quick about it.” He ordered me invalid diet, and I was given a
daily cutlet with plenty of garlic. I was not the only one to suffer in this way
from the insufficient feeding; next spring a number of us were victims to
the same disease, and, strangely enough, it was always the strongest and
healthiest who succumbed. Improved diet and the skill of our good
Prybylyev soon tided me over the worst; after a while I could walk once
more without crutches, my gums healed, and soon I could dispense with
invalid food. For a long time, however, I felt the after-effects of my illness.
I have a keen recollection of my first spring in Kara. I was overcome by
an indescribable yearning and longing that made the burden of the aimless,
senseless life within prison walls lie like a leaden weight on my spirits, in
face of the new life of nature springing up so freely all around. Even
reading, almost the sole occupation I could invent for myself outside the
daily work, was impossible. The letters danced before my eyes; no sense of
what I had read remained in my mind; memory failed me; and my fancy
alone worked untiringly. In any case mental exertion under the conditions
of prison life has but little result in proportion to the time and energy
expended; the physical state of the prisoner reacts on his mind, dulling his
faculties and weakening his resolution. But in the spring-time, when every

living thing revives and asserts itself in action, it is hardly possible to resist
distraction from merely mental labour.
Our prison lay in the trough of a valley between ranges of hills, and from
the yard these hills could be seen by us. There was very scanty vegetation
on those Siberian heights; yet in spring they appeared to us like a distant
Paradise that beckoned irresistibly. Close by we had only the well-trodden
courtyard, where not even a blade of grass peeped forth, the black weather-
stained wooden walls of the prison buildings, and the tall posts of the
stockade; our eyes dwelt on the farther prospect, and we pictured to
ourselves the delight of treading on soft turf under the shade of trees.
We petitioned our “tom-cat” for leave to plant a garden in the yard; there
was space enough, the work would have been beneficial, and then we might
have had vegetables for our table, the deficiency in which particular had
been so detrimental to our health. The “tom-cat” roundly refused. “We
should need spades,” he said, “and they might be used to dig a hole
whereby to get away.” So, again, when one of us was sent some flower-
seeds and sowed them in a wooden box, the box was taken away by
Nikolin’s orders: the earth in it might have served to conceal some
contraband article. Such needless tyrannies embittered us still more against
the detested commandant. However peaceably we might otherwise have
been inclined, our hatred of this man might well have blazed out at any
opportunity; he himself probably guessed as much, for he became more and
more mistrustful, at last never entering our prison. He felt that he had made
enemies all round him, and sat lonely in his own house, or squabbled with
his cook, afraid to show himself outside. It may be a matter of surprise that
one of his many enemies did not find a way to put an end to him, that being
a not unusual course of events in Kara; but finally he could endure such a
life no longer, and applied to be transferred elsewhere. In the spring of 1887
his application was granted, and he departed, accompanied by the
anathemas of the entire population of Kara.

CHAPTER XXV
HUMOURS AND PASTIMES OF PRISON LIFE—TWO NEW COMMANDANTS—THE
“HOSPITAL”—THE PARTICIPATORS IN ARMED RESISTANCE

Our life was one of dismal uniformity. Day after day, month after month,
went past and left no trace in remembrance. One day was exactly like
another, and all alike seemed endless. Whole years elapsed, and from each
three hundred and sixty-five days there could not be singled out one on
which any event had occurred worthy of recollection. In vain one racks
one’s brain trying to arouse a memory of that monotonous past. When we
arose in the morning we knew exactly what the day would bring; indeed,
one knew beforehand what the next day and the next week and month
would contain. One knew the manners, customs, inclinations of every
comrade in misfortune, could tell what each would be likely to say or do on
any given occasion, and sometimes one would long to run away and hide,
and never see their faces again. But there is no running away; every minute
of the year you are obliged to endure the company of those others, and to
burden them with your own; there is not a moment in which you can be
alone, not a corner in the common room to which you can withdraw for real
privacy.
To all this is added the rigour of the prison routine: the roll-call morning
and evening, the periodical inspections, the shaving of heads that takes
place with painful regularity, the constant presence of the gendarmes. The
strain at times becomes insupportable, and the nerves are so shattered that
the creaking of the great lock in the frequent opening and shutting of the
door affects one almost to madness. Many of us became irritable to an
extent incomprehensible to a normally sound person, and with some of us
(though not with many) this would at times lead to loss of temper and
quarrelling over the veriest nothings. It thus once happened that two friends,
both intelligent and well-educated men of mature years, fell out with one
another literally about an egg-shell, which occasioned a dispute that led to a

break between them. This can only be conceivable if one realises that even
people who love each other tenderly might find it difficult to endure such
close and uninterrupted intercourse. What, then, must have been our
situation, locked up together, forced to inflict unwillingly on each other a
companionship which there was no alternative but to accept?
We had, however, our small joys and alleviations. The most welcome
event was the arrival of the post, which in winter came every ten days, in
summer every week. I can hardly depict the intense eagerness with which
many of us awaited the post days, counting the hours till the mail might be
expected to reach the prison. Some would stand for hours by the stockade,
watching to see the commandant start on his drive to the post-office, which
was some versts distant; then they would impatiently await his return, not
omitting to let their comrades know the result of their observations. The
post brought us letters, newspapers, books, money, and occasionally a
parcel—a present, a token of affection. All this made indeed a break in the
dull routine of daily existence, and not one could remain an uninterested
spectator. On the arrival of money depended our common exchequer, and
the amount of our private pocket-money; newspapers and reviews brought
the news for which we thirsted passionately, especially the tidings of
political events. They were eagerly seized on, and their reading at once
furnished subjects of talk and discussion, although those years were times
of thorough reaction, not only in Russia, but in Western Europe, so that
what we read was nearly always disheartening, causing us to lay the paper
down depressed in spirits.
Moreover, only the most conservative, uninteresting papers were
permitted us, with the sole exception of the well-known review Vèstnik
Evropuy (The European Messenger), which for some unknown reason was
allowed to pass. Some of our newspaper readers studied the whole
publication from beginning to end, and remembered every little detail.
Many of us, however, were chiefly interested in the arrival of home letters,
the source of so much joy and of so much sorrow. Constant anxiety about
our dear ones was caused by the long interval between the despatch and the
receipt of correspondence, which was often six weeks or two months on the
way, and when the roads were impassable, as is often the case in Siberia for
months together, the posts were even longer delayed.
All letters received by us were first read by the commandant, and
subjected to a strict censure; they were also tested with a solution of

chlorate of iron, to see whether any entries had been made in them with
invisible chemical ink. But what was most cruel was that we were not
permitted to answer on our own account; we might only send a post card in
the name of the commandant, acknowledging the receipt of a letter or other
communication, and giving the briefest information as to health, somewhat
in this fashion: “Your son (brother, nephew) is well. The money (or
whatever it was) sent to him by you has been received, and he begs you to
send him the following—--” This is signed by the commandant, but as the
card is written by the prisoner himself, his correspondents may be assured
from his handwriting that he is alive and is in possession of their missives,
nothing further. Under such conditions correspondence is often a torture to
both parties, yet those who could have even this much intercourse with
home were envied by the lonely ones who never expected letters at all.
There was more than one such among us, and how often when the letters
were distributed would one or other of them say sorrowfully, “If only
someone would send me a line!” It is terrible to think of being thousands of
miles from home in the solitudes of Siberia, and not to know of a single
soul who may sometimes remember one’s existence; yet, as I say, some of
our comrades at Kara were in this forlorn situation. How great was the
rejoicing if one of these outcasts unexpectedly received a letter from some
relation, or some friend of former days! The lucky one would order tea, and
perhaps even cakes for the whole room to celebrate the occasion; the letter
itself would become a much-talked-of treasure, and the most interesting
portions would be read aloud to intimate friends.
Treating one’s room-mates was also customary if one had had any
specially good news from home. The contents of such a letter would be
immediately imparted to all the other rooms, and sometimes extracts
containing tidings of universal interest would be circulated. Certainly the
commandants, and the “tom-cat” particularly, took every means for
suppressing such tidings, blotting out in our letters everything outside the
narrow circle of personal matters; but we had always ways and means of
obtaining intelligence of political and other events that it concerned us to
know about. The inventiveness shown by some of our party in devising this
was sometimes astonishing; moreover, we occasionally managed to get
delivered to us through the commandant literature strictly prohibited in
Russia. He, of course, was enjoined to examine most carefully every book
and parcel that arrived; but we contrived to supplement the officially

prescribed channels of correspondence, either by inducing some corruptible
member of the prison staff to assist us, or by some other device. Intercourse
with the women’s prison, which was strictly forbidden, was also effected by
means of this “secret post,” and it likewise enabled us to communicate with
the exiles in different parts of Siberia.
Our official postal transactions were always effected through our
stàrosta, the commandant telling him what money had been received and
for whom, and he informing the prisoners. The librarian had charge of all
printed matter sent to us, and the order in which each new book or
newspaper should be passed round was arranged most exactly beforehand.
If anyone had a present—linen, boots, or anything of that kind—it was open
to him to keep it for himself or to hand it over to the stàrosta. In the latter
case everyone was made aware that such and such things were to be had;
whoever wanted them might announce the fact, and the award was decided
by lot. If the gift consisted of eatables, it was at once given to the stàrosta,
who divided it among the rooms. In each room there was a “general
divider”—one whose office it was to divide with scrupulous exactitude
among all the inmates every portion of food and every tit-bit that fell to
their share—a task which frequently called for the exhibition of much talent
and artistic judgment. This post of “divider” was usually held by somebody
of a mathematical turn, and he officiated as carver at meals, serving out
each person’s due portion with careful impartiality.
This striving after equality in every particular developed into a passion
with some of our number, till it became actually painful to them to receive
any little gift that could not be shared, and they would feel obliged to
apologise for it to all their comrades; very rarely did anyone who received a
present wish selfishly to keep it entirely to himself. A few were so
scrupulous that they did not consider it right, in asking for new books from
home, to consult merely their own individual taste, but made the others
draw up a list of books that they wished for; and that perfect equality might
govern the transaction, the sum of money set aside for the purchase was
divided among the whole number of prisoners, so that each one could
choose books to the value of the amount allotted to him. In this way
everybody would be catered for—the lover of belles lettres as well as the
student of abstruse scientific or philosophical subjects.
Ranking next to the mails as a source of enjoyment must be reckoned the
bath-house. Especially after a week of hard and dirty kitchen work, the

vapour-bath and clean linen were a real luxury, and when one came from
the bath-room, extended one’s tired limbs on the bed-shelf, and let one’s
thoughts wander idly as one sipped hot tea, a feeling of such physical well-
being would pervade one as to cause all disagreeables to be forgotten for
the moment. Although the freshly donned under-linen was anything but
fine, and not very artistically washed and got up, being apt to scratch a
sensitive skin; although the grey prison-clothes were neither convenient nor
beautiful—still one revelled in the sensation of comfort and relaxation, and
if it happened also to be mail-day, delight was complete.
“Well, I hope you’re enjoying yourself, you epicurean!” someone would
cry, knowing full well himself the pleasure of such an hour.
Chess was a favourite pastime, and we had some champion players
among us, especially Yatzèvitch and Zoubrtchitsky, who, besides having
had much practice, had studied the game scientifically. Sometimes we had
chess tournaments, with all the rigour of the game, and prizes were given—
of course, consisting of tea or some other of our small luxuries. On such
occasions the whole prison took the liveliest interest in the combat; the final
“mate” being announced in all the rooms, and the play exhaustively
criticised.
Music was also cultivated. Our choir had an extensive repertory, in which
the melancholy moods of Little Russia were contrasted with the dramatic
Great Russian folk-songs. It included operatic choruses, and, of course, the
revolutionary songs so dear to us all—the Marseillaise and many others.
After Commandant Nikolin had departed, and we were less harried and
thwarted, one of our geniuses constructed a violin, upon which various
gifted friends practised with great assiduity: not—it must be confessed—
exactly to the edification of the rest of us who had perforce to listen. Posen
and one or two others tortured the ears of their comrades further by truly
terrible musical performances on ordinary hair-combs.
Another way of passing time was to invent riddles and act charades,
which was especially fashionable in our “Sanhedrin.” And when some new-
comers brought with them a few packs of cards, the game of whist—then
just coming into vogue in Russia—so carried away some of our party that
they were at it literally day and night. On the whole, however, card-playing
did not find much favour among us.
Physical exercise would have been most welcome to many of us, but as
long as the “tom-cat” ruled the roast it was possible only in a very restricted

measure; all he would consent to was that in winter we should make a
sledge-track in a part of the yard where the ground sloped slightly, and we
there disported ourselves on little sledges made by ourselves.

YARD OF KARA PRISON FOR “POLITICALS”

YARD OF KARA PRISON FOR “POLITICALS”
To face page 254

One of Nikolin’s successors saw no objection to our laying out a garden,
and during the next spring we were extremely busy over this. Some of our
number, great lovers of nature, exhibited quite passionate energy in this
pursuit; they worked at their beds with most industrious care, watered,
manured, and weeded untiringly, and tended each plant as though it were a
beloved child. All sorts of different plants and flowers were cultivated. I
myself had a special affection for sunflowers, which reminded me of my
South Russian home; wherever possible I sowed their seeds, and in summer
my fosterlings shot up magnificently, their thick stems standing erect along
our “boulevard,” as we called the path by the stockade, whence, by looking
through the chinks, we could see the road and the commandant’s house.
When the tall plants hung down their heads, it seemed as though they
looked down on us poor captives and wondered at the cruelty of man to
man. “So many young men wasting their best years, half their lives, here in
prison, only because they strove for the welfare of their country as they
understood it!” And when the sunflowers straightened themselves and held
aloft their golden crowns, they might be saying, “Do not lose courage, poor
convicts! The time will come when you too with proudly lifted heads shall
return to your beloved home.”

Nikolin’s successor, Captain Yakovlov, exerted himself to mitigate the
severity of our prison régime, which the “tom-cat” had administered so
tyrannically. He seemed to be a compassionate and humane man, who—
while keeping to the prescribed regulations—was not concerned to
aggravate our hard lot by superfluous restrictions and unnecessary
harshness. Perhaps his conduct was partly influenced by the knowledge that
he was only filling the position temporarily, as a stop-gap for Colonel
Masyukov of the gendarmerie, who was shortly to be sent from Petersburg;
probably also he wanted to have as little squabbling with us as possible. He
belonged to a class of men to be found in great numbers both in Russia and
in Siberia, who have one overwhelming weakness—love of drink. His
devotion to the bottle was most assiduous, and he often had evidently had
more than was good for him; but for all that, we breathed more freely under
his rule, and regarded with anxiety the advent of the new commandant.
After a six months’ interval Colonel Masyukov entered upon his office,
in the winter of 1877, and made his first round of the prison, accompanied
by Yakovlov. He was a man of short stature, with grey hair and moustache,

very quick in his movements, despite his fifty years; he spoke in an
unpleasant falsetto voice, and looked rather like a plucked chicken. His
whole appearance betokened a weak and characterless disposition, as
unluckily proved to be the case, both to his own and our misfortune.
Intellectually limited, but good-tempered enough, Masyukov was quite
unlike one’s idea of a staff officer of gendarmerie; indeed, he was in no way
cut out for such a service, and knew this himself better than anyone. He had
only joined the gendarmerie as a result of unforeseen circumstances. Son of
a country gentleman, he had been for a time an officer in the Guards,
afterwards returning to his estate, where he gave himself up to riotous
living. The good dinners he gave were probably the reason of his being
elected Marshal of Nobility for his district, and his subsequent dissipation
led eventually to the ruin of his finances. To re-establish himself in some
measure, and also, it was said, to discharge his debts of honour, he was
obliged again to enter the service of the State, and he became an officer of
gendarmes, induced by the higher pay given in that branch of the service, as
compared with others of like standing, especially for those employed in the
distant parts of Siberia. The Commandant of Kara was paid four to five
thousand roubles per annum, with house, servants, horses, fuel, etc. As a
late officer in the Guards and Marshal of Nobility, Masyukov was soon
made colonel, and appointed to the vacant post at Kara. He himself declared
afterwards that he had come with the honest intention of doing his best to
better our lot; but hell is proverbially paved with good resolutions, and the
political prisoners suffered more under this well-meaning bon vivant than
under many a thorough-paced tyrant. But I will not anticipate.
During the early days of Masyukov’s rule we were able to rejoice in more
than one concession. Besides the granting of our petition for a garden, the
doors of our rooms were now hardly ever locked by day, and within the
stockade surrounding the prison yard we could wander about as we pleased.
In Nikolin’s time one of the rooms had always been empty, and for some
reason or other he had refused to let us use it; now we were allowed
possession of it, and also of the wing containing single cells, during the
summer months. We thus had more space, and anyone who wished for
solitude could be alone for a few hours at a time; our musicians, too, with
their instruments of torture, could be sent where they disturbed no one.
Another relief was that the rule against the possession of tools was less
strictly interpreted, and we were no longer obliged to conceal any work we

had in hand. A vice and some other tools were procured, and our arts and
crafts flourished exceedingly. Even an amateur photographer was
discovered among us, and with the help of our carpenters set up a regular
studio; but I cannot say that his performances were at all remarkable.
Masyukov did his best to meet our views, and fulfilled our requests
whenever possible. Among other things he agreed that we might settle as
we liked in what room each of us should live; so Stefanòvitch and I at once
made use of this permission. Our two and a half years’ abode in the
“Sanhedrin” had been very irksome to us both, and when the “great
migration” caused by the above-mentioned expansion of our territory took
place, we transferred ourselves into the room called the “Commune,” or
sometimes “the hospital.” It was more comfortable than the other rooms in
one or two particulars; it contained proper bedsteads, for instance, and
besides the big table there were also little tables, one between each pair of
beds.
It was, as a rule, unusual for the inmates of a room voluntarily to change
their abode; we called the feeling about this “room-patriotism.” Such
patriots were very keen about their own room, which was, of course, always
“the best”; they never left their room-mates in the lurch, were proud of the
success of any of them, and sorrowed over their griefs. The inmates of the
“Commune” seemed the least possessed by this esprit de corps, perhaps
because most of them were among those nomads who had already changed
rooms more than once. Here, too, in contradistinction to the habits of the
other rooms, each man was much occupied with his own affairs; we isolated
ourselves more, and rarely held common debates or jollifications; most of
us immersed ourselves in serious study, and on that account less noise and
merriment went on among us.
One of the most interesting of our new room-mates, and an original
altogether, was Leo Zlatopòlsky,[94] to whom I must devote a few words. He
had studied in the Petersburg Technological Institute, had been concerned in
the “Trial of the Twenty” in 1882, and sentenced to twenty years’ penal
servitude. He had never himself been an active revolutionist, but as he was
proficient in mathematical and mechanical knowledge, he had helped the
Terrorists in purely technical matters. Even as a student he had been looked
on as an inventive genius, and in prison inventions became a mania with
him. For a long time he was busy with the project of a circular town,
wherein everything was to be run by electricity; and even plants were to be

cultivated by that means, for the light and heat of the sun were much too
simple affairs to satisfy our inventor. He had a scheme for a flying-machine
that should not only carry us all up into aërial heights, but should also be
unaffected by the velocity of our Mother Earth’s proper motion. Then he
evolved his own theory of values; and beside all these high matters he
would also occupy himself with the most prosaic and humble affairs, such
as new methods of doing the washing, boiling potatoes, or making shoes.
He elaborated a new theory of heating dwellings, invented new card games;
in short, in every department of life, he was prepared to upset the existing
condition of things and build it all up anew in some hitherto undreamt-of
fashion. His beautiful plans, however, all suffered from one small
disqualification: they were never practicable in real life. That, of course, he
would never allow, declaring his inventions to be perfect and beyond
criticism; but this did not prevent him from throwing one after another aside
to pursue some fresh idea with equal energy. Not unnaturally he soon
became the butt of everyone’s jokes, and most absurd stories were told
about him. He was really a very capable and learned man; but there was just
something wanting to make him a genius. Perhaps we were right in setting
him down, as we did, among Lombroso’s “matoids.”

DULEMBA, KOHN, RECHNYEVSKY, LURI, MANKOVSKY
To face page 258

During the first three years of my stay in Kara the number of prisoners in
our prison remained practically constant; a few were allowed to settle in the
penal colony, but their places were soon taken by new-comers. Besides
Spandoni—left behind at Krasnoyarsk, as I have related—who rejoined us
at Kara in the spring of 1886, five comrades arrived in the autumn of the
same year. They had been condemned in the “Case of the Proletariat,” in
Warsaw: Dulemba, a workman, to thirteen years’ “katorga”; Kohn, a
student, eight years; Luri, an officer of engineers, condemned to death, but
reprieved and sentenced to twenty years’ penal servitude; Mankòvsky, a
workman, sixteen years; Rechnyèvsky, a graduate of the College of
Jurisprudence in Petersburg, fourteen years.[95] The year after came
Pashkòvsky, who in March, 1887, was condemned, (as a participator in the

attempt upon Alexander III.,) to ten years’ “katorga”; and the peasant
Ozovsky, sentenced to six years. In the course of 1888 arrived Peter
Yakubòvitch and Souhomlìn,[96] sentenced respectively to eighteen and
fifteen years’ penal servitude, both in the Lopàtin case.
In the course of time participators in nearly every political trial of the
period—from the famous Netshaëv case in 1871 to that of Lopàtin and
Sigida in 1887—were numbered among the “politicals” in the two Kara
prisons, that for men and that for women; and as, of course, the various
comrades talked much of the events in which they themselves had been
concerned, Kara furnished a sort of living chronicle of the revolutionary
movement, and was perhaps the only place where one could study the
history of Russian Socialism from the testimony of personal experience.
None of us, however, ever thought of committing to paper the material that
was here available; and it is much to be doubted whether there is now
anyone left in a position to do so. Much that would be extremely interesting
is probably destined to remain buried in oblivion.
During my term of imprisonment none of those implicated in the first-
mentioned Netshaëv trial (which belonged to the “Propagandist” phase of
our movement, in 1870,) were still in Kara. They had all been released from
prison and sent into exile, and I saw nothing of them; but of course I had
known personally many of these revolutionists of earlier days when they
were still in freedom.
I shared the captivity of several who were sentenced in the various
political trials towards the end of the seventies, these having been mostly
concerned in deeds of violence, from armed resistance to the police to
attempts on the life of the Tsar. The chief combatants in that terrorist
campaign had for the most part ended their days on the scaffold, or were
buried alive within the grim walls of Schlüsselburg or in the Alexei-Ravelin
wing of the Fortress of Peter and Paul. I had been acquainted with most of
them, both men and women, before their fate overtook them, and I could set
down much that I learned from these comrades in the terrorist struggle; but
my reminiscences already threaten to assume formidable dimensions, and I
will only briefly mention some of the most remarkable of such incidents.

LURI, SOUHOMLIN, AND RECHNYEVSKY, IN PRISON DRESS
To face page 260
Voynoràlsky and Kovàlik were two prominent actors in the Propagandist
movement, both of whom had been justices of the peace. In May, 1876,
when imprisoned in the examination-prison in Petersburg, assisted by
comrades outside they made an attempt to escape. They succeeded in
getting out of their cell and climbing down a rope-ladder from one of the
corridor windows; but an official who happened to be driving past the
prison, thinking they were ordinary criminals, gave the alarm, and they
were caught. They were sentenced to terms of penal servitude in the “Trial
of the 193”; but again an attempt was made to rescue them, a plan being
made to enable them to escape while being transported to the Khàrkov
prison, where the prisoners considered most dangerous were then confined.
This was in July, 1878. A number of armed men, two of them mounted,
stopped the prison-van in which Voynoràlsky and Kovàlik were being
conveyed; one of the gendarmes guarding it was shot, and the attempt might
have been successful had not the horses taken fright and stampeded, which
led to the recapture of the prisoners. Voynoràlsky and Kovàlik spent many
years of confinement in European Russia, and were then sent, in company

with many other revolutionists, to Kara, where they finished their term of
imprisonment, subsequently being exiled in Yakutsk. Most of their
companions found graves in the wilds of Siberia, but Voynoràlsky and
Kovàlik survived their hour of release; in the winter of 1898-1899 they
returned to European Russia, where Voynoràlsky died soon afterwards in
his own home.
The attempted rescue just described had further consequences. The
evening after, one of the riders who had stopped the prison-van was arrested
at Khàrkov station; this was Alexei Medvèdiev, also called Fomin. He
managed subsequently to escape from Khàrkov gaol with a number of
ordinary criminals, by burrowing under a wall. As, however, outside help
failed them, there was nothing for it but to hide in a wood near by, where
they were soon recaptured. The comrades then resolved to try and rescue
Medvèdiev, and arranged the following plan. Two young men, Berezniàk
and Rashko, disguised themselves as gendarmes, and brought to the prison
a forged order that Medvèdiev should be handed over to them and taken for
examination to the office of the gendarmerie. But either in consequence (as
the two asserted) of treachery, or else because the prison staff saw
something suspicious about the supposed gendarmes, they were arrested on
the spot. Yatzevitch was arrested at the same time, he being on the watch
outside, ready to assist the flight of the others; and soon afterwards
Yefremov and some others involved in the affair were also captured. In the
subsequent trial Yefremov was condemned to death, but the sentence was
commuted to penal servitude for life, and Berezniàk had a like penalty;
these two and Yatzevitch were sent at once to Kara. Medvèdiev was treated
differently: he was condemned to death and the sentence modified to
lifelong penal servitude; but as attempts to rescue him were dreaded he was
kept closely guarded in first one, then another West Siberian prison, was
then taken to the Alexei-Ravelin in Petersburg, and was only brought to
Kara in 1884. He was a man of consummate bravery, who literally despised
danger, and was always ready to embark on the most perilous adventure. He
had been a postillion, and had only received a scanty education at an
elementary school; but by his own exertions while in prison he had gained
quite a respectable amount of knowledge. He was particularly clever with
his fingers, and performed some really astonishing feats. While imprisoned
in Petersburg he secretly modelled a statuette in bread, which, when it was
eventually discovered by the gendarmes, evoked great admiration from the

commandant of the fortress and other officials, so marvellously was it
executed. Thanks partly to this achievement, he was afterwards granted a
special order modifying his sentence of lifelong “katorga” to a term of
twenty years, upon which he was sent to Kara. There he became an adept in
various handicrafts; he was an excellent tailor, shoemaker, engraver, and
sculptor; and afterwards, when he was living “free” in exile, he became a
watchmaker and goldsmith. Unfortunately soon after he left the prison he
fell a victim to alcoholism, to which he had an inherited predisposition; all
attempts at reclaiming him were vain, and in a few years he was beyond
hope.
Just about the time of the attempted rescue at Khàrkov the revolutionists
in Petersburg were put into a state of frightful excitement by other events. A
number of those condemned in the “Case of the 193” were awaiting, in the
Peter and Paul fortress, their transportation to Siberia; and in consequence
of the vexatious and cruel treatment to which they were subjected, they had
recourse to a hunger-strike, which, as most of them had already suffered
years of imprisonment while still on remand, might easily have proved fatal
to their enfeebled constitutions. After the strike had lasted some days, the
society Zemlyà i Vòlya (Land and Liberty) became aware of what was
going on, and one of its members, Kravtchinsky,[97] a former lieutenant in
the artillery, declared at once that he would avenge his comrades by killing
General Mèzentzev, the chief of gendarmerie, the man who was chiefly
responsible for the persecution of the “politicals.” This deed he wished to
undertake single-handed and openly without troubling about safety for
himself, like Vera Zassoùlitch, who on January 24th, 1878, had fired at
General Trepòv, Governor of Petersburg.[98] Many of Kravtchinsky’s
comrades—myself among the number—opposed his resolve. Mèzentzev
was not worth such a sacrifice, and we insisted that if the attempt were
made it should be in such a manner as to make possible the escape of the
perpetrator. To this end General Mèzentzev’s doings were carefully
observed that we might ascertain his hours of coming and going; and close
to his dwelling a carriage was constantly stationed with the famous trotter
Barbar, who had already saved one life—that of Prince Peter Kropotkin in
his escape from the prison hospital in 1876. One day in August, 1878,
Mèzentzev was stabbed in one of the busiest streets of Petersburg, and,
thanks to the speed of Barbar, Kravtchinsky and his companion Barannikov
got away safely. Subsequently a great number of persons were arrested on

account of this deed, among others, Adrian Mihaïlov, who was accused of
acting as coachman. He was sentenced to twenty years’ “katorga,” and was
for some time my room-mate at Kara.
Adrian Mihaïlov was another very talented member of our company. He
had a thirst for knowledge, and a really remarkable memory. He had been a
medical student, knew a great deal of natural science, and had dipped into
various other branches of learning. We called him “the living
encyclopædia,” and it was popularly supposed that there was hardly a
question he could not answer. He could always give the date of any
historical event, seemed to remember everything he read, and easily made
himself at home in the most difficult subjects. He was resolute, inflexible,
and energetic; and his mental superiority gave him an immense influence
over his companions.
Finally, I must mention Yemelyànov,[99] one of those concerned in the
assassination of Alexander II. As is well known, the Tsar was killed by a
bomb thrown under his carriage by Grỳnevitsky.[100] Besides that youth and
Russakov, who was brought to the scaffold, Yemelyànov was also directly
accessory to the deed. He was standing close by when the explosion took
place, with another bomb in readiness, but did not need to make use of it,
seeing that the Tsar had already met his fate. He was arrested soon after, and
with ten others was condemned to death in the “Trial of the Twenty.” The
death-sentence was, however, only carried out in the case of Suhànov, an
officer of marines, that of the others being commuted to penal servitude for
life. Yemelyànov and his companions were imprisoned in the Fortress of
Peter and Paul. He was to have been sent to Schlüsselburg when the new
fortress there was completed, but owing to his being seized by serious
illness this was not done, and instead he was sent to Kara in 1884. He was
the son of a sacristan of the Orthodox Church, had attended a school of
handicraft, and had later been sent at the State’s expense to Paris, where he
sang as a chorister in the chapel of the Russian Embassy. When a youth of
twenty he had returned to Russia, and associated himself with the Terrorists.
He possessed considerable intelligence, and had gradually acquired a fair
amount of information, self-taught. When I became acquainted with him he
was a disillusioned sceptic, and spoke ironically of revolutionary ideas.
Like Fomitchov and one or two others, he had become an admirer of
Russian imperialism, and he reaped the reward of his opinions; but of that
later.

CHAPTER XXVI
THE WOMEN’S PRISON

I come now to the most tragic time of my imprisonment and the saddest
of my recollections, a series of events in connection with our unhappy
fellow-sufferers in the women’s prison. We were always well instructed as
to how our ladies were faring, for in spite of all the measures taken to
prevent it, letters continually passed between us. Concerning the subject of
the following narrative I also learned many additional details later from
some of our women comrades.
When I first came to Kara ten women “politicals” were imprisoned there,
one of whom—Lèbedieva—died soon after my arrival. The most
remarkable among those remaining was Sophia Löschern von Herzfeld. She
was the daughter of a general, and her relations belonged to the Court
circles in Petersburg. She joined the Propagandist movement in the early
sixties, and lived among the peasants, dressed like one of themselves, trying
to diffuse the ideas of “peaceful” Socialism, if I may so call it. She was
arrested, endured four years’ imprisonment while still under examination,
and was at last banished to Siberia in the “Case of the 193.” The efforts of
one of her relatives, a lady in the Tsaritsa’s household, procured her pardon,
and in 1878 she was released from prison, at which time I made her
acquaintance in Petersburg. But she was not allowed to enjoy her liberty for
long; a year later she was arrested in Kiëv, and resisted capture “with
weapons in her hand.” She was brought before a court-martial, together
with Ossìnsky and Voloshenko; she and Ossìnsky were condemned to
death, and he paid the full penalty of the law, but in her case “by favour” the
sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life, and she was deported to
Kara in 1879. Sophia Löschern von Herzfeld was modest and even shy in
manner, giving the impression of an extremely reserved character. She
suffered a longer term of imprisonment than any other participant in the
revolutionary movement of the early seventies.

ANNA KORBA ELIZABETH KOVALSKAYA

NADYESHDA SIGIDA MARIA KOVALEVSKAYA

NADYESHDA
SMIRNITSKAYA SOPHIA BOGOMOLETZ

To face page 266
[101]
Her friend Anna Korba I had also known in Petersburg in 1879; she
had then just returned from the seat of war in Turkey, where she had been
nursing the wounded. She belonged to a German family named Meinhardt,
naturalised in Russia, numerous members of which had filled high official
positions, and she herself married a foreigner. She had been extremely
active in philanthropic work, and was adored by the people of the provincial
town where she lived; but she learned by bitter experience how futile, under
the existing political conditions, were all attempts to effect even the
smallest reforms by merely quiet educative means, and she joined the
terrorist society Naròdnaia Vòlya in the beginning of the eighties. It was
just then that the desperate struggle of that party against the Tsar’s despotic
government had reached its height. Anna Korba saw her friends and
comrades arrested by the dozen, sent to the scaffold, or buried alive in
prison. The “white terror” raged. In 1882 the chief of the secret police,
Soudyèhkin, had succeeded in capturing most of the Terrorists who still
remained at large after the assault on Alexander II., and Anna Korba took
up the task of continuing the struggle in company with the last remnants of
the fighters. A secret laboratory for the manufacture of dynamite bombs was
set up in Petersburg; this was discovered by Soudyèhkin, and in June, 1882,
Anna Korba was arrested, together with Gratchènsky, the officer
Butzèvitch, and the married couple Prybylyev. Next spring she was tried
with sixteen others, and sentenced to twenty years’ penal servitude.

Anna Korba was a highly educated woman, in character courageous,
even-tempered, and persevering. She holds the same views to-day as when
she first threw herself into the fight, and this unswerving faith in her cause
impresses with respect even people who cannot share her opinions.
Before I proceed to describe the other inmates of the women’s prison, I
must digress for a moment to relate an incident which in its time caused
great excitement among the newspaper-reading public. Towards the end of
February, 1881, the police of Petersburg had their suspicions directed to a
certain cheesemonger’s shop in that city, where something illegal was
supposed to be going forward. A search-party, one member of which was an
engineer of the pioneer corps, was sent to investigate, but discovered
nothing of any consequence. The next day came the assassination of the
Tsar, and three days after that the cheese-shop was suddenly deserted by its
occupants, among whom had been a married couple calling themselves
Kòbozev—peasants from the interior of Russia, according to their perfectly
regular papers. The police now made a more effectual search, and found
that a subterranean passage had been made from the cheese-shop to the
Màlaya Sadòvaya, a street through which the Tsar often passed. This tunnel
had been meant to serve as a mine for blowing up the Tsar’s carriage in case
the bombs had failed to do their work. It is easy to imagine what must have
been the feelings of the two revolutionists who passed under the name of
Kòbozev when the police made their first visit to the shop; the underground
passage had then just been completed, and the cases and barrels, supposed
to contain cheese, were filled with the earth that had been dug out. Had the
police but lifted the straw matting that covered them, the whole plot, like
many others before, might have been doomed to failure.
The humble peasant-woman who had served in that shop was Anna
Yakìmova. She was the daughter of a priest, and had been a village
schoolmistress. Like so many others, she had gone “among the people,” and
had been one of the accused in the “Case of the 193”; she was acquitted, but
was nevertheless sent by administrative order to a forlorn spot in the north
of Russia, whence in 1879 she escaped and came to Petersburg, where I
made her acquaintance. Subsequently she joined the Naròdnaia Vòlya, and
took an active part in a series of attempts against the life of the Tsar. She
had helped Zhelyàbov and others in 1879 to undermine the station at
Alexandròvskaya, through which the Tsar was expected to pass. After many
escapes she was eventually arrested, and condemned to death in the “Trial