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 106grasped 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 107them 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 Ki?v 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 108pass 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, 109these 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.
110The journey from Ki?v 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
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111I 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.
112“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 113to which place their comrades sentenced in the same case had all been sent.
TCHUIKOV
SPANDONI
VERA FIGNER
STEFANOVITCH
MIRSKY
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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 114convincing 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.