MY FLIGHT FROM SIBERIA—THE END OF MY JOURNEY ROUND THE WORLD—MY FRIEND AXELROD AGAIN—CONCLUSION
The terrible events that had happened in the town, and the death of our unhappy fellow-citizens, could not but leave an indelible impression on many people’s minds, my own included. Blagovèstshensk had become so detestable to us that many left the place as soon as things were quiet again. Unfortunately I could not follow their example at once; but I determined on the first opportunity to transfer myself to the Far East, in which I had long been interested. I intended to settle in the busy commercial town of Vladivostock, and there patiently await the time when I might be free to return home. Before that time could arrive five or six years had still to pass; but the nearer the time came, the more irrepressible grew the desire to quit Siberia, and the thought of flight recurred again and again. Nevertheless doubts also arose whether it were worth while to jeopardise the freedom, however limited, that I had won by my sixteen years of prison and exile. If my attempt failed, I should have rendered myself liable to all the rigour of the law; and I was no longer of an age to bear suffering and privations as in youth, for I was now well past my fortieth year.
Thus did I hesitate backward and forward until the spring of 1901, when various personal reasons made me come to a definite decision, which resulted in my burning 348the bridge behind me, as the saying goes. I resolved to escape as soon as the Amur was open for travelling again.
Circumstances favoured my project; a kind friend who had a large connection throughout the country promised his aid, and the following plan seemed the easiest of execution. I was to leave Blagovèstshensk unobserved, going first to Habarovsk and thence to Vladivostock, where I must take my passage on a foreign vessel bound for Japan; and this I succeeded in carrying through, with the help of the friend above mentioned.
It need hardly be said that I cannot give all the details of my flight from Siberia, where I was under strict police supervision; for I must not compromise those who assisted me. As I went on board the steamboat that was leaving for Habarovsk, (of course, taking no luggage with me,) there suddenly appeared the deputy-prìstav to whose district I belonged. Of course, at the first moment I thought my plans had been discovered, and I was not a little alarmed; but I was soon satisfied that the official had merely come to take leave of some friends who were travelling by the same boat. It evidently never entered his head that I was taking my departure from Blagovèstshensk under the very nose of the police; I suppose he thought that, like himself, I had come to say farewell to some friend, (which was quite permissible,) and I managed that he should lose sight of me, so that he might imagine I had gone home.
I found there were people of my acquaintance on board who belonged to the place; but they apparently never once thought that I was leaving Siberia for good; and in conversation with them I let it appear that I was travelling on some official commission. Our boat was a tug, and therefore went very slowly; it stopped at every village on the way, and took five days to reach Habarovsk. Here came my most perilous moment, as on leaving the steamer everyone had to show their passes, and of course I had none. I avoided this difficulty by staying on the boat for 349the night; and next morning I betook myself to the house of a friend, who came on board and fetched me. I spent the day with him, and we devoted it to seeing the town.
I had every intention of seeing as much as possible, during my journey eastwards, of this country—hitherto unknown to me—which was developing with such extraordinary rapidity, especially since the construction of the railway by the Ussur. Villages were springing up like mushrooms, and soon became towns of a considerable size. Habarovsk itself had developed from the insignificant hamlet of Habàrovka into an important town which is now the residence of the Governor-General of the Amur province. It is situated at the junction of the Amur with the Ussur, and stands in a most picturesque position on a steep and lofty cliff around whose base flow the two mighty rivers. But this chief town of a vast and fertile country is itself like nothing but a great barrack; nearly all the houses have the appearance of official buildings, and one meets soldiers in the streets at every turn. As in most Russian towns, there is no look of comfort; the streets are unpaved and very dusty, and are dimly lighted at night by oil lamps standing at a respectful distance from each other. I found the town museum, however, by no means ill-equipped.
Faithful to my intention of learning all I could about the country, I gladly accepted the invitation of a friend, near whose place of abode I must pass, and went to visit him at Nikolsk-Ussurìsk. This place had only within the year attained to the dignity of being called a town, and, like many others in the province, it swarmed with soldiers; which was explained by the fact that the slaughtering of Chinese was not yet entirely at an end, and, as was supposed, preparations were also being made for war with Japan. As the district lies in close proximity to China, Korea, and Japan, and is the probable theatre of future warlike operations, the Russian Government is 350apparently taking its measures in good time, and by drafting in large numbers of soldiers is converting the province into a sort of military camp.
After a stay of four-and-twenty hours at Nikolsk-Ussurìsk I went on to Vladivostock, a very pretty seaport of some thirty thousand inhabitants, for which—not without good grounds—a brilliant future is prophesied. Its situation is charming, and in its public arrangements it is already far in advance, not only of most Siberian towns, but also of many in European Russia. Here I stayed three days before I could arrange for my passage on a foreign vessel, but at length all was ready, and my last night in Siberia arrived. I slept but little. The thought that next morning I was to bid farewell to all that time had made so familiar to me mingled with my fears for the successful achievement of my escape. So often in my life had some small chance cruelly frustrated all my plans that I naturally trembled now for the result of the present adventure. I had no desire to find myself suddenly bound for the icy regions of Yakutsk instead of for the lands of freedom, and I prepared beforehand for every possibility.
All went well, however, and next morning I boarded a ship that was going to Japan. Yet, when the boat weighed anchor and danger no longer threatened me, a strange feeling of sadness came over me, as though I were parting, not from the land of prison and exile, but from a dear home. Thus can custom attach a man even to chains and bondage. But I felt that it was not only from use and wont that I was parting; I was not merely leaving Siberia, but Russia—and perhaps for ever.
It was a dismal day, the sky was covered with heavy clouds, and rain flowed in torrents. Our steamer rolled violently, and many of the passengers were seasick; but, though I had hardly ever been on the sea before, I remained immune, and rejoiced thereat, as I had another 351long voyage before me. We soon began to skirt the coast of the Korean peninsula, and entered two harbours, those of Gensan and Fusan, remaining four-and-twenty hours in each. I went on shore with some other passengers to see the towns, which in many respects resemble those of Japan—the same style of building, the same apparent superfluity of shops and booths. The Japanese appear to be the ruling spirits there, and the efforts of Russia to oust them do not seem likely to be crowned with success; nor in my opinion are they justified, for Japan has every right to exercise her civilising influence on Korea.
I also visited a Korean village in the neighbourhood of Gensan, and was astonished at its primitive character. It consisted of one very narrow street bordered by straw-thatched wooden huts, which had neither windows nor doors, the latter being replaced by loose boards. The whole population evidently lived principally in the street, carrying on all occupations there—cooking, eating, and so forth.
Five days after our departure from Vladivostock the steamer dropped anchor in the harbour of Nagasaki. As soon as the health regulations had been complied with I got into one of the little boats that had crowded alongside and went to an hotel close to the sea. Compared with Russian inns it seemed to me cheap, clean, and comfortable; and the Japanese servants spoke a little broken Russian.
In Nagasaki I had to decide how I would pursue my journey. I might go by the Suez Canal to one of the ports of Western Europe, and that was the shortest and cheapest route; but I had a great wish to see something of North America while the opportunity offered, and thus to complete the journey round the world that had been begun so much against my will. I inquired about the next boat for San Francisco, and found it would not leave for nine or ten days, but I resolved to employ the interval in seeing the neighbourhood.
352Nagasaki is a rather large town of over one hundred thousand inhabitants, and lies scattered picturesquely over the hills that surround a fine bay. Most of the streets, especially in the Japanese quarter, are too narrow for horse traffic to be possible through them; horses are, therefore, replaced by men, who with their little two-wheeled carriages (jinrikisha) play the part of cab horses, and are called kurnei. There are so many of them that they literally stand before every house, and crowd in front of the hotels and big shops. They surround any stranger in the street, bidding against each other for his custom, and each trying to win his favour, chattering in broken Russian or English. For the modest sum of ten sen (about 2?d.) the course, or twenty sen the hour, the kurnei will take his “fare ” with marvellous swiftness up hill and down dale; and it not seldom happens that though the perspiration may be streaming from the brow of the kurnei, the “civilised” European in his little carriage may be seen laying a stick or an umbrella across his shoulders to urge him onward. The poor fellow who thus turns himself into a beast of burden must give almost half of his hardly earned day’s wage to the proprietor of the jinrikisha, and must also pay something to the State for the licence authorising him to support himself in this laborious way. His living, however, is cheap enough, his food consisting of rice and an inferior kind of fish.
Most of the houses in Nagasaki are two-storied wooden buildings, the ground-floor being used as a shop, inn, or workshop. It was a puzzle to me where all these innumerable shops could find customers, and how they managed to exist. In my rambles I often saw a whole row of shops without a single purchaser, and if one entered he was instantly surrounded as though a customer were the rarest of guests.
The houses in the Japanese quarter are built in a wonderfully light and airy fashion, as if just run up hastily for summer quarters. Throughout the town there reigns 353the most perfect order; the streets are excellently paved, and the portion before each house is kept clean and watered by the occupier. There is never the least dust, and the air is singularly mild and pure. One feels how each breath dilates and strengthens the lungs, and it is not to be wondered at that many Russians and English use Nagasaki as a health-resort.
The European quarter, along the quay, is full of hotels and restaurants, banks, and other houses of business. Here the streets are somewhat wider, and the houses more solidly built, with the lower stories of brick, while many of them have verandas and front gardens. Life in Nagasaki is wonderfully cheap, but it is also a trifle monotonous, particularly for a stranger not conversant with the language. There is little in the way of “sights”—two or three temples of Buddha, with gigantic pictures of Sakia-Mouni, a commercial institute with samples of native goods, and the well-known tea-houses; that is all the visitor is invited to inspect. But the neighbourhood is extremely beautiful, and at every step one is forced to admire the industry of the Japanese, who leave no inch of soil untilled; except the very tops of the rocky hills, all is carefully cultivated. And yet, notwithstanding this heavy labour that the Japanese expends upon his land, his existence seems to have something of the ethereal and fairylike; and many things in his wonderful country contribute to produce an impression of unreality, as if they were happening not in actual life, but on the screen of a cinematograph.
The “progress” that Japan has made during the latter half of the nineteenth century is doubtless very striking; but it seems to me overestimated by many Europeans and also by the Japanese themselves. Only a very small part of the population has been affected by Western civilisation—a thin layer of the upper classes in the coast towns. The rest of the people are scarcely touched by it; not only beliefs and customs, but the whole mode of living 354remains the same, both in town and country, as it has been from time immemorial. The primitive nature of the Japanese character reveals itself in the transparent honesty everywhere prevalent. No house or shop is shut up for the night; nobody touches what does not belong to him; and lost property when found is immediately restored to the owner. But in the seaports where European culture already makes its influence felt, it may be feared that the Japanese will soon adopt new ideas of “honour.”
I left Nagasaki on board the huge Pacific steamer China, belonging to an American company. The two days that the boat stopped at Yokohama I spent in visiting that town and the capital Tokio, which is reached in about twenty minutes by rail; but there is no need to give my superficial impressions of such well-known places.
During the first five days of the voyage I could talk with none of my fellow-passengers, as I spoke no English, and I found this very wearisome; but at Yokohama we were joined by a Frenchman, a German, and a Japanese who spoke a little German, and we four formed an interesting little international society, the members of which still keep in touch with one another.
On the sixteenth day we reached Honolulu, where our boat was to wait four-and-twenty hours. I had already heard when I was in Blagovèstshensk that a good friend of mine, Dr. N. Russel, was living on one of the Hawaiian islands; so I determined to find out whether he was in Honolulu, and if so to pay him a visit during the boat’s stay here. With the help of my French travelling-companion I managed to find out, though only towards evening, that my friend lived on the island of Hawaii, but that he happened just then to be in Honolulu. However, as when I found the house where he was staying he was not at home, I left a note telling him that an old comrade of his, who was travelling from Siberia to Western Europe, would like to see him, begging him to come on board the China next morning and to ask 355for “the Russian.” I purposely signed my name very indistinctly, for I wanted to see if he would recognise me, as it was fully twenty years since we had met.
While I was on deck next day I saw a grey-haired gentleman in a white coat come on board. I went towards him at once, (though he bore no resemblance to my comrade of old days,) and when I found that he was seeking “the Russian” I called him by his name, and asked if he knew who I was. He looked at me for some time, but could not recognise me, so much had I altered since we had been together; and at last I had to tell him my name.
“Deutsch! is it you? How did you come here?” he cried, as he embraced me. I told him in a few words the story of my escape, and that I was on my way to Europe.
“And you’re going on this very day? No, we can’t allow that! You must stay with me. We’ll stay here for a day or two, and then you must come back to the farm with me!”
His invitation was so cordial that I should have accepted it immediately could I have afforded to forfeit the value of my ticket from Honolulu to San Francisco, about fifty dollars; but when Dr. Russel understood my difficulty he cried—
“Nonsense! That shan’t prevent you. If you lose your money I shall pay the difference myself.” And after some discussion I yielded to his insistence, and went on shore with him.
I found that Dr. Russel was not only practising as a physician in Hawaii, but that he was a member of the Senate, and was at present in Honolulu to attend the session of that legislative body; consequently I remained there for several days, and had full time to admire the lovely town. I then went back with my friend to the island of Hawaii, where his wife awaited us, and there spent a month; during which time I learned from the Russels and their friends, and also from books, a great deal 356about both the present and past history of these wonderful islands. The lives of the natives exhibit much that is curious, and also much that is tragic; but I must not dilate on all that I saw. I will only mention the fact that the Hawaiians are dying out with almost inconceivable rapidity. Of the strong, healthy race, who when Cook discovered the islands numbered four hundred thousand souls, after the lapse of not quite a hundred years only about twenty thousand are left, and this remnant afflicted with various diseases that were unknown previous to the arrival of Europeans.
My stay with the Russels gave me much pleasure; we made expeditions to various parts of the island, to see the volcano Kilauea, the sugar plantations, the native villages, and so on; and we were never tired of congratulating ourselves on the turn of fortune that had brought us together on this island of the Pacific. At last, towards the end of July, after a delightful visit, I set out on my travels once more, this time in a sailing-ship. We were twenty-six days on the journey to San Francisco; though the weather was generally fine, I became heartily tired of the voyage, and was very glad when on the evening of August 25th we arrived in the harbour of San Francisco. Dr. Russel had given me introductions to friends of his, and with their help I made myself at home in the Californian capital. After ten days’ rest there I went on to Chicago, and so to New York.
In Chicago I was received, through a letter of introduction, by two Polish Socialists, immigrants who were living there. They welcomed me very kindly, but unfortunately my ticket did not allow of my remaining with them more than two days. President McKinley had been assassinated on the very day before my arrival in Chicago; people had quite lost their heads, and turned upon peaceable Socialists, accusing them of anarchism. My friends therefore advised me to be careful in travelling, and not to use my own name; so I selected a pseudonym and travelled incognito.
357In New York another comrade, Dr. Ingermann, received me, and I stayed in his house four weeks; after which I embarked in the English steamship Satrapia for Liverpool. I pass over my voyage, a stay of two weeks in London, and the same in Paris, as containing nothing worthy of note. Everywhere on the Continent I met with old comrades, many of whom had changed much during the long years of our separation. Some could not recognise me at all, others only with difficulty; all regarded me as one come from another world.
From Paris I went to Zurich. This was the final point of my six months’ journey from Blagovèstshensk, and here dwelt my old friends the Axelrods,[117] from whom I had parted seventeen and a half years before. After a journey round the world of not quite the usual type, I returned to them again on November 5th, 1901.
“Look! he hasn’t changed a bit,” cried Axelrod, as he pointed me out to his wife at the station. But it was only at the first moment of meeting that it seemed so to him.
For over a year now I have been living again in freedom, going about from one town to another. During that time I have learned to feel at home in more than one European country; but it may be readily believed that what is passing in my native land interests me beyond everything else. Eighteen years make but a brief span in the life of a nation; yet during that period a transformation has come over Russia that must meet the eyes of even a superficial observer. At the time of my arrest at Freiburg, in 1884, there were but a few groups of revolutionists, and they were recruited chiefly from the young student classes, who rebelled against existing social and political conditions. And, as I have explained, owing to the methods of wholesale executions and arrests adopted by the Government, these organisations dwindled and almost 358entirely disappeared; so that from the end of the eighties thorough-going reaction was triumphant for a time. Of late years, however, it has been quite otherwise. The publications issued by our secret press and distributed throughout the length and breadth of the Russian Empire, calling on the people to rise against the existing despotism, number above one hundred thousand, and they meet with energetic response among the population of large towns and factory districts. Workmen collect in great crowds in the streets along with the students, and by means of monster demonstrations they voice their demand for political freedom and the abolition of autocratic government. The Tsar and his ministers endeavour by the most cruel and severe measures to quench the torch that has been kindled in the land: the greater part of Russia has been placed under martial law; the prisons can hardly contain the numbers of their captives; those who protest against such a régime are sent to Siberia by the trainload. But nothing can stem the tide of the movement; it will rise higher and higher, embracing ever wider circles of the people, and the hour is not far off when autocracy will be laid low, as it was in Western Europe so many generations ago. My flight from Siberia has taken place at a moment in our history which is full of hope for the future.
In Western Europe also great changes have taken place during the last two decades, though none, perhaps, so significant as in Russia. In Germany the special laws against Social Democrats have been repealed; and this has not only made a great difference to our party, but has altered the internal life of the nation in a striking manner. In one respect, however, Germany has made no advance: she is still ready to lend her aid to Russian despotism. Just in the same manner as I was arrested and delivered over to the Russian Government eighteen years ago, though guilty of no offence against German law, so a compatriot of mine has suffered a like fate even while I have been writing this memoir. The Russian student 359Kalayev was arrested in Mysolowitz (1902) without any warrant, and handed over to the Russian gendarmerie; since which he has not been heard of. The Prussian police have in no way altered their methods during the years that have flown; but to the credit of the German people I must admit, that with the exception of official journals, the entire press was most indignant over this complaisance of the German Government towards the Russian.
THE END