From the time of the execution to the date of our departure for
Siberia nothing noteworthy came to pass. All sorts of rumors were
current touching our destination and our fate. Every day brought a new
conjecture or a fresh story. It was said that we were to be confined in
one of the dreaded central prisons—that we were to be immured in the
casemates of St. Peter and St. Paul—that we were to be sent to Eastern
Siberia, to Western Siberia—to the island of Sakhalin—that we were not
to be sent anywhere, but to stay where we were.
At length, on May 30, the question was settled. Ten prisoners, of
whom I made one, were summoned to the office, and told that we were
forthwith to take our departure—whither, our custodians refused to say.
The next proceeding was to put two of our friends, who did not belong
to the privileged order, in irons and shave their heads. We others,
being nobles, were to be spared this indignity until we reached our
destination. For the present we were required only to don the ordinary
convict costume, consisting of a long gray capote, marked on the back
with a yellow ace for those sentenced to simple transportation, and
with two aces for those condemned to penal servitude.
“Will you not tell us whither we are going?” asked one of our number of
General Gubernet, as we stepped into the van.
“To Eastern Siberia,” said the General, who stood near the door.
Then I knew my fate—fourteen years hard labor—possibly in a region of
almost endless night, and as cold as the Polar regions.
The station of Koursk, the cities of Mzensk, Moscow, and Nijni Novgorod
are passed in quick succession. At Nijni Novgorod we leave the railway
and continue our journey, as far as Perm, by water. It is only here
that we begin to realize that we are really on the road to Siberia.
We are transferred to little three-horse carriages, with a soldier in
front and a gendarme by the side of each prisoner. By leaning a little
forward it is possible to see the vast horizon before us, and the
forests and mountains that stretch for unknown distances on either side
of the road. It is difficult to describe the feelings of a captive who
for months, or it may be for years, has been under bolt and bar, and
whose views have been limited to the blank walls of a prison, when he
once more breathes the free air of heaven, and beholds nature in all
her grandeur and her beauty. It is as if the liberty for which his soul
has never ceased to yearn were opening to him her arms and bidding him
be free.
The country through which we were passing was thinly peopled, and
buildings and houses were few and far between. The broad highway was
bordered in some places by brushwood, in others by immense forests.
All sorts of fancies flitted through my brain. I thought of home—of
father, mother and friends—of the cause, of the incidents of my trial,
and the dreary future that lay before me: fourteen years' hard labor in
Eastern Siberia—a hell hopeless as any conceived in the brain of Dante.
And then plans of escape surged through my mind, each wilder and more
fantastic than its fellow.
We travel night and day, always with the same soldier and gendarme,
though not always with the same driver. On one occasion we change
horses at midnight, and shortly afterwards I see that my guards are
overcome by sleep. They nod and rouse themselves in turn; their
efforts to keep awake are laughable. As for me, my thoughts hinder
sleep, but an idea occurs to me, and I nod too, and, drawing myself
into my corner, I snore. The stratagem succeeds. A few minutes later
my gendarme is snoring loud enough to waken the dead. The soldier who
sits before me embraces his rifle with both hands and feet, and sways
to and fro with the motion of the tarantass, now and then incoherently
muttering in a guttural voice. He is deep in dreamland. I rise softly
and look out into the night. A million stars are shining in the clear
sky, and I can see that we are passing through a thick forest. A
spring, a bound, and I could be among those trees. Once there, my
guards can no more find me than the wolf that steals through the
covert, for I am fleet of foot and eager for freedom. But dressed in
this convict costume, how long should I be able to keep my freedom? To
regain Russia, I must follow the highroad, and the first soldier or
gendarme I met would arrest me. True, I might throw away my capote,
with its double ace, but I had no hat, and a bare-headed man would
invite attention even more than one clad in the costume of a felon.
Worse still, I had no arms. I could neither defend myself against wild
animals nor kill game; and if I am compelled to take to the woods, game
may be the only food I shall be able to procure.
No; I must abandon the idea now, and watch for a more favorable
opportunity hereafter. As I come reluctantly to this conclusion I
remember—it seemed like an inspiration—that the gendarme has a hat on
his head and a revolver by his side. Why not take them? He is still
fast asleep, snoring, if possible, harder than ever. I shall never have
such another chance. I will do it: two minutes more and then—freedom.