As I learnt subsequently, my identity and my stratagem were revealed
to the authorities by one of my comrades of the convoy shortly after I
left Irkoutsk. But when the gendarmes went to the village of Talminsky,
I had already vanished. Every effort was, however, made to retake
me, the quest being kept up night and day for six weeks. Then it was
rumored that a body found in the forest had been identified as mine,
and that I had perished of hunger. According to another story, I had
been arrested at Nijni Oudinsk, and was being brought back to Irkoutsk.
Among the vagabonds who at this time were captured right and left on
the high roads throughout the province, were several whom it pleased to
call themselves by my name. The deceit was naturally soon detected, but
while it lasted the deceivers enjoyed certain advantages, which helped
to render their detention tolerable. Instead of walking they rode in
carriages, and were accompanied by an escort, and being regarded as
important prisoners, they were both better fed and better treated than
common malefactors, while their audacity rendered them highly popular
with their vagabond and convict comrades. There were at one time no
fewer than four false Debagorio Mokrievitches in the jail of Irkoutsk.
The police sought me with great diligence among the political exiles
of the province; a most stupid proceeding on their part, for to take
refuge with the politicals would have been putting my head in the
lion's mouth.
Three other men who about the same time attempted to escape were all
recaptured.
I stayed in Siberia a year, making during that time several journeys to
the eastward of Irkoutsk. At length the police having abandoned all
hope of finding me, I resolved to leave the country. A passport being
absolutely necessary, I borrowed the name and obtained the papers of a
gentleman recently deceased—Ivan Alexandrovitch Selivanoff. It was in
the winter of 1880 that I set out on my long journey of 3,600 miles. I
travelled post, by way of Irkoutsk, Krasnoiarsk and Tomsk—towns through
which, a twelvemonth before, I had passed as a prisoner. Rather a bold
undertaking in the circumstances; but as I possessed an itinerary-card
signed by the governor of the province, giving me the right to relays
of horses, I ran no great danger, and left the home of my hospitable
friend with an easy mind.
During the journey I met from time to time gangs of prisoners on the
way from Russia to Irkoutsk. The clanking of the irons, the yellow
pelisses, the worn faces, the weary walk, and the shorn heads of these
unfortunates—how familiar they all were, and how the sight of them
thrilled me to the soul! And behind the chain gang came the wagons of
the political prisoners, among whom, more than once, I recognized the
face of a dear friend. But instead of jumping from my carriage and
folding the poor fellows in my arms, I had to look the other way!
All went well with me, but once I had a terribly narrow escape of
falling a second time into the toils. It so chanced that I passed
through the province of Tobolsk in company with a tchinovnik
(government employé), whose acquaintance I had made on the road, a
big-paunched, rosy-cheeked fellow, with merry eyes and a mellow voice;
and, being on his way home after a long absence, in high good humor and
full of fun. Once at the end of a long day's journey, we arrived about
midnight at a town in the neighborhood of Tobolsk, and, being tired and
sleepy, resolved to pass the rest of the night there. So we went into
the travellers' room, ordered tea, and handed our itinerary cards to
the starosta of the station, in order that he might make the necessary
entries in the travellers' book. Before going to the sleeping room we
requested that the horses might be ready at seven o'clock next morning.
I slept the sleep of the just, rose betimes, and called for the
starosta.
“Are the horses ready?” I asked. “And be good enough to bring hither
our itinerary-cards.”
“The station-master will himself bring your itinerary-cards, and as for
the horses they are already yoked up.”
Half-an-hour later the station-master (otherwise director), came into
our room, holding in his hand the itinerary-cards.
“I am sorry to trouble you,” he said politely; “but I should like to
know which of you young gentlemen is Ivan Alexandrovitch Selivanoff?”
“At your service sir,” I answered, stepping forward.
The station-master looked at me with a ludicrous expression of
bewilderment and surprise.
“A thousand pardons,” he said at length, with a low bow. “But really—I
don't quite understand. The fact is, I knew Mr. Selivanoff, and here I
see the same surname and Christian name; the name of the father is also
the same, the tchin (rank) likewise! Yet I was told he had died—more
than a year ago—but when I saw his name on the card I thought the news
must be false, and I came to assure myself. I see that I am mistaken.
A thousand pardons, sir, a thousand pardons,” and again he saluted me
still more profoundly than before.
I felt as if the ground were opening under my feet, and was thinking
how on earth I should get out of the scrape, when my companion
came—without knowing it—to the rescue.
“What a capital joke!” he shouted, clapping me on the back, and
laughing so that he could hardly speak. “One might suppose that the
worthy director takes you for an escaped prisoner with a dead man's
passport. Ha, ha, ha, what a capital joke to be sure!”
And holding his big belly with both hands, he balanced himself first on
one foot and then the other, laughing the while, until he could hardly
stand.
“You are quite right,” I said, also laughing, though with considerable
effort. “It is really an excellent joke. But seriously (turning to
the station-master), the thing is easily explained. In the part I
come from the Selivanoffs are as plentiful as blackberries. The late
Ivan Alexandrovitch, your friend, and I were kinsmen, and had a great
affection for each other; the name is so common in the province that I
could introduce you to a dozen of my namesakes any day.”
The station-master seemed satisfied with this explanation. At any rate,
he made no objection to our departure, and shortly afterwards we were
once more _en route_. But my companion, the tchinovnik did not cease
laughing for a long time. “To take you for a fugitive convict with a
false passport!” he would say “it is really too good,” and whenever he
remembered the incident he would laugh as if he never meant to stop.
I remembered it, as may be supposed, with very different feelings.
The escape was a very narrow one, and showed me how much I was still
at the mercy of the slightest mishap. But this proved to be my last
adventure and my last peril. In May, 1881, I reached Geneva, and felt
that I was at last really free.
* * * * *
As most stories of Russian revolutionary life have necessarily, if they
be true, a tragical termination, readers of the foregoing narrative
may be pleased to know that M. Mokrievitch is still in a land where he
feels really free. Though one of the heroes of Russian liberty he has
not yet become one of its martyrs. But the time may come when he, as
many other fugitives have done, will return to the volcanic soil of
his native country, there to take part in the struggle to death which,
though unseen, goes always on, and must continue without truce and
without surcease until the sun of Freedom shall dawn in the Empire of
the Night.—_Contemporary Review._