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]
Footnote 23:
The letters of the alphabet being arranged in certain groups, _e.g._:—
a b c d e f
g h i k l m
n o p r s t
u v w x y z,
words are made up by knocking so many times on the wall for each
letter. First the horizontal line in which the letter stands is
counted, and then its number in the line. For example, to make the
word “you” one would knock as follows: four taps, a short pause, five
taps, a longer pause; three taps, a short pause, two taps, longer
pause; four taps, short pause, one tap. The taps are not only heard in
the neighbouring cell, but sometimes in far-distant ones if they have
a common wall.
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.
Footnote 24:
The present Minister of Justice (1902).
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.
Footnote 25:
See pp. 15 and 98, note, p. 210, and portrait, p. 112.
“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.
Footnote 26:
The present Minister of the Interior.—_Trans._
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]
Footnote 27:
I learned the following particulars later. In May, 1882, some of the
political prisoners at Kara escaped. They were soon recaptured, and
horribly severe measures were then set on foot in their prison. It was
resolved to send away the “most dangerous element.” Thirteen men were
chosen, on any kind of pretext, only four of them having been
concerned in the escape, and they were all despatched to the Fortress
of Peter and Paul, and afterwards to Schlüsselburg, the special prison
for politicals. There the harshest régime prevails, and no one who
enters is ever set free again. Kobiliànsky shared this fate, although
he had not been one of those who had broken loose from prison. Nearly
all these unhappy men met their death in Schlüsselburg: among them
Butzìnsky, Gèhlis, I. Ivànov, Kobiliànsky, Shturkòvsky, and
Shtchedrin. Only one survives (1902)—Michael Popov.
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.