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]
Footnote 48:
This sentence was renewed later, and in 1892 he died in hospital at
Tomsk.
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 grasped 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
them 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 Kiëv 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 pass 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, these 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.
The journey from Kiëv 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.
[Illustration:
“BUTIRKI,” THE CENTRAL PRISON AT MOSCOW
To face page 110
]
I 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.
“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 to which place their comrades
sentenced in the same case had all been sent.
[Illustration: TCHUIKOV]
[Illustration: SPANDONI]
[Illustration: VERA FIGNER]
[Illustration: STEFANOVITCH]
[Illustration: MIRSKY]
To face page 112
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 convincing
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.