POLITICAL CONDITION OF RUSSIA AND THE REVOLUTIONARY PARTY—OUR LITTLE
SOCIETY—FÊTE DAYS—PROHIBITED VISITS-A LECTURE ON MANNERS
At the time of which I am writing the reactionary policy of the new Tsar
was already clearly indicated. Four years had passed since the accession
of Alexander III., and signs of his domestic policy were visible in
frequent death-sentences, favouring of Anti-Semitism (which had sprung
up in various towns in south-west Russia), the appointment of the
universally detested Count Dmitri Tolstoi as Minister of the Interior,
the institution of new regulations at the Universities, not only for
students, but for professors, and so on. In spite of all this there were
still some incurable optimists who hoped this might prove but a brief
transition period, soon to be followed by radical reforms; they even
anticipated the granting of a Constitution to the country. I remember
well how various educated people-lawyers, physicians, etc.—would, when
conversing with us, make hopeful prophecies: “You’ll see, in five years
we shall have the Constitution.”
Undoubtedly many of the younger revolutionists shared these hopes; if
not all, at any rate the majority believed that sooner or later the
Terrorists would “remove” Alexander III., as they had his father, and
that then, as a matter of course, “the Constitution _must_ come.” Some
were so firmly convinced of this that when I ventured to express a
doubt, bets were often offered me as to how few years would elapse
before the great event came to pass. “Before we have reached our place
of exile Alexander III. will be gone,” declared many young people.
This self-deception had one advantage in helping them to bear their fate
and keep up their courage; but these castles in the air were doomed to a
speedy destruction. As I have said already, the _Naròdnaia Vòlya_ was
nearing its collapse, and the Terrorists were now scarcely any real
menace to the Government. The original trusted leaders of the society
were either dead or languishing in prison, and their successors showed
none of the capacity needed to carry on a conspiracy of that sort;
while, on the other hand, the police had learnt much, knew better how to
spread their nets, and left the young conspirators no time to develop
their powers. The untried and unskilfully managed societies were run to
earth before they could undertake anything definite, and the unity and
interdependence that characterised the original band of members
disappeared.
In 1884 various fractions of the society came to life again. There was
the _Young Naròdnaia Vòlya_, whose members carried on a sort of minor
terrorism; that is to say, they directed their daggers and bombs against
the lesser officials, governors of gaols, agrarian and industrial
employers, etc., holding that there should be an immediate forcible
answer made to every act of tyranny by constituted authorities against
the workers. There were the “Bombists,” who swore by dynamite as the
sole and only remedy; the “Militarists,” who thought a conspiracy within
the army the best hope. Finally a group entirely new to Russia made its
appearance—the Social Democrats, among whom I was numbered.
In our prison at Moscow all these different views had their adherents,
and naturally the liveliest discussions took place, though their course
was always fairly peaceful. Notwithstanding all our differences of
opinion, we formed together a sort of big family, in which there was
absolutely no distinction of high or low, rich or poor. All were equal,
all shared alike.
The prison food was beneath criticism; even the most robust at their
hungriest could scarcely swallow a spoonful of the repulsive malodorous
broth in wooden bowls brought to our cells at midday. This is explained
by the fact that the sum originally provided by Government for our
maintenance was extremely small; and on its way through to us a great
part of it found its way into the bottomless pockets of officials great
and small, among whom there is an organised system of general
peculation. The big cauldrons used for cooking the food of several
thousand prisoners were filled up with the worst materials that were
procurable; and we “politicals,” after a very few specimens of it,
decided to feed at our own expense. So we founded a commissariat union,
and elected as chief, to whose care our domestic economy should be
entrusted, Làzarev, the peasant-lawyer, whom Tolstoi had visited. All
the money that we had at command—either what had been given in keeping
to the prison authorities on our arrival or what was sent us by friends
and relations—was handed over to our chief of commissariat, and he had
to arrange our dietary so that all should share alike. In the morning we
had tea, milk, and bread _ad libitum_. For dinner at midday we had a
meal—generally of two courses—prepared from the provisions in our larder
by one of the ordinary criminals hired by us as cook. In the evening
there was tea and bread again. Nobody could say that our table was
exactly luxurious; but then our means were extremely limited. Our poor
housekeeper had often to rack his brains over the problem of making both
ends meet; and he at last hit on the expedient of buying horse-flesh for
us. Beef was cheap enough—ten kopecks (about 2½_d._) a pound, if I
remember rightly; but horseflesh came to only about half that price, and
we agreed to try it. It proved quite eatable, if somewhat tough and
tasteless; but two or three among us were dainty, and declared that the
meat gave them indigestion, and they could not stand it. As the rest of
us believed this to be pure imagination, and simply the result of
prejudice, our “chief” determined to use a little art. He suggested that
he might buy beef for these “invalids”; but he really just had some of
the horse-flesh cooked up a little differently from the rest, and set it
before them. The result was excellent; our epicures much relished their
“beefsteak,” and declared it made them feel sick to see us eating horse;
while we had some trouble in keeping our faces straight! This lasted the
whole time of our stay in Moscow, and not one of our gourmands ever once
complained of indigestion again! When afterwards we let out that for
months they had eaten and enjoyed horse-flesh, of course they were
furious, and asserted—to the common amusement of the others—that they
had always thought the meat had a queer taste.
* * * * *
Besides our own friends there were many people personally unknown to us
who cared for our material needs, I mean the members of the “Red Cross
of the Revolution,” of which mention has been made in an earlier chapter
as the “old clothes society.” These were chiefly women, who undertook
with much zeal the small but very charitable and indispensable task of
providing for the political prisoners and exiles. Many a one, left
deserted in the world, had reason to value the unselfish activity of
these good Samaritans. Often enough have I seen the grateful emotion of
some lonely soul, when the strange hand of a kind woman—one of the
society’s members—bestowed on him cheerfully some useful and hardly
spared article. Our little company in the prison of Moscow seems to have
come off particularly well in this way. Long before the commencement of
the journey to Siberia our benefactresses warned us to let them have a
list of what we should be needing for our travels. When it is remembered
that we were over fifty persons, and that before many of us lay a
journey of more than half a year, it is evident how much opportunity
there was for the thoughtful and minute care of these noble women. There
were hundreds of little things wanted that gave them not only time and
trouble, but personal inconvenience to procure; and their
self-sacrificing exertions to lighten the lot of the captives were
infinitely touching.
Easter and Christmas are special feast days in Russia. The Russian
revolutionists have definitely renounced all religious creeds, and there
are many among them who in any case would have nothing to do with the
Orthodox Russian Church—Jews, Germans, Poles, etc. Nevertheless, those
in prison or in places of banishment always take part whenever possible
in the common festivals of the people; and these days of rejoicing are
doubly welcomed when they come to break the dreary routine of
prison-life. Relations, friends, and the Red Cross ladies send food and
even dainties to the prisons, and the inmates hold high revel. In the
Moscow prison we had a specially merry time on Easter Eve. We had
petitioned the Governor of Moscow for leave to pass the night before
Easter together, according to Russian custom. This was conceded; and we
all, including the women, assembled in the quarters of the
“administratives,” where the rooms are large, because the prisoners are
there grouped together, not confined in single cells. All manner of good
things had been sent us—Easter cakes, eggs, hams, poultry, and all that
is customary, including some bottles of light wine and beer—so that our
Easter table was a magnificent sight.[54] Under the superintendence of
the old governor and his staff we spent the evening and half the night
in a merry fashion not often witnessed in a prison. Songs were sung,
there were jokes and laughter; finally a harmonica appeared, and the
young people began to dance. Yet, despite so much hearty and unfeigned
cheerfulness, not one of us could forget our real condition; indeed, the
very sight of gaiety brought to the minds of many of us remembrance of
home, where our dear ones were at this moment celebrating the feast-day,
though with many sad thoughts of the absent.
Footnote 54:
In Russia it is the custom at Easter in every house to spread a large
table with cold dishes of all descriptions, and the master of the
house invites every visitor to partake of the feast, which they are
bound to do, eating and drinking standing. This “Easter table” is kept
going throughout the festival time.—_Trans._
For us hard-labour men this was the first chance we had had of getting
to know our women fellow-prisoners. The “administratives” met them not
only in visiting hours, but in the courtyard, although the latter was
supposed to be against rules. Those condemned to hard labour, on the
contrary, were not admitted to the visitors’ room. After this Easter
festival, however, even we “deprived of all rights” managed to break
through the regulations. Under the pretext that we had some business in
the office we had ourselves conducted across the big yard, and the
warder left us at the door, supposing we should go straight on down the
corridor. Instead of that we raced across the courtyard to the door of
the women’s quarters. The flustered warder came tearing after us,
calling us back; but we had reached our goal, our ladies were at their
door, and we could exchange a few friendly words with them. Of course,
this was only a defiant frolic; we took pleasure in trampling on the
hated prison rules, and the authorities saw nothing very wicked in it.
The prohibition of meeting had no sense in it whatever, as in a few
weeks’ time all the “politicals” were to travel in company together to
Siberia. In this, as in many other cases, we were unnecessarily
thwarted, simply because in paragraph so-and-so of the regulations this
or that is forbidden.
These regulations are not nearly so strictly kept as regards the
ordinary criminals, who are often allowed to wander all about a Russian
prison without supervision, and manage to get admitted even to the
women’s quarters. Moreover, it not infrequently happens that a criminal
who has money at his disposal is allowed by the warders and overseers to
be out all night in the town, where he amuses himself or goes about his
own business. So far as the treatment of prisoners goes, we “politicals”
are only too glad to be put on the footing of “common criminals”; which
but seldom happens to us, however. Yet in one respect the “politicals”
have an advantage—I mean in the demeanour of the prison staff towards
them. Every official, high or low, knows well that he cannot go beyond a
certain point with them, and that he must behave with courtesy. This
unwritten law arose from the fact that for generations the “politicals”
belonged exclusively to the educated and privileged classes, and also
from their proud conviction that they have only acted according to the
dictates of reason and conscience, which upholds them in the firm
feeling of innocence, and makes them fiercely jealous for the
preservation of both their own self-respect and their dignity in the
eyes of others. If any official ventures to ignore this sentiment he may
count on energetic protest, and in such cases the prison is often the
scene of a bitter conflict that may lead to tragic results. As a slight
example I may relate the following incident.
A certain great personage had come from Petersburg—Galkin Vrassky, the
head of the controlling department for all Russian prisons. His position
demanded the deepest awe and subservience from all minor officials, and
he himself was fully conscious of his power and bore himself
accordingly. He was a Privy Counsellor and extremely pompous. Before his
promised visit to our prison we had heard that it was this gentleman’s
custom not to uncover his head when entering the cells, but to keep his
hat on all the time. We instantly agreed together that if he behaved so
here, the first of us whose cell he visited should teach him a lesson in
manners.
Galkin Vrassky came, attended by an imposing suite, and accompanied
by—among others—Prince Galitzin, the Vice-Governor of Moscow. He began
his rounds with our Pugatchev Tower, and went first to the cell of Peter
Dashkièvitch. Dashkièvitch had been a theological student; he was a man
of very calm but unyielding temperament, and permeated to an uncommon
degree with the instinct of justice and fairness. It was now incumbent
on him to beard this haughty official, who had scarcely begun the
stereotyped question—“Have you any complaints to make?”—when
Dashkièvitch interrupted him, saying quietly: “It is very impolite of
you, sir, to enter my apartment without removing your hat.”
Galkin Vrassky reddened to the roots of his hair, turned on his heel and
left the cell, the whole company following him in silence.
“In what case was he condemned?” we heard him ask, as he stood on the
landing.
“In the Kiëv trial,” someone answered.
“Aha, one of those fellows who made trouble in the prison over there!”
he said in a satisfied tone.
He visited the rest of us, holding his hat in his hand most politely,
but he did not forget to revenge himself on Dashkièvitch after his own
fashion.
* * * * *
Dashkièvitch’s sentence had been “banishment to the less distant
provinces of Siberia,” a fairly mild punishment; but Vrassky now ordered
his transportation to the furthest wilds of the country, and he was sent
to Tunka, on the borders of Mongolia.