PREPARATIONS FOR OUR TRAVELS—THE BOAT JOURNEY BY THE VOLGA AND THE
KAMA—EKATERINBURG—ON THE TROIKA—“TO EUROPE, TO ASIA”
The spring of 1885 came, and we began to make ready for our long
journey. At the outset arose the very important question, what luggage
could we take? The rules prescribed that those “deprived of all rights”
should not have more than 25 lbs. in weight. The equipment provided by
Government weighed that by itself; so that all our own belongings would
have to be abandoned, including books, of course. This would have been a
severe loss, for in Moscow our private library had grown considerably.
Count Tolstoi had given us an edition of his collected works in twelve
volumes, and also a _History of Russia_ in twenty-nine volumes. Happily,
however, the authorities decided that only the gross weight of the
luggage should be counted for the whole detachment of exiles; so that as
the “administratives” were allowed 5 pood (about 180 lbs.) apiece, and
many of them had but few possessions, we managed to get our books in.
As everything we possessed had been through the hands of the officials,
of course there was no forbidden literature in our library; nevertheless
we were told to submit it all anew to inspection, and in the course of
this the appointed censor had opportunities for exhibiting to our
delighted gaze his special qualifications for the post. He was a high
official, and had graduated in jurisprudence at Petersburg. Our friend
Rubìnok turned to him with the question whether he might take Karl
Marx’s _Capital_ with him.
“Why, how can you take somebody else’s capital with you?” asked our
censor in a surprised tone.
“It is my own,” said Rubìnok, not comprehending.
“Well, if it is your own, of course you can take it,” was the reply,
“only you must hand it over to the officer commanding the convoy, who
takes charge of all money.”
We, who saw the joke, had great difficulty in repressing our mirth at
the idea of Rubìnok’s running off with the apparently unknown Karl
Marx’s property!
* * * * *
When the time of departure drew nigh the idea was mooted of giving some
substantial testimonial to the worthy old Captain Maltchèvsky, our
governor. He learned with pleasure of the project, but begged us not to
spend on him any of the little money we possessed, as we should need it
on our long journey. I forget whether in the end any present was
actually bought or not. At all events, the old gentleman was a great
exception among his kind. I have only known one other instance of
“politicals” desiring to testify their gratitude to a prison governor in
such a manner. Yet an event happened at the last moment which changed
our hitherto friendly feeling for Captain Maltchèvsky into resentment
and dislike.
During the whole eight months of our sojourn in Moscow we had been on a
perfectly amicable footing with the prison staff. Our independent
proceeding in discarding our fetters and our revolt against head-shaving
had been silently condoned at the time; but it was just these two points
that led to a rupture of relations on the day of our departure. We were
informed that we must now submit to the head-shaving and chain-riveting
processes, because the officer who was to command our convoy insisted on
it. We roundly refused to comply; and the “administratives,” who were
themselves exempt from the proceeding, declared their intention of
supporting us in our resolve.
The hour for mustering the party arrived. We determined to keep
together, and on no account to go singly into the office for our
enrolment. The staff saw at once that any attempt to use force would
lead to a row; so they resolved to outwit us. We were given to
understand that the idea of subjecting us to the barbarous proceeding
had been thought better of, and we were committed to the charge of the
convoy officer. The party was almost ready to start, when we three
“hard-labour men” were suddenly told that if we liked we could get a
medical certificate from the doctor to excuse us from travelling on foot
when we reached Siberia, as those condemned to penal servitude were
supposed to do. We said we were quite willing to be examined for this
purpose; but scarcely were we separated from our companions than a party
of warders hidden behind the door surrounded us. We saw immediately that
we had fallen into a trap, and determined to resist to our utmost. We
kept close together, and struck out with feet and fists when the warders
advanced on us; but, of course, we were ultimately overpowered by their
superior numbers. We were dragged away and each held forcibly down on a
bench while the barber shaved the half of our heads and the blacksmith
riveted on our fetters. Captain Maltchèvsky stood by the while and gave
the orders. This performance of his was enough to alter our sentiments
towards him, and our parting was distinctly cool.
* * * * *
Our journey began on a beautiful morning in the middle of May when
spring had just made its appearance in Moscow. The sunshine was bright
and warm, and the scent of spring was in the air. Our mood was by no
means in consonance with this aspect of outward things; but most of us
elected to go on foot to the station. Our procession must have been an
odd sight. Convicts with fettered feet and grey prison garb marched
along beside other men and women in ordinary clothes. Most of us were
quite young; few had reached middle-age. Of the twelve women in our
party three were voluntarily accompanying their husbands to Siberia.
The last violent scene had depressed us all, and we traversed in silence
the quieter streets of Moscow, where the few passers-by paused to look
at us, and here and there faces stared from the windows. The station,
which we reached after a short tramp, had been cleared of people; only
some gendarmes, prison officials, and porters were on the platform.
Police were keeping guard all round, and nobody who had not a special
order was allowed through to the train reserved for us. When we
“politicals” were established in the places assigned to us, a few
persons—relations of the prisoners—arrived to say good-bye. The
gendarmes would not let them come near to the carriages, and we had to
shout our farewell greetings.
“Good-bye! Good luck! Don’t forget us!” sounded from the barred windows.
“Keep up your courage! We’ll meet again soon!” came back the response.
“Let us sing something together,” called out somebody. We had formed a
choral society in prison, and now started a song of Little Russia—“The
Ferryman.” Slowly the train was set in motion, and as we glided away the
affecting strains of the beautiful melody accompanied us. Many could not
restrain their tears, and sobs were heard which the rattle of the train
soon drowned. With faces pressed against the bars of the windows we
gazed back at Moscow as long as it could be seen. Then came the
outskirts, and then our eyes were refreshed by the sight of broad
meadows.
When we halted at the next station there were a good many people on the
platform—peasants and workmen. Many of them came up to the carriage
windows unhindered, and seemed to be offering things to us.
“Here, take it, in the Virgin’s name!” said a voice close by me. I
looked out, and was aware of an old peasant woman who held out a
kopeck[55] to me.
Footnote 55:
Value one farthing.—_Trans._
“I don’t need it, mother; give it to someone who does,” I said; and felt
my heart warm towards this kindly old woman of the people.
“Take it, take it, my dear!” she insisted.
“Well, as a remembrance, then.” I agreed; and I kept the little copper
coin for a long time before I eventually lost it.
A whole chain of recollections was started in my mind by this
occurrence, and I sank deep in thought. The further we went from Moscow,
the sadder became my spirits; I felt as if I were leaving behind me
there a host of friends I should never see again. I did not want to talk
to anyone, but gazed silently out of the window. The line ran through a
factory district; the stations were crowded, and along the railway banks
we saw many groups of workpeople. Men and women in brightly coloured
cotton garments stopped and called out after the train, making
expressive gestures. Whether they knew us for exiles on our way to
Siberia and meant to send us a message of sympathy I cannot tell.
Perhaps it is the custom in that countryside, whence many prisoners are
transported, to express in this way that feeling of compassion towards
the “children of misfortune”[56] so common among the Russian people.
Footnote 56:
By this name the common people throughout Russia and Siberia designate
all prisoners.
On the following morning we arrived at Nijni Novgorod, whence we were to
journey by boat to Perm, by the Volga and its tributary the Kama. Our
party attracted much attention both at the station and on the way to the
quay. The married and betrothed couples walked in front, arm in arm, and
the rest of us followed, the escort surrounding us all. Two large
cabins, one for the men and one for the women, were assigned to us on
the big barge, which was taken in tow by a river steamer. Here we were
rather comfortably lodged, and we were all in common allowed free access
to the roomy deck, which was enclosed by iron netting at the sides and
overhead. Food we provided for ourselves, and on that head had nothing
to complain of, thanks to the kindness of our friends and to the
provident care of Làzarev, our elected chief or _stàrosta_.
The voyage lasted some days; the weather was uninterruptedly fine; and
we sat on deck from early morning till late evening, revelling in the
charming scenes which passed before our eyes, on this giant among
European rivers and on its tributary stream. Especially lovely was it
towards sunset, when our choir, which boasted some exceptionally fine
voices, would sing our favourite songs. As one sat, with head supported
against the iron netting, and eyes following the shining ripples lit by
exquisite fairy-like tints, the impression made on one by those
beautiful sad songs was never to be forgotten. Gradually the colour
would fade from the sky, and the stars shine down from a cloudless
heaven, to be mirrored in the glassy surface of the great river; and
everything around me—the river, the stars, the songs—would recall to my
mind another royal stream, the mighty Dnieper, by whose banks my
childhood had been spent.
* * * * *
“What are you thinking of? Why are you so sad?” on one such evening a
young “administrative” asked me. She was a girl of about twenty, with
whom I had become acquainted during the journey. We were soon engaged in
intimate and friendly talk. She could understand my mood, and
sympathised heartily. She was an unusually interesting creature of
peculiar and, some might say, eccentric character, but of keen
intelligence. She told me how she had come to adopt the principles of
Socialism, and what kind of life she had quitted to join the
revolutionary movement. Like so many others at that time, she had been
possessed by the longing to do something for the people—the peasants.
Where and how to begin she did not know, and she could find no one to
advise her. She tried to discover some way for herself, and read
everything she could get hold of that bore on the subject. At last,
against her parents’ wishes, she left her home in South Russia for
Petersburg, where she hoped to find someone who could help her. In the
course of her quest, and before she had arrived at any definite solution
of the problems that perplexed her, she was arrested, and was now being
sent to Siberia for three years’ banishment. Like hundreds of others,
this noble-hearted girl had expended her strength and sacrificed her
happiness to no purpose, without benefit to others, without attaining
her own peace of mind; a victim to the cramping and illiberal political
conditions that reign in our native land. She died by her own hand in
Siberia some time after this.
From Perm we were taken by rail to Ekaterinburg, where we arrived after
a wearisome day’s journey. Here we spent the night; and next day our
party, consisting entirely of “politicals” with their escort, was to
drive to Tiumen, the first town within the borders of Siberia. The
construction of the Siberian railway was only just being begun, and the
journey—now very simple—was then attended by all manner of difficulties.
At the outset we had a disagreement with the authorities that might have
had serious consequences. A number of _troïkas_[57] had been provided
for the transportation of ourselves, our escort, and the luggage; in
each of them four prisoners and two soldiers were to go, which, with the
driver, made seven persons. The younger members of our party thought
this too many, and appealed to the officer, Captain Volkov, who had
accompanied us from Moscow (and with whom I had previously travelled
from Kiëv), to arrange that only three of us and two soldiers should go
in each carriage, or, if he preferred, four of us and only one soldier.
As there were not enough carriages for this arrangement the captain
refused the request; and our young Hotspurs flatly swore that they would
not get in. In other words, they would oblige the soldiers to use force
with them, and that would naturally lead to a battle, the results of
which might be very unpleasant. The _ispravnik_[58] appeared, and
declared that he could not hire any more carriages, as this number had
been specially ordered by his chief. There was much arguing up and down,
during which several of the young men and two of the women got very
angry. We elders, on the contrary, thought the matter not sufficiently
important to warrant a conflict which might well result in the despatch
of the “administratives” to distant stations for increased periods of
exile, and of ourselves perhaps to Schlüsselburg.
Footnote 57:
Carriages with three horses harnessed abreast in a peculiar manner,
the two outside facing somewhat outwards. The middle horse is trained
to trot very fast, and the two outside ones to canter.—_Trans._
Footnote 58:
Head of the district police.—_Trans._
“I beg you to get into the carriages,” urged Volkov; and the _ispravnik_
joined in his persuasions.
“No, we will not. Use force if you like!” cried voices from our midst.
“We shall have to report you as refusing to obey orders.”
“Do as you please!” was the answer.
It is absolutely against the rules of our societies not to stand by each
other in all dealings with the authorities, whatever the occasion.
Despite the fact that the majority among us saw no ground for persisting
in this revolt, we were at the mercy of the hot-headed youngsters, and
the situation was becoming strained. A struggle seemed inevitable; but
some of us had the happy idea of trying the practical experiment of
fitting ourselves into one of the vehicles, to see whether the official
arrangement were feasible or not. The trial was made, and it turned out
that with a little goodwill it was quite possible to find room for seven
persons in each _troïka_. In face of this simple fact, the malcontents
could hardly maintain their attitude; so with a little further grumbling
and delay they gave in. We had not gone far before each carriage was
lightened of one passenger; the soldiers preferred to ride on the
baggage-waggons, and only one was left to guard each four prisoners; so
we were more comfortable, and everything was peaceably settled.
During the voyage on the Volga and Kama we had fallen into various
groups of friends, who now naturally wished to keep together during the
land journey. The idea suggested itself of giving our ladies the right
to choose their cavaliers, and this plan found favour with the majority;
but there were one or two who objected to any sort of “woman’s
privileges,” and even some others who disliked travelling in female
society, and declared themselves _hors de concours_. These latter
incorrigible mysogynists were, as may be supposed, the youngest among
us.
This travelling by _troïka_ has, as is well known, a special charm of
its own. It can scarcely be called driving; one flies and rushes along
at a most exhilarating pace. On that side of the Ural Mountains spring
was only just beginning; everything was budding and sprouting, and the
air was full of song and other happy sounds of young life.
We flew along great stretches of the highway, raising enormous clouds of
whirling dust. Our drivers cheered on their horses with cries and
whistling, continually urging them to yet greater speed. At first we sat
by fours in the carriages, generally two men and two women; but soon we
changed places at every halt, and then five or six people might be seen
in one carriage, while only two would be left in another. Here there
would be chatter, joking, and songs; there, earnest quiet talk not to be
overheard by the guards—words of far-reaching import being perhaps
spoken in those whispered conferences. The intimate life in prison had
brought many into close relations that had been strengthened during the
long journey by rail and boat; and the drive together now gave fresh
opportunities for bringing the fellow-sufferers nearer to one another.
[Illustration:
SIBERIAN HALTING-STATION (ÉTAPE)
To face page 146
]
Every day we left two stages behind us, each from fifty to sixty versts
(about thirty-three to forty English miles), on which the horses were
often only changed once, the change being made with lightning rapidity,
as the fresh steeds were generally waiting ready harnessed for our
hurrying procession. While the drivers were occupied over this business
we usually made a hasty meal, buying provisions from the market-women
waiting in the yard of the posting-station—hard-boiled eggs, milk,
bread, etc. The halting-station (_étape_) for the night we generally
reached early, long before twilight set in. Here the first thing was to
prepare our meal—dinner and supper in one; that was the task of the
_stàrosta_ and some volunteer assistants. Afterwards we stayed out in
the open air as long as possible. Songs were sung in chorus; groups and
couples wandered about in confidential talk; or sometimes we held formal
debates, of a very animated description.
On one of the earliest days of our journey we made our first halt in the
open, far from any posting-station. We all got out and stood before a
boundary post; it was that one so often described, of such sad renown,
which bears in engraved letters the two words, “Europe,” “Asia.”
It was now the beginning of June. A year and three months had gone by
since my arrest in Freiburg, and I had now crossed the border between
two continents. The sight of this landmark, passed by thousands driven
into exile, brought thronging many gloomy thoughts. I had passed fifteen
months in German and Russian gaols. “How many years have I now to linger
in a Siberian prison?” I asked myself. “Shall I ever see this signpost
again on a return journey? or shall I find my grave over yonder in
Siberia?”