THE FOREST—UNSUCCESSFUL ATTEMPTS AT ESCAPE—THE PEOPLE WE MET—THE
CRIMINAL WORLD—THE CONVOY OFFICERS
Our journey was for the most part accomplished during the Siberian
summer. The forest, through which the highway runs for thousands of
versts, is then in fullest beauty; and from the many different species
of trees is wafted an indescribably delicious perfume. Countless birds
flit among the branches, and fill the air with song. Life seems
everywhere the more ebullient for its long winter sleep, and throughout
all nature the tide of energy is at its highest. A riot of joy was
visible everywhere, and we alone seemed to strike a discordant note, as
we wandered on towards the prison that awaited us. Yet even we felt born
anew; our open-air life worked wonders, following on our long
imprisonment. Many who had left Moscow weak and ill became robust in
health during the journey.
The Moscow high-road is, as I have said, the only means of transit,
nevertheless it is kept in an incredibly bad condition. It has never
been properly made, and during the damp weather of early spring, or
after a downpour in summer, vehicles are often axle-deep in mud. Along
the road, at intervals of fifteen to twenty versts, there are villages,
or sometimes small towns. To the north and south no traces of human
dwellings are to be found; the eternal forest extends for thousands of
versts, and only a few nomad tribes of half-savage hunters or herdsmen
roam through its depths. Whilst our party rested, or even during the
march, we “politicals” would often leave the road, and accompanied by a
guard would dive into the woods to gather flowers and berries. A strange
feeling would steal over one. A dozen steps into the thicket, and one is
absolutely alone, not a soul to be seen. One dreams of being free and
one’s own master; but the rattle of fetters, or the glitter of a bayonet
brings back grim reality, and soon we are recalled by the soldiers, for
the party must not be kept waiting.
The officers make no difficulty about these little excursions,
although they are forbidden by the regulations. At first this
surprised me; but I soon saw it was simply because everyone was
convinced that escape was quite impracticable. For although at first
sight it may appear an easy thing to hide in the undergrowth and get
away, as a matter of fact very few “politicals” have ever even
attempted it, and only one—Dzvonkyèvitch—when actually on the march.
He had been condemned to penal servitude for life, and ran away from
his escort into the forest; but the soldiers caught and frightfully
maltreated him. If the officers had not come up he would have been
murdered out of hand. He was taken half dead to the hospital in
Krasnoyarsk, where—thanks to his strong constitution—he recovered from
his severe wounds, though he will bear traces of them for the rest of
his life. This had taken place just a year before our arrival at
Krasnoyarsk.
Several attempts have also been made to escape from the
halting-stations, but with no greater success. It must be remembered
that Siberia is so sparsely populated that every traveller on the road
is an object of universal attention, and the authorities are therefore
soon made aware of the whereabouts of a runaway, if he be a “political”
whom they are anxious to capture. Besides, the fugitives are often
forced to come in of themselves. They do not know the paths through the
forest, so familiar to the ordinary criminals, but wander helplessly
about, and are thankful at last if they chance to hit the high-road once
more, and—half famished—seek the nearest village. In such cases the
peasants are eager to assist the authorities and thereby earn a reward;
and as soon as they discover a political runaway they unfailingly
deliver him up to the police.
[Illustration:
AN ATTEMPT AT ESCAPE
To face page 170
]
Up to the present time the Russian Government has been amply justified
in regarding Siberia as one vast prison, whose natural conditions offer
more insuperable obstacles to escape than do iron bars, high walls, or
any number of guards. But this is only to the “politicals,” to whom the
forest ways are strange. The criminals, as I have said, are quite at
home in the wild woods; and it is easily conceivable that to many of us
the thought has occurred of making common cause with these people, and
escaping in their company. Such attempts, however, have more than once
had a fatal ending. The rascals are always ready to murder for the sake
of gain; a “political’s” money, and even his clothes, are quite
sufficient bait. In this manner it is supposed that Ladislas Isbitsky
came by his death in the year 1880. He had successfully negotiated a
“swop,” had escaped as an ordinary criminal—and then disappeared for
ever, probably murdered by the tramps to whose guidance he had entrusted
himself.
Another instance of this kind was related to me by a political exile,
who, when himself a fugitive in company with some convict-tramps,
chanced to overhear them planning to murder him in his sleep. For weeks
he was obliged to feign sleep at night while really remaining awake—a
terrible task, as may readily be imagined.
These criminals do not, indeed, even trust one another when on the road;
and it is said that when two of them have to enter a narrow path, there
will be a sharp dispute as to who is to go first, the one in front never
feeling safe from an attack in the rear by the companion of his march.
Other dangers also lie in wait for the wanderer. Our comrade
Vlastòpoulo, sentenced to penal servitude for life, narrowly escaped
being devoured by a bear, during his flight in company with Kòziriov
(another revolutionist condemned to penal servitude). He described to me
how the bear came so suddenly upon them that they had no time to fly,
and could only back against a tree, supposing their last hour had come.
Bruin, however, must have had a full meal, for he trotted quietly by,
apparently without noticing them! These two fugitives suffered terribly
from hunger and thirst during their wanderings through the woods.
Although we had had no personal experience of these various dangers,
most of us were so well aware of them that no plan of escape during the
journey entered into our calculations; but two of our comrades could not
resist the temptation to weave schemes of the kind. These were Maria
Kalyùshnaya and the student Yordan—the former condemned to twenty years’
penal servitude, and the latter “administratively” exiled to Eastern
Siberia for five years. They were both young, barely twenty, and their
longing for freedom was overpowering. None of their projects of flight
were practicable, however, and they did not attempt to carry them into
execution. Both these young creatures died in prison; Maria
Kalyùshnaya’s story, which I shall have to relate further on, being a
specially sad one.
We had many opportunities, during our long march, of becoming acquainted
with the people whose dwellings are beside the great highway. A certain
air of comfort and well-being was often visible about them, and some of
the larger settlements had the pleasant appearance of a Russian
provincial town. Roomy, well-built houses, occasionally of more than one
story, decorated with carving and provided with tidy hedges and gates,
lined the road sometimes for several versts. Curtains and flower-pots
showed in the windows; the rooms were often carpeted and furnished
comfortably, sometimes even exhibiting the luxury of Austrian bentwood
furniture. The cattle, so far as we could see, were finer and better
kept than is usual among the Russian peasantry.
This well-to-do appearance was only in part to be ascribed to the
productiveness of the husbandry in these regions. Trade and the conduct
of traffic were the principal resources of the inhabitants; for this
road was the only means of communication by land between Europe and the
northern parts of Asia. Caravans in lengthy processions, sometimes in
such numbers that the road was practically blocked, travelled along the
great highway; and the country people found employment in the transport
of both goods and passengers. The regular posting-stations were often
unequal to the demands made upon them, and travellers—merchants
especially—were obliged to hire private vehicles and pay dearly for
them. Besides these legitimate industries, the inhabitants had another
extremely lucrative source of gain. Many villages had won for themselves
an evil name in this connection, and were known as “thieves’ towns,”
because no caravan ever passed through them without paying toll of its
wares; sometimes a chest of tea would be stolen, sometimes a horse, and
so on. It was asserted that in some of these places the inhabitants made
raids on travellers by night, and lived by highway robbery. It is
characteristic of the country that this reputation lowered no man in
public estimation. Anyone was received in “good society” if he were
rich, no matter whether he were well known to have robberies by the
score upon his conscience; he might, indeed, even be asked to fill the
most honourable offices—such as churchwarden, mayor, or head of the
commune. Later, when I was living in a Siberian town as an exile
released from prison under police surveillance, I was frequently told by
trustworthy persons, with every detail, how such and such a citizen,
universally respected and esteemed, had made his fortune by cheating and
robbery, or even by downright murder. There were numbers of people whose
past could not bear inspection; and many of them, even after becoming
possessed of wealth in superfluity, could not quite give up their old
practices. It so fell out, for example, at the end of the eighties, that
General Barabash the military governor of Tchita (the capital of the
Transbaikalian Government), gave a banquet, to which all the
notabilities of the place were invited, and that the highly respectable
merchant and mayor Alexèiev broke off in the middle of the feasting and
went straight from table to waylay the passing night-mail. This worthy
citizen, with one of his friends, galloped after the mail-coach,
murdered the driver, seriously wounded the guard, seized the bag
containing the registered letters, and made off. The guard, however,
whom they had left for dead, was rescued; and as an unusually energetic
magistrate took the matter in hand, the whole story came out, and could
not be hushed up in the customary manner. The case was brought before a
court-martial, and the highway robbers were condemned to death.
These colonies by the great road had had very diverse origins, and were
sharply differentiated from each other in character. There were more or
less pure Russian villages, neighboured by barbaric Buriat settlements;
and there were also villages inhabited exclusively by members of various
sects, exiled from Russia and forcibly established there as a punishment
for their daring to fall away from the Orthodox State religion. Those
that I found specially interesting were the villages of the so-called
Subòtniki (Sabbatarians). The members of this sect are Russian by
nationality, yet their religion is the Mosaic in its strictest form.
It was curious in the extreme to find these typical representatives of
the Slav race considering themselves Jews by virtue of their religion,
and still stranger to hear them boasting of the prerogatives of their
Israelitish faith. In their manner of life and occupations they differ
in no way from ordinary Russian peasants; although in decency and
prosperity their villages are far above those of their Christian
neighbours.
Those of our criminal contingent who had travelled this way more than
once already were well acquainted with the manners and customs of the
Siberian people; many of them were veritable mines of information, and
could relate tales of uncommon interest. In their narrations the
Siberians usually figured in an unfavourable light; for the criminals
hate them from the bottom of their hearts, and ascribe all kinds of evil
qualities to them, being, one and all, firmly persuaded that although
their own standard of conduct is by no means exalted, they are
infinitely higher in the moral scale than the Siberians.
“Heaven knows we are rascals through and through, good-for-nothings, and
all that; but _that_ lot are far and away worse,” was their dictum. They
showered on the Siberians all sorts of contemptuous names, which were
quite incomprehensible to us, but seemed to provoke their recipients
terribly. This mutual antipathy probably arose from the fact of the
parties knowing one another only too well, and from the injuries
inflicted by each on the other during past generations.
We came into such close contact with the world of crime during our
travels that we could soon recognise what Lombroso calls “the criminal
type.” On the whole, the criminals made a more favourable impression on
me than I had expected. Certainly there was much about them unpleasant,
and even repulsive; but this was, I think, less due to their character
as a class than to the special influence of the “Ivans”—a quite peculiar
type, who imparted their tone more or less to all the others. With the
exception of these leaders, and of a small number of the worst
criminals, who had not succeeded in “swopping,” the majority consisted
of very average men of the working class, with the good and bad
qualities of their order. Their leading characteristics were dumb
acquiescence in their lot and a shy dread of anyone who would attempt to
better it.
They were for the most part just as good-natured and ready to help one
another as is commonly the case with workers of the lower classes. Among
the ordinary prisoners, too, were to be found many individuals who could
in no sense be ranked as criminals. Russian village communes have the
power of rejecting from their midst members whom they consider
undesirable; and these outcasts can then be sent to settle in Siberia,
without any judicial sentence, but simply by the desire of a majority in
their commune. Moreover, this verdict of the commune is often delivered
without any real majority being convinced as to the unfitness of the
offending member; the clerk to the commune and two or three of the
richer peasants and usurers (_Kulaki_) can easily manage to get rid of a
poor wretch who does not happen to please them. It would be impossible
to calculate how many crying injustices are thus perpetrated on the
destitute and helpless among the peasantry. The victims of such
barbarous and arbitrary proceedings who were among our party, had many
sad stories to tell, which only corroborated what I myself had seen
going on in country districts. With one or two exceptions, the exiles
belonging to this category were quite average specimens of the Russian
peasant.
There were also included among these ordinary prisoners members of
various religious sects, exiled on that account, and they were very far
removed from the criminal type. These sectarians are admitted, by all
who know Siberia best, to form the steadiest and the most industrious
element of the population. The sectarians in our party of ordinary
prisoners always avoided any participation in the fights, quarrels, and
rowdyism of the others, and tried not to fall out either with the
leaders of the convict band, on the one hand, nor with the authorities
on the other. It was their custom to accept humbly all insults and
injuries inflicted on them as trials sent them by God.
Those prisoners who had minor punishments to undergo, and who had least
on their conscience, were for the most part timid, submissive, even
broken-spirited. Among them were the unfortunate wretches whom I have
described as gambling away their food-money for whole weeks together.
They then literally starved, or sold themselves into the hands of the
“swop” organisation for a beggarly sum. They were treated with utter
contempt by the other criminals, and among them went by the name of
“biscuits,” a rather descriptive title for these pale, dried-up,
emaciated creatures. These “biscuits” were the pariahs of their society,
and all the dirtiest and most disagreeable work—cleaning out of privies,
etc.—fell to their share as a matter of course. They seemed to have lost
all power of will; and gambling—the source of all their sufferings—was
the only thing they cared for. They were always ready to steal anything
that came in their way, except from the “Ivans,” which would have had
dire results for themselves if discovered, probably a murderous
thrashing. I only knew one case of that kind, when a poor young fellow
stole a piece of bread from one of the “Ivans,” and the _artèl_ at once
decided that he should be punished exemplarily, “because he had stolen
from his own people.”
I have spoken before of this _artèl_, an extremely interesting
institution which has existed among criminals from time immemorial. It
is based on stringent and unalterable rules, the chief of which is that
each individual must yield implicit obedience to the will of the whole
_artèl_. All members are supposed to have, _de jure_, equal rights in
the organisation; but, _de facto_, the confirmed criminals, the old
experienced rogues and vagabonds, are the preponderating element, and it
is the “Ivans” that govern the rest ruthlessly in their own proper
interest. It is _their_ will that passes for the will of the whole body.
Without the sanction of the _artèl_ no agreement between individuals has
any force; only with its consent can any “swop” be carried out, and thus
a portion of the price always goes into the common exchequer. Once the
sanction of the _artèl_ is given there is no holding back; a criminal
who refused to fulfil his “swop” when he had agreed to it and received
his pay would have the whole combined _artèl_ against him. But such a
case never occurs; and fear of the _artèl’s_ vengeance is too great for
any treachery by its members. The lawful authorities would have no power
to shield such a traitor, and could not get him out of the clutches of
the organisation; for if he were moved to another prison the _artèl_
there would take on the feud and mete out vengeance to him, the leaders
invariably finding means to communicate with each other. In one respect
the solidarity of the _artèl_ is especially strong: it is represented in
all dealings with the authorities by its _stàrosta_ or head-man, elected
by the prisoners themselves from among their own ranks. This is a post
of honour, and is naturally always obtained by an experienced and crafty
rogue. He makes all arrangements concerning his constituents, receives
their food-money, and sees to its distribution. His authority over the
common herd is limitless; but he is directly dependent on the
leaders—the “Ivans”—who have carried through his election, and would be
powerless without their support, so that he has to keep on good terms
with them. The office of _stàrosta_ has its pecuniary advantages, and it
often happens that candidates for the post pay a considerable sum for
the votes of the powerful “Ivans.”
A less important, but equally profitable post is that of the
storekeeper, who trades with the other prisoners in tea, sugar, tobacco,
and other things of the kind, and—secretly—in spirits and playing-cards.
This privilege is granted by the _artèl_ for a fixed time to one of the
candidates for the office, who pays for it a certain sum into the common
chest. The chief profits accrue from the illicit sale of spirits and
hiring out of playing-cards. At night, as soon as the ordinary prisoners
were shut in, and often even by day, they might be seen squatting
together in groups to indulge in a game of chance. They would gamble
away not only their meagre food-allowance, but clothes, linen, boots,
the property of the State; for which they were of course accountable,
and for the loss of which—if discovered—they were liable to severe
punishment. Half naked, save for some miserable rags, the condition of
the wretched “biscuits” in bad weather was pitiable indeed; and when the
cold days of autumn came on they could be seen shivering from head to
foot, running instead of walking when on the march, to try and keep
warm. It was hard to understand how these men could endure the hunger
and cold they brought on themselves. We attempted to relieve them, but
could do very little; as, firstly, our own means were very limited; and,
secondly, they staked everything we gave them, at the first opportunity,
despite the most solemn promises. There was always an eager crowd around
any players, following the game with as much excitement as the
principals themselves could manifest; and occasionally a lucky winner
would share some of his gains with his starving comrades. It was the
custom, too, for the storekeeper to treat the whole company when his
term of office expired; that was a feast-day for the hungry, and you
might hear them say: “To-day we’ll eat our fill; the storekeeper pays”!
The officers of the escort on principle never interfered with the
affairs of the _artèl_, the prisoners themselves managing to keep order
so as to avoid any occasion for such interference or coercion. It was
certainly remarkable that this crowd of people, many of whom were
hardened robbers and murderers, should have been so easy to rule; for
the numbers of the escort were relatively small. No prisoner attempted
to escape, that being strictly forbidden by their rules during the
journey for fear of reprisals by the authorities against the _artèl_.
There were squabbles and scuffles, but never anything that necessitated
the interference of the soldiery; and though doubtless there was an
inordinate amount of drinking (for spirits were always to be had), no
drunkard was allowed to carry on any brawling under the eye of the
officer. The others saw to that. There was a tacit understanding between
the _artèl_ and the officer; the latter knew that if the prisoners were
allowed a free hand in certain matters he could count on them to keep
order among themselves, and never to cause him any trouble. He therefore
looked the other way when regulations were disregarded, as, for
instance, in the matter of fetters, which were always merely tied
together, not riveted; so that though worn on the march they could be
taken off at night—which was of course against rules. Among all the
different convoy officers (and there were forty stationed on the route
between Tomsk and Kara—men of very varied types), not one made any
exception to this rule. I have never observed any abuse of their power
in regard to the prisoners, nor that they were particularly rude and
rough in dealing with them; still less that they ever attempted to mulct
them of their food-money or other allowances. On the other hand, it
often happens that these officers are prosecuted for shortcomings of
this kind in connection with their subordinates, and even for direct
peculation. It must be remembered that the halting-stations are
established in the wilderness, far removed from the reach of the central
authorities, military and civil. It is easy, therefore, for a commanding
officer to abuse his position. Most of them get but a scanty education
in the lower military schools, and are then sent out into the Siberian
wilds, where many are naturally led to give the rein to their worst
qualities. The majority of them know no pleasure but debauchery, and
when drunk commit all kinds of excesses, gamble away the excise-money,
maltreat their inferiors, and so on.
There were a few officers with a taste for economy, and they were less
inclined to excess, but the soldiers were scarcely better off under
their rule—perhaps worse—than under that of the rakes and drunkards; for
these able financiers established such a thorough control of ways and
means in their department that their unfortunate men were not only
mercilessly fleeced, but made to do all sorts of work in house and field
in order to save paying for labour. However, this class was not a large
one.
To us “politicals” most of the officers behaved with formal correctness,
and tried to avoid any conflicts. But apart from their general attitude,
there were numerous petty details—slight enough in themselves, but of
great importance to us on such a long journey—that were sometimes
subjects of dispute; for instance, the hour of starting in the early
morning, as I have already mentioned; and we had discussions with
various officers about other things, such as keeping the wooden tub in
our room all night, which we declined to do, as it poisoned the air, and
also on account of the ladies who had to share the room with us. If the
officer were ill-tempered or obstinate, trifles like these might be the
occasion of insults and bullying on his side that would lead to revolt
and violence on ours; and then a court-martial with its cruel verdict
loomed before us. Fortunately, things never went so far as that,—thanks
partly to our having in our midst a few older and wiser heads, who
exercised a calming influence over the rest, besides three men who had
had considerable experience of intercourse with the authorities, as they
were going to Siberia for the second time, having previously been
“administratively” exiled—Malyòvany, Spandoni, and Tchuikòv. We owed
much also to the exertions and tactful counsel of our head-man, Làzarev.
It happened sometimes that we came across officers who were ready to
show us many small kindnesses—lending us newspapers and paying attention
to our comfort in any way possible to them. On one or two occasions we
had unexpected bits of good fortune. An officer, recognising a
school-friend in one of our comrades—Snigiriòv, a veterinary surgeon—was
much moved at the meeting, and during the two days of his accompanying
us did all he could to help us. Another officer announced himself as a
sympathiser with Socialism. He had mixed in revolutionary circles, and
made no secret of his views, being in entire agreement with us. He told
us he read a good deal of forbidden literature, and we discussed many
political problems with him. Naturally it was a pleasant surprise to
find a man of kindred opinions among the instruments of despotism.
The polite behaviour of most officers towards us may possibly have been
due to an amusingly mistaken notion, of which by chance we discovered
symptoms. On entering one of the halting-stations we found in the room
to which we were shown a plainly dressed man with handcuffs on his
wrists. He turned out to be a political exile named Stephen Agàpov,[62]
a factory hand, who was now being removed from Eastern to Western
Siberia as a mitigation of his punishment, in accordance with the
coronation manifesto of 1883. His wife, a Siberian peasant, accompanied
him. Agàpov explained to us that when our party was expected the officer
had ordered him to quit that room, because a party of “politicals” was
coming, composed entirely of counts and princes, and that these noble
personages would never put up with having a common workman in the room
with them. Agàpov and his wife thought this no reason why they should be
turned out of the room intended for political prisoners like themselves,
and they refused to obey, which led to a violent scene, and Agàpov was
put in irons. Worse still, the irate officer had another punishment in
store for him. The pair had with them all their belongings—the fruits of
hard work in Eastern Siberia—making a weight of luggage beyond what was
permitted by the regulations. The officer immediately ordered everything
above the prescribed weight to be sold by auction to the people of the
place—a pure piece of malice, as even the ordinary exiles were always
allowed excess luggage, and still more those who were benefiting by the
act of grace.
Footnote 62:
Agàpov was sentenced in the case of fifty Propagandists, in 1887, to
three years and eight months’ penal servitude. In 1880 he was released
from prison and interned as a “colonist” in Eastern Siberia.
This tyrannical performance incensed us highly, and our good head-man
went at once to the officer with an appeal for the release of our
comrade from his fetters, which was granted without much ado. The comic
part of the affair was that we ourselves should figure as princes and
counts! In reality there was not one among us of such rank, but the
legend had probably arisen from the addresses of letters sent by members
of our party to Prince Volhònsky, Count Leo Tolstoi, and other
well-known people of title. The affair had further consequences for the
poor Agàpovs, as the officer reported them for disobedience, violence,
etc., and they were sent to one of those “towns” to the north of Tobolsk
that I have previously described—a far worse locality than that from
which they were being brought as an act of clemency.