FROM KRASNOYARSK TO IRKUTSK—MISUNDERSTANDINGS AND DISPUTES—THE WOMEN IN
IRKUTSK PRISON
The distance from Tomsk to Krasnoyarsk is about five hundred versts, and
took us a full month to accomplish—twenty days on the march and ten days
of rest between the stages. In Krasnoyarsk we were to wait a week, the
ordinary prisoners being taken to the deportation prison and we
ourselves lodged in the town gaol. On arriving there we were struck by
the orderliness of the arrangements. The spacious new building was
freshly whitewashed, and the whole place spotlessly clean; there was
light and air in abundance, and there were no bars to the windows. We
might have imagined that we had been brought to a decent hotel; I have
certainly never seen another prison like it in either Siberia or Russia.
When we entered the corridor, however, the air of comfort was somewhat
lessened by inscriptions on the cell doors—“For murder”; “For robbery”;
“For theft,” etc. The governor, a pleasant-looking man, came up and
ordered briefly and decisively that we should be placed in separate
cells, and each according to his special class—convicts, exiles, and
“administratives”—as that was the rule of the place. This did not suit
us at all, and we explained to him the upset it would mean to our
feeding arrangements; besides which, as during our two months’ journey
we had clubbed all our luggage together, it would be very awkward to
change all that at a moment’s notice. Moreover, we told him, we did not
wish to be treated in any different way from that prescribed by the
regulations; that we were on transport, and therefore not supposed to
conform to the rules of the place, which only applied to prisoners on
remand or under sentence there. It had nothing to do with us, we said,
that we had not been taken to the deportation prison where we belonged;
and—to sum the matter up—we intended to do here as everywhere else,
_i.e._ we should divide into groups convenient to ourselves in the
different rooms, and might be locked up by night, but not by day, as set
forth in our instructions.
The governor was much put about at receiving this answer, and declared
he could on no account permit such an infringement of his regulations;
but we refused to be lodged separately, and remained firmly planted in
the corridor, bag and baggage. The chief of police was now sent for: a
perfect Falstaff, and—as it turned out—a very ignorant fellow. He
likewise pronounced that we must conform to the regulations; to which we
made our former reply, claiming our rights. As we were reasoning with
him, one of the ladies happened to mention the word “_goumànnost_”
(humanity), and—like the postmaster in Gogol’s immortal comedy, who did
not know whether “_mauvais ton_” might not mean something worse than
“rascal”—so this good man became uneasy as to whether the unfamiliar
word might not contain some offence, and demanded an explanation, with
which—repressing our amusement—we furnished him. In the end this
functionary decided that a still higher power must be referred to—the
governor of the district; meanwhile there next successively appeared the
colonel of the gendarmerie and the public prosecutor, to whom we again
explained our position. They could find nothing to say against our
representations, and after the discussion had lasted a long time—we
camping out in the passage all the while, unable to unpack or prepare a
meal (although we had eaten nothing since early morning and were
fearfully hungry)—at last the good people agreed that, pending the
arrival of the governor’s decision, we should make our own arrangements.
Next day as we sat at dinner the chief of police appeared in full parade
uniform, with his helmet on.
“Gentlemen, I am to inform you of the governor’s decision,” he began
ceremoniously, when our head-man interrupted him with the request that
he would uncover his head.
“Gentlemen, you see I am in parade uniform, and the helmet is part of
it; I cannot take it off,” he stammered, doubtful if this were not some
new form of insult.
“We do not care what sort of uniform it is,” answered Làzarev, with
imperturbable calm, “when you come into our room you will have the
kindness to remove your head-covering.”
“Now this is too much. I cannot, I really cannot take off my helmet,” he
declared, growing warm.
“Do as you please; but in that case we will not listen to the decision
of the governor,” said Làzarev.
The poor man looked from one to another, hesitated, and finally bared
his worthy head and imparted to us the formal decision: the governor
granted our desire.
I wonder how many officials have had to learn this elementary lesson in
politeness from us.
* * * * *
In Krasnoyarsk our party was diminished to eleven in number. The
veterinary surgeon Snigiriòv and the student Korniènko were to remain in
the government of Yenisei, and we had to leave Spandoni behind in the
prison, as he was ill.
We were two months on the journey from Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk, a
thousand versts. In that whole distance there is only one town,
Nijni-Udînsk; and even this scarcely deserves the title. Here we met
comrades—a married couple named Novakòvsky—also on their way to Eastern
Siberia. I had known Novakòvsky in Kiëv; he had taken part in the 1876
demonstration in the Kazan Square in Petersburg, and had been banished
to Siberia. After the coronation manifesto in 1883, he was moved from
Balagansk, in the government of Irkutsk, to Minuisinsk, in the
government of Yenisei; but now he and his wife were being sent out to
the East, on the following account. For some reason or other Novakòvsky
had fallen out with the _ispravnik_[63] of Minuisinsk. Another of the
political exiles had occasion to apply to the _ispravnik_ for something;
the latter, mistaking him for Novakòvsky, received him with the grossest
incivility, and when he discovered his error, apologised by explaining
the mistake he had made. The thing was talked about, and came to the
ears of Novakòvsky and of his wife, who had voluntarily followed him
into banishment. For some days the exiles consulted together what should
be done, but before they had decided to take any steps, Novakòvsky’s
wife took the matter into her own hands; she went into the office and
gave the _ispravnik_ a box on the ear, with the words—“That’s for my
husband!” She was had up for trial, and sentenced by the court to
deportation into Eastern Siberia, whither her husband was now
accompanying her by his own desire.
Footnote 63:
Head of the district police.
Later I learned to know and esteem Novakòvsky’s wife. She was a clever,
courageous woman, of lively and resolute disposition. I believe that
both she and her husband died in Siberia.
* * * * *
Our journey now proceeded much as heretofore, only in course of time the
regulations were less and less strictly observed. We left off our
fetters altogether, without any comment being made, and were never
bothered about head-shaving.
I looked forward with impatience to arriving at Irkutsk prison, where I
hoped to meet a friend of early days—Maria Kovalèvskaya. We had become
acquainted in 1875, belonged to the same section of the Buntari, and—as
was then customary among all the revolutionists—said “thee” and “thou”
to one another. Maria Kovalèvskaya[64] was one of the most remarkable
women in the movement; she was the daughter of a man of property named
Vorontsov, and had married Kovalèvsky, a tutor in a military gymnasium.
In the early sixties she joined the revolutionary movement, left her
husband and little daughter, and devoted herself to the work of the
party. She was small of stature and had something of the gipsy in her
looks; was lively and energetic in manner, keen of wit, ready and
logical in speech. She distinguished herself at all theoretical
discussions, always penetrating to the kernel of the question in hand,
and bringing life and point into the debate, without ever becoming
personal or hurting anyone’s feelings. She was esteemed very highly; and
people who were quite opposed to the Socialists fully appreciated her
exceptional gifts. In any other country she would have played a
distinguished part; in Russia she was condemned to fourteen years and
ten months’ penal servitude, because she was found in a house where some
revolutionists made armed resistance to the gendarmerie.[65] By her
courageous bearing during trial and in prison, as also later in Kara,
Maria Kovalèvskaya became one of the best-known characters in
revolutionary circles. In the prison, where she was witness of the
shameless unfairness and bad faith of officials at every turn, her
irrepressible energy found vent in upholding and defending the
prisoners. Whether the matter were really serious, or a comparative
trifle, whether the offence was committed by a functionary of high
position or by the meanest underling, her determination knew no
compromise; she made her protest regardless of consequence to herself,
would not rest till she had gained her end, and would rather have died
than have given in. She always stood firmly for the tactics of the
Buntari, _i.e._ to use the strongest and most radical measures for
enforcing a protest against official oppression. If there were any
discussion on this head her advice was always to annoy the staff
actively, to break windows, furniture, etc. It was only her strong sense
of comradeship that could induce her to bow to the will of the majority
and adopt more passive means, such as hunger-strikes or boycotting
officials. She had fought out a whole series of such conflicts, and one
of them—a dispute at Kara—had led to her being removed, with three
female comrades, to Irkutsk. No sooner, however, were they there than a
contest arose with the head of the police; and the four women in
consequence refused food, fasting so long (ten or eleven days, I
believe,) that the prison doctor became apprehensive of the result, and
the pressure of public opinion being brought to bear on the governor of
the district, he granted the requests of the women “politicals.”
Footnote 64:
See portrait, p. 266.
Footnote 65:
In this trial, of February, 1879, when the defendants were convicted
of resisting arrest with arms in their hands, two men—Antònov and
Brantner—were executed, the other ten condemned to long terms of penal
servitude.
* * * * *
At last, towards the middle of September, we arrived at Irkutsk, the
capital of Siberia, and were taken to the local prison—celebrated like
that of Kiëv for many escapes of political prisoners.[66]
Footnote 66:
In February, 1880, eight “politicals” condemned to penal servitude
escaped from Irkutsk prison by breaking through the walls: Berezniàk
(known also by the name of Tishtchenko), Volòshenko, Ivàntchenko,
Alexander Kalyùshny, Nicholas Posen, Popko, Fomitchòv, and Yatsèvitch.
They were all recaptured and their sentences increased, Berezniàk and
Fomitchòv being chained to the wheelbarrow.
Another escape was that of two women, Sophia Bogomòletz and Elizabeth
Kovàlskaya, and they also were both recaptured after four weeks, but
E. Kovàlskaya again escaped and was again recaptured. There were
executed in this prison: Lyòchky, for unintentionally killing a
warder, and Nyèüstroyev, a teacher in a gymnasium, for striking the
Governor-General Anùtchin when the latter was visiting the prison.
Shtchedrin, sentenced to life-long penal servitude, was condemned to
death for striking the governor’s adjutant, but his sentence was
reduced, and he was chained to the wheelbarrow. Later Shtchedrin was
sent to Schlüsselburg, still chained to the barrow, and there he went
mad and died.
We men were given a room in common, and the ladies were shown to
another. The moment we were shut in I flew to the window, climbed up,
and called the name of Maria Kovalèvskaya, for we had soon found out
that her cell was over ours. She answered at once, and we talked
together far into the night. In our walks we had subsequently many
opportunities of meeting during our eight days’ stay here. The long
years of separation had in no way impaired our intimacy. On the
contrary, from the first moment of meeting, our mutual sympathy found
expression without the need of many words, and we understood each other
as old friends do. The sufferings she had undergone moved me to the
deepest compassion. The hunger-strike of which I have spoken had taken
place only a short time before our advent, and she bore terrible traces
of its effect, looking as if but newly risen from the grave, though her
spirit was unbroken. It was still the same enthusiastic, untameable,
combative nature I had known so well. Even the officials could not
withstand the fascination of her personality, but yielded respect to her
strong sense of right and her inflexibility of purpose, as I soon
observed. We had each, naturally, much to relate; and I marvelled that
she could have retained such elasticity of mind, that the range of her
quick intellect should have in no wise contracted, that despite all she
had gone through she could laugh and jest as ever. Everything that was
going on in the distant lands of freedom interested her keenly; she
never wearied of questioning me about the state of public life in
Western Europe and in Russia, and she soon managed to find out in what
each of us could best instruct her. I, for instance, spent two or three
evenings in describing to her the working-men’s organisations in Western
Europe, and giving her my own impressions of life abroad. It was
characteristic of her that she was able to appreciate the peculiar
social conditions of other countries, although there was so much that
was unsympathetic to her as a Russian. She was especially indignant
about my treatment in German prisons.
In her own views she still adhered to the policy of the Buntari, and
this could hardly have been otherwise. Her past life entirely belonged
to the period when their views and those of the Naròdniki governed the
whole revolutionary movement, and there could be no question of
criticism. The simple programme of “stirring up the people to uprisings
and rebellions against the existing régime, in accordance with varying
local circumstances,” was in consonance with her fiery temperament,
impatient of all restraint.
Her three friends were also interesting characters, and I soon had
opportunities of talking to them and hearing the story of their
connection with the movement. First came the young Sophia
Bogomòletz;[67] her maiden name had been Prìsyetskaya, and she was the
daughter of a rich landed proprietor in the government of Poltava. She
had attended a higher grade school for girls, and later the medical
course in Petersburg; had married a physician, and then—like Maria
Kovalèvskaya—had left her husband and child to devote herself entirely
to revolutionary work. In 1880 she was arrested as a member of the South
Russian Workmen’s Union and sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude. She
attempted to escape,[68] but was recaptured, and was then given five
years more, which was again increased by a year in consequence of a
dispute with an official. Besides this she was placed in the category of
“on probation” prisoners, which means, as I shall explain later,[69]
that the term of actual confinement in prison is lengthened. She, too,
was by nature an advocate of revolt, and throughout her imprisonment
kept up a constant feud with the officials. She went even farther than
her friend Kovalèvskaya, for while the latter only fought against
injustice and tyranny, Sophia Bogomòletz looked on all prison officials
as her natural enemies, and held even the smallest compromises, such as
most prisoners are obliged more or less to give in to, as unprincipled
and inadmissible; for example, she looked upon the medical examination
of prisoners as a personal insult. She was influenced by no
considerations of health, and was always prepared to risk her own life,
if she judged there was any reason for doing so. The staff simply
trembled before her, for they knew that their only means of extorting
submission—the fear of punishment—was here of no avail.
Footnote 67:
See portrait, p. 266.
Footnote 68:
See note, p. 189.
Footnote 69:
See p. 236.
The story of the third member of this little band was as follows. In the
spring of 1879 the sum of 1,500,000 roubles was stolen from the offices
of the Finance Department in Kherson, the depredators having broken in
through the wall of the adjoining house. On the same day the police
arrested a woman driving through the town in a country cart with some
suspicious-looking sacks. The woman was identified as Elena Ròssikova,
wife of a landed proprietor in the neighbourhood, and the sacks
contained a million roubles. With her another lady was also arrested;
and in consequence of the latter’s confession the rest of the money was
found, with the exception of some 10,000 roubles. It turned out that
this wild undertaking had been organised by Elena Ròssikova, who had
planned to rob the imperial purse, with the intention of applying the
money to revolutionary purposes. She and some other persons implicated
were tried before a court-martial, and she, as the ringleader, was
sentenced to penal servitude for life. She, too, waged unceasing war
against the whole staff of the prison, and was daunted by nothing when a
“protest” was in question.
The fourth of these women “politicals” was Maria Kutitònskaya. She had
been a pupil in a girls’ school in Odessa, and while still very young
had joined the revolutionists. In 1879 she was arrested as a comrade of
Lisogùb[70] and Tchubàrov, was condemned to four years’ penal servitude,
and sent to Kara. At the expiration of her sentence she was interned in
the town of Aksha in Transbaikalia; but she was soon back in prison. The
authorities had ill-treated the male prisoners in Kara (as to which I
shall speak later); and Kutitònskaya resolved to take vengeance on the
chief offender in the matter, the governor of the province, Ilyashèvitch
by name. She fired a pistol at him, but missed. The court-martial
condemned her to death, but this was altered to lifelong penal
servitude.
Footnote 70:
This revolutionist was very rich; but lived in extreme poverty, that
he might devote all his fortune to the cause. He was condemned to
death in 1879 solely for that reason, as he had carefully
abstained—contrary to his own most ardent inclinations—from giving any
active help in the movement for fear of compromising himself and thus
forfeiting the wealth which was practically supporting the party. See
Stepniak’s _Underground Russia_.—_Trans._
Beautiful and distinguished-looking, with fair hair, and gentle, winning
manners, Maria Kutitònskaya won hearts by the score. While she was under
trial for the attempted assassination of the Siberian potentate she was
subjected to the most cruel and inhuman treatment; thrown into a damp,
gloomy dungeon, and allowed only bread and water. Help came to her from
the ordinary convicts, who had seen her in the prison, and worshipped
her; they brought her food at great risk to themselves, and did her
various other services. These criminals had changed her name a little to
suit themselves, and always called her “Cupidonskaya”; having thus
unconsciously hit on a charming pet-name for the beautiful woman. But
for their assistance she might not have survived her treatment at that
time; as it was, her long imprisonment undermined her health, and she
became a victim of lung trouble, to which she succumbed in 1887.