THE ORGANISATION OF OUR COMMON LIFE—THE “SIRIUSES”—WAGERS
On my arrival at the Kara prison I found in existence there an extremely
elaborate organisation regulating the prisoners’ daily life, a system
that the course of time had evolved and tested. The fundamental
principle of the arrangement was equality of rights and duties; the
inmates of the prison forming for all domestic purposes a commune or
_artèl_, although the needs and wishes of individuals were taken into
account as far as possible. It was free to anyone to enter this _artèl_
or to remain outside, and whichever they did, material conditions—in the
way of food, etc.—were the same for all.[83] The Government provided a
certain quantity of food per day for each prisoner—about 3¼ lbs. of
bread, nearly 6 oz. of meat, a few ounces of meal, and some salt.
Friends of prisoners were permitted to furnish them with the means of
obtaining extra provisions, and some of us, though, indeed, only a few,
received such contributions regularly, this money as well as the
governmental allowances becoming the common property of the _artèl_. The
money was distributed as follows: part was set aside to supplement the
food-rations, especially for buying more meat (this was called in our
lingo “provisioning the stock-pot”); another portion was reserved for
what was called common expenses—assistance to those who were leaving the
prison and going to their appointed place of exile, subscriptions to
such newspapers as we were allowed, postage, etc.; and a third part was
divided equally among all for pocket-money. This last was spent
according to the fancy of each individual, usually on tea, tobacco,
fish, butter, and such things as were considered “secondary
necessaries,” though sometimes these were sacrificed and the money saved
up for months, or even for a year or more, in order to buy a book or
some special luxury. Our funds were very scanty; during my whole time in
Kara there was never more than three or four kopecks[84] per man per day
for the “stock-pot,” and the pocket-money for each never amounted to
more than a rouble[85] a month, often much less. In consequence of the
primitive means of transport everything imported into Siberia cost three
times as much as in Europe—a pound of sugar, for instance, cost
thirty-five to forty kopecks—and the prisoners had to deny themselves
many of the smallest comforts of material existence. Most of us used
only brick-tea, _i.e._ tea of the commonest kind, and drank it without
sugar; others thought even that a luxury, and drank hot water; while
those who used sugar had to make one lump do for the whole day—that is,
for three meals.
Footnote 83:
Those who did not join the _artèl_ had, of course, no votes in any
discussions or decisions of that body.
Footnote 84:
A kopeck is about equal to one farthing.—_Trans._
Footnote 85:
A rouble is about equal to 2_s._ 1_d._—_Trans._
Actual money was never given us, everything was on paper only. All
remittances were received by the commandant, who kept us informed of the
amount he had in hand. Then we would order various articles, which would
be given to our _stàrosta_ to keep in the common chest, and whenever he
gave anything out he made an entry in his account-book. At the end of
each month the accounts were made up, each man being told whether he had
overdrawn his pocket-money and so must start the next month with a
_minus_ of so many kopecks, or whether he had saved and was credited
with a _plus_. The former would try to make good their deficit during
the following month; but there were some who—with the best will in the
world—could never make their expenditure and income balance, and were
always in default, thus acquiring the nickname of “minuses,” while the
thrifty were called “pluses.” No shame was attached to the being a
“minus,” though it was scarcely a title of honour, and no one cared for
the position. The “minuses” always aspired to get straight at any rate
at Christmas or Easter, when pocket-money was generally increased by an
influx of gifts, but it sometimes occurred that someone found it
impossible to get his head above water, and it was then the custom that
at one of our festivals—at Christmas, or on the commemoration of some
revolutionary red-letter day—the _stàrosta_ or someone should suggest
the “whitewashing” of the bankrupt by wiping off his debt to the
_artèl_. This proposal was always accepted by the majority, only the
“minus” himself protesting, or refusing to consent.
Every morning the _stàrosta_ presented himself with his order-book at
the doors of the different rooms, and asked what was wanted. One would
order a “sou’s” worth[86] of sugar, another a “brick” of tea, and so on.
These orders were entered, to be later transferred to the account-book,
and soon afterwards the _stàrosta_ would bring the articles and give
them to us through the peephole. The _stàrosta_ also received from the
steward for distribution all things that were due to us in the way of
clothing, linen, and so forth, and he was our representative in all our
dealings with the commandant. The election of the _stàrosta_ was by
ballot, and for a term of six months. The person elected was, of course,
free to decline the post, and this occasionally happened, as, though an
honourable office, it was one which entailed trouble and responsibility,
and sometimes even a degree of unpleasantness.
Footnote 86:
This simply meant a kopeck’s worth; the expression had originated in
the wish to disguise from the gendarme who was always on guard in the
corridor the extremely small amount of such an order, but naturally in
the course of time the gendarmes had come to understand our _argot_
thoroughly, so that there was no longer any real deception.
Not only the _stàrosta_, but any member of the _artèl_ might make
proposals for changes in our arrangements, such proposals being written
down, considered by the inmates of the different rooms, and then voted
for or against in writing. It was the _stàrosta’s_ business to collect
the votes and to announce the results through the peepholes. Proposals
of this kind were often most excitedly discussed, parties being formed
to support or oppose them; and occasionally a subject would develop into
a “cabinet crisis,” though the moving or rejecting of votes of
confidence in the “government” (for we had a whole ministry, other
officers being necessary besides the _stàrosta_) was not customary.
All work within the prison precincts we shared among us; but such
services as made it necessary to go outside the yard (carrying wood and
water, sanitary cleansing, etc.) were performed by ordinary criminals,
whom we tipped, although not in any way obliged to do so. Our own duties
were of two kinds: work for the community—such as cooking, cleaning the
rooms, attending to the steam baths; and private work—washing clothes,
mending, etc. Everyone except the weak or ill had to take his share in
the former. The cooking was undertaken by groups of five men, each group
serving for a week at a time. There were eight or nine such groups in
all, the choice of belonging to any particular group being left free
without regard to rooms. Each group had its head cook, his assistant, a
cook for the invalids, and two helpers. The work was not light, and was
in no way attractive; it began between six and seven in the morning, and
was not usually over before five in the evening, by which hour one would
be thoroughly tired out; and when the end of the week came it was
delightful to think of idling for a time. On the other hand, the labour
was a welcome relief to the monotony of our lives, and the kitchen was a
meeting-place for the inhabitants of different rooms, forming a sort of
clubhouse for those engaged in the cooking. Even when the work was
hardest we had merry times there, discussing news, gossiping, and
joking, the work itself often serving as a basis for fun and all sorts
of nonsense. The head cook would give a raw hand some ridiculous job;
one, for instance, would be set to pick potatoes out of the pot with a
fork; another ordered to stand by a hole in the wall with a big stick
and to knock on the head any blackbeetles that might make their
appearance. I myself was given the task of chopping up millet-seed with
a large knife, and other such absurdities would be invented.
Our cooks had to manage with very scanty materials. Vegetables
frequently ran short, thus making it most difficult to vary the bill of
fare. At the time of my arrival there were no potatoes to be had, and at
midday, from motives of economy, only broth was provided, from which the
meat had been taken to be served up separately for supper. When I sat
down to dinner on my first day in Kara I was prepared for a frugal meal,
having heard beforehand how poor the dietary was in this prison; but
when I had spooned up the meagre soup without any accompaniment but
bread and realised that this was my whole dinner, I felt somewhat
downcast. I rose from table as hungry as I had sat down; and it was a
long while before I could accustom myself to this sort of nourishment.
Our culinary skill was chiefly displayed in the way of serving up the
soup-meat at a subsequent meal. It was generally minced and heated up
with some vegetables. The dish most favoured by the majority was meat
cut into small pieces and mixed with groats; this was called
“Everyone-likes-it,” and it was the pride of the cooks to decorate our
_menu_ with this original name at least twice a week. The greedy ones
among us used to spy around the kitchen, and never failed to spread the
joyful tidings: “They’re making ‘Everyone-likes-it’ to-day!” The cooks
generally put their best foot forward on Saturday, when their week of
office expired. For years it had been the custom to have an extra dish
on that day, a _piròg_ or sort of pie made of flour, rice, and mince.
The cooks used to save up scraps of meat for it all through the week,
and sometimes the _piròg_ would attain such dimensions that we could not
dispose of it at one sitting, and a remainder would be left over for
Sunday’s breakfast. On the whole our food was insufficient, not very
nutritious, and still less appetising. Bread only had we at discretion,
as the rations given out by the steward were so large that some was
always left over. Only those who had no stomach for a quantity of dry
bread need go hungry. But we hardly ever had our fill except on great
feast days, when not only was our pocket-money augmented, but an extra
allowance of food was given. The cooks would then indulge us with
various dainties and luxuries; roast meat would come to table, or
cutlets, and white bread. Praise must not be denied to our cooks; there
were among them _virtuosi_, whose handiwork was quite artistic—worthy,
as we expressed it, “of better houses.”
Invalid diet was not provided specially; the cooks had to arrange for
that as best they could, and make it as varied as was compatible with
economy. During my time there was no severe illness, and special diet
was only needed for those who were delicate or who suffered from some
chronic ailment. The question who was to be given invalid fare was
decided by Prybylyev[87]—one of our number who acted as our medical
adviser, and who showed much skill in that capacity, though at home he
had only been a veterinary surgeon. His fame in the art of healing
became widespread, and afterwards when he was living out of prison he
was consulted by many people, though there were three qualified
physicians in the neighbourhood.
Footnote 87:
See portrait, p. 209.
The helpers in the kitchen generally either knew nothing whatever of the
culinary art or else preferred rough work. I fulfilled both conditions,
and never made anything of actual cooking; my duties consisted in
carrying water, chopping wood, taking water and charcoal for the samovar
to the different rooms, apportioning the food in the wooden bowls out of
which we ate, washing up, attending to the stoves, and cleaning the
kitchen. Everybody working in the kitchen got rather larger portions of
food than the others: that was an ancient custom.
Besides the head-man, who had charge of our larder, a special
“bread-dispenser” was appointed, whose office it was to cut up the
loaves and divide them among the different rooms; he had also to collect
all scraps and crumbs that were left, and send them on to our comrades
in the penal settlement,[88] where they were used to feed a horse and a
couple of cows which belonged to the _artèl_.
Footnote 88:
This penal settlement was at a short distance from the prison, in the
village of Kara, and here—as will be explained more fully later—the
convicts, both ordinary and political, were allowed to reside under
strict rules and surveillance after their term of actual imprisonment
was over.—_Trans._
The “poultry-keeper” was another of our officials. We kept in the yard a
number of fowls which we cherished most carefully, and they were a great
amusement to us, especially when a brood of chickens appeared or when
the young cockerels showed fight.
Two other comrades were “bath-keepers”; had to see to the cleaning of
the steam-bath, etc., and—like all our “officials”—were excused from
kitchen work.
Finally, there was the very important post of librarian, which ranked
next to that of _stàrosta_, and, like it, was decided by ballot, while
the other dignitaries generally chose their own offices. In the course
of years our library had attained quite imposing dimensions; it was
composed partly of books brought by the inmates, partly of those sent to
us as gifts. Nearly all branches of knowledge were represented in it,
but particularly history, mathematics, and natural science; there were
also books in almost every European language, including the classics.
Two enormous cupboards in the corridor contained this treasure, but the
greater part of it was usually in the hands of eager readers. The
custodian had to look after the binding and mending of the books, in
which he found many willing helpers. The tools and materials used were
of the most primitive description; we had no pasteboard, for instance,
and had to contrive some by pasting paper together. My travelling
companion, Tchuikov, proved a first-rate librarian, not only invariably
remembering what books each person had borrowed, but being always able
to tell the whereabouts of any particular article or treatise in our
files of newspapers. He was to the last always re-elected librarian.
Housework in the rooms was likewise done by strict rule; according to
our turns we had to be on duty twice a day, seeing to the stoves,
carrying the unsavoury wooden tubs in and out at night and in the
morning, and so on. Our rooms were kept scrupulously clean and neat, and
every fortnight there was a tremendous thorough cleaning; the boards
were scrubbed with hot water, beds aired, tables and benches washed in
the yard. We were very particular about proper ventilation, and observed
all hygienic precautions most carefully; each man used the steam-bath
once a week, and each washed his own clothes—not one of our easiest
jobs.
Remembering that most of us were students fresh from the universities,
or at any rate had hitherto had little practical acquaintance with
domestic labour, and taking into account external circumstances
generally and the scanty supply of materials, I think we might fairly
pride ourselves on the practical and efficient organisation of our
household affairs. Of course our system was liable to modification in
details if necessary, but the principles on which it was based were
fixed and unchangeable.
That our life must have had much in it irksome in the extreme and hard
to bear is only too evident; living in such constant and close intimacy
for years with the same set of people must necessarily lead to all kinds
of petty rubs and differences; all the more because the forced
inactivity was such a strain to the nerves of many. These were evils not
in our power entirely to avert.
In the middle of each room hung a lamp with a dark shade—lamps that we
had ourselves provided. Our table was narrow and long, so that a number
of persons necessarily sat where the light was very poor, insufficient
for work of any kind; and this, of course, was a misfortune for
everyone, as those condemned to idleness disturbed the more
advantageously placed who wanted to study. Even had there not been this
drawback, serious concentration of mind would have been difficult in a
small room wherein were congregated sixteen men of very different
temperaments and inclinations. The needful quiet could rarely be
obtained, for it would have been impossible to enforce silence during
the long winter evenings; on the contrary, when one sat down to work at
night tongues were loosened, and there began a constant hubbub of
chatter and laughter. Anyone who was really bent on earnest study had to
devise a special plan: he became what we called a “Sirius.” This meant
that as soon as it became dusk he went to bed till midnight, and then,
while the rest were asleep, got up and worked till dawn, when Sirius
rises above the horizon; after which he lay down for another two hours’
rest. It needed an overwhelming desire for learning and considerable
powers of endurance to become a “Sirius”; it was difficult to rest when
the comrades were chattering and making a noise all around one, and when
one had at last managed to get off to sleep, it seemed immediately time
to wake up again. The dividing of the night’s rest is not an easy thing
to stand; in spite of my efforts I could never accustom myself to it;
yet there were some among us—though not many—who were numbered among the
“Siriuses” all the time I was at Kara. Yatzèvitch, and two others of
whom I shall have more to say, Kalyushny and Adrian Mihailov, kept to
this mode of life during that whole period.
* * * * *
I must mention one custom that had taken root in the prison, into which
I was very soon initiated. We were in the middle of a lively
conversation one morning, just after my arrival, when M., one of the
comrades, turned to me with the question—
“What do you say, Deutsch; will the Tsar soon be made an end of?”
“Oh no,” I replied, “I don’t think he’ll be killed. The man will
probably end his days peacefully in his bed.”
My answer met with violent opposition, everyone assuring me that
Alexander III. must meet his father’s fate. At that time nearly all
revolutionists had still a firm belief in the indestructible power of
the _Naròdnaia Vòlya_, and saw in terrorism the only practicable means
of fighting Russian absolutism. To me, on the contrary, things showed
themselves in quite a different light. I had taken part in the
revolutionary organisation when the terrorist idea was in its infancy,
had witnessed its development until finally it reigned alone and
absorbed all the fighting energy of the party, had known personally
Terrorists both great and small, and I had now come to the conclusion
that the _Naròdnaia Vòlya_ had outlived its time. The tide of feeling
that had fostered the growth of this party had reached its height in
1881; while after, and in consequence of, the assassination of Alexander
II. it had ebbed rapidly away. As I have explained before, all the
leading Terrorists were then removed from the sphere of action, and the
younger ones who tried to replace them had no chance of proving and
tempering their own powers. Both in Russia and abroad I had seen how the
earlier enthusiasm had given way to a fatal scepticism; men had lost
faith, even though many would not have allowed that it was so. It was
clear to me that a reaction had set in, to last for many years.
When I now gave expression to these views, M. asked suddenly—
“Will you back that opinion?”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Well, we simply mean by that, will you take a bet on it? I declare that
the Tsar will be killed; you maintain the contrary. I offer you a wager
that the Tsar will be killed by the revolutionists within a certain
time.”
“Very well, I accept.”
“Shall we say five years—till December 15th, 1890?”
“All right; what is the stake?”
This was not so easy to settle. Bets of this sort, I then learned, were
quite the fashion, and were made on every kind of occasion—sometimes as
the result of a serious argument, sometimes about a mere trifle; but
there was rarely a controversy that did not terminate with the question,
“Will you back that opinion?” If the other party tried to make excuses,
there would be a chorus from the bystanders of “He shirks it!” and the
reputation of a “shirker” was not a flattering one. The stake was
usually some small matter, perhaps a little tea or tobacco, varying
according to the importance of the subject in dispute. A “sou’s worth”
of sugar was a common offer; but if the loser undertook to brew tea for
the whole room that was considered a high stake, and the result was
awaited with interest. Although these bets were more or less of a joke,
they had also a more serious side. There are people who will dispute
about every imaginable thing, and make the wildest assertions simply for
the sake of arguing; and it must be confessed that after such heedless
talkers had lost a few wagers they were more inclined to hold their
tongues occasionally, though neither the chance of losses nor of earning
the nickname of “shirker” could quite restrain some of our number from
arguing in the air.
My wager with M. was duly recorded, and it was agreed that the loser
should provide cakes for all the inhabitants of the “nobles’ room.” This
was a very high stake, costing several roubles, and the loser risked
being without pocket-money for “secondary necessaries” during several
months; but the question being one that might not be decided for a long
while, the stake had to be considerable to sustain interest. Time proved
me right. At the end of 1890 M. had lost his bet, and wished to pay his
debt of honour; but I refused to allow him to do so, on the ground that
circumstances had changed, and the former inmates of the “nobles’ room”
would no longer be able to partake of the feast, many having by that
time left the prison. M. would not hear of it at first, but ended by
giving in.
[Illustration:
PRISONERS GOLD-WASHING AT KARA
To face page 232
]