HUMOURS AND PASTIMES OF PRISON LIFE—TWO NEW COMMANDANTS—THE
“HOSPITAL”—THE PARTICIPATORS IN ARMED RESISTANCE
Our life was one of dismal uniformity. Day after day, month after month,
went past and left no trace in remembrance. One day was exactly like
another, and all alike seemed endless. Whole years elapsed, and from
each three hundred and sixty-five days there could not be singled out
one on which any event had occurred worthy of recollection. In vain one
racks one’s brain trying to arouse a memory of that monotonous past.
When we arose in the morning we knew exactly what the day would bring;
indeed, one knew beforehand what the next day and the next week and
month would contain. One knew the manners, customs, inclinations of
every comrade in misfortune, could tell what each would be likely to say
or do on any given occasion, and sometimes one would long to run away
and hide, and never see their faces again. But there is no running away;
every minute of the year you are obliged to endure the company of those
others, and to burden them with your own; there is not a moment in which
you can be alone, not a corner in the common room to which you can
withdraw for real privacy.
To all this is added the rigour of the prison routine: the roll-call
morning and evening, the periodical inspections, the shaving of heads
that takes place with painful regularity, the constant presence of the
gendarmes. The strain at times becomes insupportable, and the nerves are
so shattered that the creaking of the great lock in the frequent opening
and shutting of the door affects one almost to madness. Many of us
became irritable to an extent incomprehensible to a normally sound
person, and with some of us (though not with many) this would at times
lead to loss of temper and quarrelling over the veriest nothings. It
thus once happened that two friends, both intelligent and well-educated
men of mature years, fell out with one another literally about an
egg-shell, which occasioned a dispute that led to a break between them.
This can only be conceivable if one realises that even people who love
each other tenderly might find it difficult to endure such close and
uninterrupted intercourse. What, then, must have been our situation,
locked up together, forced to inflict unwillingly on each other a
companionship which there was no alternative but to accept?
We had, however, our small joys and alleviations. The most welcome event
was the arrival of the post, which in winter came every ten days, in
summer every week. I can hardly depict the intense eagerness with which
many of us awaited the post days, counting the hours till the mail might
be expected to reach the prison. Some would stand for hours by the
stockade, watching to see the commandant start on his drive to the
post-office, which was some versts distant; then they would impatiently
await his return, not omitting to let their comrades know the result of
their observations. The post brought us letters, newspapers, books,
money, and occasionally a parcel—a present, a token of affection. All
this made indeed a break in the dull routine of daily existence, and not
one could remain an uninterested spectator. On the arrival of money
depended our common exchequer, and the amount of our private
pocket-money; newspapers and reviews brought the news for which we
thirsted passionately, especially the tidings of political events. They
were eagerly seized on, and their reading at once furnished subjects of
talk and discussion, although those years were times of thorough
reaction, not only in Russia, but in Western Europe, so that what we
read was nearly always disheartening, causing us to lay the paper down
depressed in spirits.
Moreover, only the most conservative, uninteresting papers were
permitted us, with the sole exception of the well-known review _Vèstnik
Evropuy_ (_The European Messenger_), which for some unknown reason was
allowed to pass. Some of our newspaper readers studied the whole
publication from beginning to end, and remembered every little detail.
Many of us, however, were chiefly interested in the arrival of home
letters, the source of so much joy and of so much sorrow. Constant
anxiety about our dear ones was caused by the long interval between the
despatch and the receipt of correspondence, which was often six weeks or
two months on the way, and when the roads were impassable, as is often
the case in Siberia for months together, the posts were even longer
delayed.
All letters received by us were first read by the commandant, and
subjected to a strict censure; they were also tested with a solution of
chlorate of iron, to see whether any entries had been made in them with
invisible chemical ink. But what was most cruel was that we were not
permitted to answer on our own account; we might only send a post card
in the name of the commandant, acknowledging the receipt of a letter or
other communication, and giving the briefest information as to health,
somewhat in this fashion: “Your son (brother, nephew) is well. The money
(or whatever it was) sent to him by you has been received, and he begs
you to send him the following—--” This is signed by the commandant, but
as the card is written by the prisoner himself, his correspondents may
be assured from his handwriting that he is alive and is in possession of
their missives, nothing further. Under such conditions correspondence is
often a torture to both parties, yet those who could have even this much
intercourse with home were envied by the lonely ones who never expected
letters at all. There was more than one such among us, and how often
when the letters were distributed would one or other of them say
sorrowfully, “If only someone would send me a line!” It is terrible to
think of being thousands of miles from home in the solitudes of Siberia,
and not to know of a single soul who may sometimes remember one’s
existence; yet, as I say, some of our comrades at Kara were in this
forlorn situation. How great was the rejoicing if one of these outcasts
unexpectedly received a letter from some relation, or some friend of
former days! The lucky one would order tea, and perhaps even cakes for
the whole room to celebrate the occasion; the letter itself would become
a much-talked-of treasure, and the most interesting portions would be
read aloud to intimate friends.
Treating one’s room-mates was also customary if one had had any
specially good news from home. The contents of such a letter would be
immediately imparted to all the other rooms, and sometimes extracts
containing tidings of universal interest would be circulated. Certainly
the commandants, and the “tom-cat” particularly, took every means for
suppressing such tidings, blotting out in our letters everything outside
the narrow circle of personal matters; but we had always ways and means
of obtaining intelligence of political and other events that it
concerned us to know about. The inventiveness shown by some of our party
in devising this was sometimes astonishing; moreover, we occasionally
managed to get delivered to us through the commandant literature
strictly prohibited in Russia. He, of course, was enjoined to examine
most carefully every book and parcel that arrived; but we contrived to
supplement the officially prescribed channels of correspondence, either
by inducing some corruptible member of the prison staff to assist us, or
by some other device. Intercourse with the women’s prison, which was
strictly forbidden, was also effected by means of this “secret post,”
and it likewise enabled us to communicate with the exiles in different
parts of Siberia.
Our official postal transactions were always effected through our
_stàrosta_, the commandant telling him what money had been received and
for whom, and he informing the prisoners. The librarian had charge of
all printed matter sent to us, and the order in which each new book or
newspaper should be passed round was arranged most exactly beforehand.
If anyone had a present—linen, boots, or anything of that kind—it was
open to him to keep it for himself or to hand it over to the _stàrosta_.
In the latter case everyone was made aware that such and such things
were to be had; whoever wanted them might announce the fact, and the
award was decided by lot. If the gift consisted of eatables, it was at
once given to the _stàrosta_, who divided it among the rooms. In each
room there was a “general divider”—one whose office it was to divide
with scrupulous exactitude among all the inmates every portion of food
and every tit-bit that fell to their share—a task which frequently
called for the exhibition of much talent and artistic judgment. This
post of “divider” was usually held by somebody of a mathematical turn,
and he officiated as carver at meals, serving out each person’s due
portion with careful impartiality.
This striving after equality in every particular developed into a
passion with some of our number, till it became actually painful to them
to receive any little gift that could not be shared, and they would feel
obliged to apologise for it to all their comrades; very rarely did
anyone who received a present wish selfishly to keep it entirely to
himself. A few were so scrupulous that they did not consider it right,
in asking for new books from home, to consult merely their own
individual taste, but made the others draw up a list of books that they
wished for; and that perfect equality might govern the transaction, the
sum of money set aside for the purchase was divided among the whole
number of prisoners, so that each one could choose books to the value of
the amount allotted to him. In this way everybody would be catered
for—the lover of _belles lettres_ as well as the student of abstruse
scientific or philosophical subjects.
Ranking next to the mails as a source of enjoyment must be reckoned the
bath-house. Especially after a week of hard and dirty kitchen work, the
vapour-bath and clean linen were a real luxury, and when one came from
the bath-room, extended one’s tired limbs on the bed-shelf, and let
one’s thoughts wander idly as one sipped hot tea, a feeling of such
physical well-being would pervade one as to cause all disagreeables to
be forgotten for the moment. Although the freshly donned under-linen was
anything but fine, and not very artistically washed and got up, being
apt to scratch a sensitive skin; although the grey prison-clothes were
neither convenient nor beautiful—still one revelled in the sensation of
comfort and relaxation, and if it happened also to be mail-day, delight
was complete.
“Well, I hope you’re enjoying yourself, you epicurean!” someone would
cry, knowing full well himself the pleasure of such an hour.
Chess was a favourite pastime, and we had some champion players among
us, especially Yatzèvitch and Zoubrtchitsky, who, besides having had
much practice, had studied the game scientifically. Sometimes we had
chess tournaments, with all the rigour of the game, and prizes were
given—of course, consisting of tea or some other of our small luxuries.
On such occasions the whole prison took the liveliest interest in the
combat; the final “mate” being announced in all the rooms, and the play
exhaustively criticised.
Music was also cultivated. Our choir had an extensive repertory, in
which the melancholy moods of Little Russia were contrasted with the
dramatic Great Russian folk-songs. It included operatic choruses, and,
of course, the revolutionary songs so dear to us all—the Marseillaise
and many others. After Commandant Nikolin had departed, and we were less
harried and thwarted, one of our geniuses constructed a violin, upon
which various gifted friends practised with great assiduity: not—it must
be confessed—exactly to the edification of the rest of us who had
perforce to listen. Posen and one or two others tortured the ears of
their comrades further by truly terrible musical performances on
ordinary hair-combs.
Another way of passing time was to invent riddles and act charades,
which was especially fashionable in our “Sanhedrin.” And when some
new-comers brought with them a few packs of cards, the game of
whist—then just coming into vogue in Russia—so carried away some of our
party that they were at it literally day and night. On the whole,
however, card-playing did not find much favour among us.
Physical exercise would have been most welcome to many of us, but as
long as the “tom-cat” ruled the roast it was possible only in a very
restricted measure; all he would consent to was that in winter we should
make a sledge-track in a part of the yard where the ground sloped
slightly, and we there disported ourselves on little sledges made by
ourselves.
[Illustration: YARD OF KARA PRISON FOR “POLITICALS”]
[Illustration:
YARD OF KARA PRISON FOR “POLITICALS”
To face page 254
]
One of Nikolin’s successors saw no objection to our laying out a garden,
and during the next spring we were extremely busy over this. Some of our
number, great lovers of nature, exhibited quite passionate energy in
this pursuit; they worked at their beds with most industrious care,
watered, manured, and weeded untiringly, and tended each plant as though
it were a beloved child. All sorts of different plants and flowers were
cultivated. I myself had a special affection for sunflowers, which
reminded me of my South Russian home; wherever possible I sowed their
seeds, and in summer my fosterlings shot up magnificently, their thick
stems standing erect along our “boulevard,” as we called the path by the
stockade, whence, by looking through the chinks, we could see the road
and the commandant’s house. When the tall plants hung down their heads,
it seemed as though they looked down on us poor captives and wondered at
the cruelty of man to man. “So many young men wasting their best years,
half their lives, here in prison, only because they strove for the
welfare of their country as they understood it!” And when the sunflowers
straightened themselves and held aloft their golden crowns, they might
be saying, “Do not lose courage, poor convicts! The time will come when
you too with proudly lifted heads shall return to your beloved home.”
* * * * *
Nikolin’s successor, Captain Yakovlov, exerted himself to mitigate the
severity of our prison régime, which the “tom-cat” had administered so
tyrannically. He seemed to be a compassionate and humane man, who—while
keeping to the prescribed regulations—was not concerned to aggravate our
hard lot by superfluous restrictions and unnecessary harshness. Perhaps
his conduct was partly influenced by the knowledge that he was only
filling the position temporarily, as a stop-gap for Colonel Masyukov of
the gendarmerie, who was shortly to be sent from Petersburg; probably
also he wanted to have as little squabbling with us as possible. He
belonged to a class of men to be found in great numbers both in Russia
and in Siberia, who have one overwhelming weakness—love of drink. His
devotion to the bottle was most assiduous, and he often had evidently
had more than was good for him; but for all that, we breathed more
freely under his rule, and regarded with anxiety the advent of the new
commandant.
After a six months’ interval Colonel Masyukov entered upon his office,
in the winter of 1877, and made his first round of the prison,
accompanied by Yakovlov. He was a man of short stature, with grey hair
and moustache, very quick in his movements, despite his fifty years; he
spoke in an unpleasant falsetto voice, and looked rather like a plucked
chicken. His whole appearance betokened a weak and characterless
disposition, as unluckily proved to be the case, both to his own and our
misfortune. Intellectually limited, but good-tempered enough, Masyukov
was quite unlike one’s idea of a staff officer of gendarmerie; indeed,
he was in no way cut out for such a service, and knew this himself
better than anyone. He had only joined the gendarmerie as a result of
unforeseen circumstances. Son of a country gentleman, he had been for a
time an officer in the Guards, afterwards returning to his estate, where
he gave himself up to riotous living. The good dinners he gave were
probably the reason of his being elected Marshal of Nobility for his
district, and his subsequent dissipation led eventually to the ruin of
his finances. To re-establish himself in some measure, and also, it was
said, to discharge his debts of honour, he was obliged again to enter
the service of the State, and he became an officer of gendarmes, induced
by the higher pay given in that branch of the service, as compared with
others of like standing, especially for those employed in the distant
parts of Siberia. The Commandant of Kara was paid four to five thousand
roubles per annum, with house, servants, horses, fuel, etc. As a late
officer in the Guards and Marshal of Nobility, Masyukov was soon made
colonel, and appointed to the vacant post at Kara. He himself declared
afterwards that he had come with the honest intention of doing his best
to better our lot; but hell is proverbially paved with good resolutions,
and the political prisoners suffered more under this well-meaning _bon
vivant_ than under many a thorough-paced tyrant. But I will not
anticipate.
During the early days of Masyukov’s rule we were able to rejoice in more
than one concession. Besides the granting of our petition for a garden,
the doors of our rooms were now hardly ever locked by day, and within
the stockade surrounding the prison yard we could wander about as we
pleased. In Nikolin’s time one of the rooms had always been empty, and
for some reason or other he had refused to let us use it; now we were
allowed possession of it, and also of the wing containing single cells,
during the summer months. We thus had more space, and anyone who wished
for solitude could be alone for a few hours at a time; our musicians,
too, with their instruments of torture, could be sent where they
disturbed no one.
Another relief was that the rule against the possession of tools was
less strictly interpreted, and we were no longer obliged to conceal any
work we had in hand. A vice and some other tools were procured, and our
arts and crafts flourished exceedingly. Even an amateur photographer was
discovered among us, and with the help of our carpenters set up a
regular studio; but I cannot say that his performances were at all
remarkable.
Masyukov did his best to meet our views, and fulfilled our requests
whenever possible. Among other things he agreed that we might settle as
we liked in what room each of us should live; so Stefanòvitch and I at
once made use of this permission. Our two and a half years’ abode in the
“Sanhedrin” had been very irksome to us both, and when the “great
migration” caused by the above-mentioned expansion of our territory took
place, we transferred ourselves into the room called the “Commune,” or
sometimes “the hospital.” It was more comfortable than the other rooms
in one or two particulars; it contained proper bedsteads, for instance,
and besides the big table there were also little tables, one between
each pair of beds.
It was, as a rule, unusual for the inmates of a room voluntarily to
change their abode; we called the feeling about this “room-patriotism.”
Such patriots were very keen about their own room, which was, of course,
always “the best”; they never left their room-mates in the lurch, were
proud of the success of any of them, and sorrowed over their griefs. The
inmates of the “Commune” seemed the least possessed by this _esprit de
corps_, perhaps because most of them were among those nomads who had
already changed rooms more than once. Here, too, in contradistinction to
the habits of the other rooms, each man was much occupied with his own
affairs; we isolated ourselves more, and rarely held common debates or
jollifications; most of us immersed ourselves in serious study, and on
that account less noise and merriment went on among us.
One of the most interesting of our new room-mates, and an original
altogether, was Leo Zlatopòlsky,[94] to whom I must devote a few words.
He had studied in the Petersburg Technological Institute, had been
concerned in the “Trial of the Twenty” in 1882, and sentenced to twenty
years’ penal servitude. He had never himself been an active
revolutionist, but as he was proficient in mathematical and mechanical
knowledge, he had helped the Terrorists in purely technical matters.
Even as a student he had been looked on as an inventive genius, and in
prison inventions became a mania with him. For a long time he was busy
with the project of a circular town, wherein everything was to be run by
electricity; and even plants were to be cultivated by that means, for
the light and heat of the sun were much too simple affairs to satisfy
our inventor. He had a scheme for a flying-machine that should not only
carry us all up into aërial heights, but should also be unaffected by
the velocity of our Mother Earth’s proper motion. Then he evolved his
own theory of values; and beside all these high matters he would also
occupy himself with the most prosaic and humble affairs, such as new
methods of doing the washing, boiling potatoes, or making shoes. He
elaborated a new theory of heating dwellings, invented new card games;
in short, in every department of life, he was prepared to upset the
existing condition of things and build it all up anew in some hitherto
undreamt-of fashion. His beautiful plans, however, all suffered from one
small disqualification: they were never practicable in real life. That,
of course, he would never allow, declaring his inventions to be perfect
and beyond criticism; but this did not prevent him from throwing one
after another aside to pursue some fresh idea with equal energy. Not
unnaturally he soon became the butt of everyone’s jokes, and most absurd
stories were told about him. He was really a very capable and learned
man; but there was just something wanting to make him a genius. Perhaps
we were right in setting him down, as we did, among Lombroso’s
“matoids.”
Footnote 94:
See portrait, p. 209.
[Illustration:
DULEMBA, KOHN, RECHNYEVSKY, LURI, MANKOVSKY
To face page 258
]
* * * * *
During the first three years of my stay in Kara the number of prisoners
in our prison remained practically constant; a few were allowed to
settle in the penal colony, but their places were soon taken by
new-comers. Besides Spandoni—left behind at Krasnoyarsk, as I have
related—who rejoined us at Kara in the spring of 1886, five comrades
arrived in the autumn of the same year. They had been condemned in the
“Case of the Proletariat,” in Warsaw: Dulemba, a workman, to thirteen
years’ “katorga”; Kohn, a student, eight years; Luri, an officer of
engineers, condemned to death, but reprieved and sentenced to twenty
years’ penal servitude; Mankòvsky, a workman, sixteen years;
Rechnyèvsky, a graduate of the College of Jurisprudence in Petersburg,
fourteen years.[95] The year after came Pashkòvsky, who in March, 1887,
was condemned, (as a participator in the attempt upon Alexander III.,)
to ten years’ “katorga”; and the peasant Ozovsky, sentenced to six
years. In the course of 1888 arrived Peter Yakubòvitch and
Souhomlìn,[96] sentenced respectively to eighteen and fifteen years’
penal servitude, both in the Lopàtin case.
Footnote 95:
See portrait-group opposite. From a photograph taken on the arrival at
Kara of these five “politicals.”—_Trans._
Footnote 96:
See portrait, p. 260.
In the course of time participators in nearly every political trial of
the period—from the famous Netshaëv case in 1871 to that of Lopàtin and
Sigida in 1887—were numbered among the “politicals” in the two Kara
prisons, that for men and that for women; and as, of course, the various
comrades talked much of the events in which they themselves had been
concerned, Kara furnished a sort of living chronicle of the
revolutionary movement, and was perhaps the only place where one could
study the history of Russian Socialism from the testimony of personal
experience. None of us, however, ever thought of committing to paper the
material that was here available; and it is much to be doubted whether
there is now anyone left in a position to do so. Much that would be
extremely interesting is probably destined to remain buried in oblivion.
During my term of imprisonment none of those implicated in the
first-mentioned Netshaëv trial (which belonged to the “Propagandist”
phase of our movement, in 1870,) were still in Kara. They had all been
released from prison and sent into exile, and I saw nothing of them; but
of course I had known personally many of these revolutionists of earlier
days when they were still in freedom.
I shared the captivity of several who were sentenced in the various
political trials towards the end of the seventies, these having been
mostly concerned in deeds of violence, from armed resistance to the
police to attempts on the life of the Tsar. The chief combatants in that
terrorist campaign had for the most part ended their days on the
scaffold, or were buried alive within the grim walls of Schlüsselburg or
in the Alexei-Ravelin wing of the Fortress of Peter and Paul. I had been
acquainted with most of them, both men and women, before their fate
overtook them, and I could set down much that I learned from these
comrades in the terrorist struggle; but my reminiscences already
threaten to assume formidable dimensions, and I will only briefly
mention some of the most remarkable of such incidents.
[Illustration:
LURI, SOUHOMLIN, AND RECHNYEVSKY, IN PRISON DRESS
To face page 260
]
Voynoràlsky and Kovàlik were two prominent actors in the Propagandist
movement, both of whom had been justices of the peace. In May, 1876,
when imprisoned in the examination-prison in Petersburg, assisted by
comrades outside they made an attempt to escape. They succeeded in
getting out of their cell and climbing down a rope-ladder from one of
the corridor windows; but an official who happened to be driving past
the prison, thinking they were ordinary criminals, gave the alarm, and
they were caught. They were sentenced to terms of penal servitude in the
“Trial of the 193”; but again an attempt was made to rescue them, a plan
being made to enable them to escape while being transported to the
Khàrkov prison, where the prisoners considered most dangerous were then
confined. This was in July, 1878. A number of armed men, two of them
mounted, stopped the prison-van in which Voynoràlsky and Kovàlik were
being conveyed; one of the gendarmes guarding it was shot, and the
attempt might have been successful had not the horses taken fright and
stampeded, which led to the recapture of the prisoners. Voynoràlsky and
Kovàlik spent many years of confinement in European Russia, and were
then sent, in company with many other revolutionists, to Kara, where
they finished their term of imprisonment, subsequently being exiled in
Yakutsk. Most of their companions found graves in the wilds of Siberia,
but Voynoràlsky and Kovàlik survived their hour of release; in the
winter of 1898-1899 they returned to European Russia, where Voynoràlsky
died soon afterwards in his own home.
The attempted rescue just described had further consequences. The
evening after, one of the riders who had stopped the prison-van was
arrested at Khàrkov station; this was Alexei Medvèdiev, also called
Fomin. He managed subsequently to escape from Khàrkov gaol with a number
of ordinary criminals, by burrowing under a wall. As, however, outside
help failed them, there was nothing for it but to hide in a wood near
by, where they were soon recaptured. The comrades then resolved to try
and rescue Medvèdiev, and arranged the following plan. Two young men,
Berezniàk and Rashko, disguised themselves as gendarmes, and brought to
the prison a forged order that Medvèdiev should be handed over to them
and taken for examination to the office of the gendarmerie. But either
in consequence (as the two asserted) of treachery, or else because the
prison staff saw something suspicious about the supposed gendarmes, they
were arrested on the spot. Yatzevitch was arrested at the same time, he
being on the watch outside, ready to assist the flight of the others;
and soon afterwards Yefremov and some others involved in the affair were
also captured. In the subsequent trial Yefremov was condemned to death,
but the sentence was commuted to penal servitude for life, and Berezniàk
had a like penalty; these two and Yatzevitch were sent at once to Kara.
Medvèdiev was treated differently: he was condemned to death and the
sentence modified to lifelong penal servitude; but as attempts to rescue
him were dreaded he was kept closely guarded in first one, then another
West Siberian prison, was then taken to the Alexei-Ravelin in
Petersburg, and was only brought to Kara in 1884. He was a man of
consummate bravery, who literally despised danger, and was always ready
to embark on the most perilous adventure. He had been a postillion, and
had only received a scanty education at an elementary school; but by his
own exertions while in prison he had gained quite a respectable amount
of knowledge. He was particularly clever with his fingers, and performed
some really astonishing feats. While imprisoned in Petersburg he
secretly modelled a statuette in bread, which, when it was eventually
discovered by the gendarmes, evoked great admiration from the commandant
of the fortress and other officials, so marvellously was it executed.
Thanks partly to this achievement, he was afterwards granted a special
order modifying his sentence of lifelong “katorga” to a term of twenty
years, upon which he was sent to Kara. There he became an adept in
various handicrafts; he was an excellent tailor, shoemaker, engraver,
and sculptor; and afterwards, when he was living “free” in exile, he
became a watchmaker and goldsmith. Unfortunately soon after he left the
prison he fell a victim to alcoholism, to which he had an inherited
predisposition; all attempts at reclaiming him were vain, and in a few
years he was beyond hope.
Just about the time of the attempted rescue at Khàrkov the
revolutionists in Petersburg were put into a state of frightful
excitement by other events. A number of those condemned in the “Case of
the 193” were awaiting, in the Peter and Paul fortress, their
transportation to Siberia; and in consequence of the vexatious and cruel
treatment to which they were subjected, they had recourse to a
hunger-strike, which, as most of them had already suffered years of
imprisonment while still on remand, might easily have proved fatal to
their enfeebled constitutions. After the strike had lasted some days,
the society _Zemlyà i Vòlya_ (Land and Liberty) became aware of what was
going on, and one of its members, Kravtchinsky,[97] a former lieutenant
in the artillery, declared at once that he would avenge his comrades by
killing General Mèzentzev, the chief of gendarmerie, the man who was
chiefly responsible for the persecution of the “politicals.” This deed
he wished to undertake single-handed and openly without troubling about
safety for himself, like Vera Zassoùlitch, who on January 24th, 1878,
had fired at General Trepòv, Governor of Petersburg.[98] Many of
Kravtchinsky’s comrades—myself among the number—opposed his resolve.
Mèzentzev was not worth such a sacrifice, and we insisted that if the
attempt were made it should be in such a manner as to make possible the
escape of the perpetrator. To this end General Mèzentzev’s doings were
carefully observed that we might ascertain his hours of coming and
going; and close to his dwelling a carriage was constantly stationed
with the famous trotter Barbar, who had already saved one life—that of
Prince Peter Kropotkin in his escape from the prison hospital in 1876.
One day in August, 1878, Mèzentzev was stabbed in one of the busiest
streets of Petersburg, and, thanks to the speed of Barbar, Kravtchinsky
and his companion Barannikov got away safely. Subsequently a great
number of persons were arrested on account of this deed, among others,
Adrian Mihaïlov, who was accused of acting as coachman. He was sentenced
to twenty years’ “katorga,” and was for some time my room-mate at Kara.
Footnote 97:
Better known in England as Stepniak.—_Trans._
Footnote 98:
For having ordered the flogging of a political prisoner.—_Trans._
Adrian Mihaïlov was another very talented member of our company. He had
a thirst for knowledge, and a really remarkable memory. He had been a
medical student, knew a great deal of natural science, and had dipped
into various other branches of learning. We called him “the living
encyclopædia,” and it was popularly supposed that there was hardly a
question he could not answer. He could always give the date of any
historical event, seemed to remember everything he read, and easily made
himself at home in the most difficult subjects. He was resolute,
inflexible, and energetic; and his mental superiority gave him an
immense influence over his companions.
Finally, I must mention Yemelyànov,[99] one of those concerned in the
assassination of Alexander II. As is well known, the Tsar was killed by
a bomb thrown under his carriage by Grỳnevitsky.[100] Besides that youth
and Russakov, who was brought to the scaffold, Yemelyànov was also
directly accessory to the deed. He was standing close by when the
explosion took place, with another bomb in readiness, but did not need
to make use of it, seeing that the Tsar had already met his fate. He was
arrested soon after, and with ten others was condemned to death in the
“Trial of the Twenty.” The death-sentence was, however, only carried out
in the case of Suhànov, an officer of marines, that of the others being
commuted to penal servitude for life. Yemelyànov and his companions were
imprisoned in the Fortress of Peter and Paul. He was to have been sent
to Schlüsselburg when the new fortress there was completed, but owing to
his being seized by serious illness this was not done, and instead he
was sent to Kara in 1884. He was the son of a sacristan of the Orthodox
Church, had attended a school of handicraft, and had later been sent at
the State’s expense to Paris, where he sang as a chorister in the chapel
of the Russian Embassy. When a youth of twenty he had returned to
Russia, and associated himself with the Terrorists. He possessed
considerable intelligence, and had gradually acquired a fair amount of
information, self-taught. When I became acquainted with him he was a
disillusioned sceptic, and spoke ironically of revolutionary ideas. Like
Fomitchov and one or two others, he had become an admirer of Russian
imperialism, and he reaped the reward of his opinions; but of that
later.
Footnote 99:
See portrait, p. 209.
Footnote 100:
Grỳnevitsky himself was killed by the explosion.—_Trans._