THE WOMEN’S PRISON
I come now to the most tragic time of my imprisonment and the saddest of
my recollections, a series of events in connection with our unhappy
fellow-sufferers in the women’s prison. We were always well instructed
as to how our ladies were faring, for in spite of all the measures taken
to prevent it, letters continually passed between us. Concerning the
subject of the following narrative I also learned many additional
details later from some of our women comrades.
When I first came to Kara ten women “politicals” were imprisoned there,
one of whom—Lèbedieva—died soon after my arrival. The most remarkable
among those remaining was Sophia Löschern von Herzfeld. She was the
daughter of a general, and her relations belonged to the Court circles
in Petersburg. She joined the Propagandist movement in the early
sixties, and lived among the peasants, dressed like one of themselves,
trying to diffuse the ideas of “peaceful” Socialism, if I may so call
it. She was arrested, endured four years’ imprisonment while still under
examination, and was at last banished to Siberia in the “Case of the
193.” The efforts of one of her relatives, a lady in the Tsaritsa’s
household, procured her pardon, and in 1878 she was released from
prison, at which time I made her acquaintance in Petersburg. But she was
not allowed to enjoy her liberty for long; a year later she was arrested
in Kiëv, and resisted capture “with weapons in her hand.” She was
brought before a court-martial, together with Ossìnsky and Voloshenko;
she and Ossìnsky were condemned to death, and he paid the full penalty
of the law, but in her case “by favour” the sentence was commuted to
penal servitude for life, and she was deported to Kara in 1879. Sophia
Löschern von Herzfeld was modest and even shy in manner, giving the
impression of an extremely reserved character. She suffered a longer
term of imprisonment than any other participant in the revolutionary
movement of the early seventies.
[Illustration: ANNA KORBA]
[Illustration: ELIZABETH KOVALSKAYA]
[Illustration: NADYESHDA SIGIDA]
[Illustration: MARIA KOVALEVSKAYA]
[Illustration: NADYESHDA SMIRNITSKAYA]
[Illustration: SOPHIA BOGOMOLETZ]
To face page 266
Her friend Anna Korba[101] I had also known in Petersburg in 1879; she
had then just returned from the seat of war in Turkey, where she had
been nursing the wounded. She belonged to a German family named
Meinhardt, naturalised in Russia, numerous members of which had filled
high official positions, and she herself married a foreigner. She had
been extremely active in philanthropic work, and was adored by the
people of the provincial town where she lived; but she learned by bitter
experience how futile, under the existing political conditions, were all
attempts to effect even the smallest reforms by merely quiet educative
means, and she joined the terrorist society _Naròdnaia Vòlya_ in the
beginning of the eighties. It was just then that the desperate struggle
of that party against the Tsar’s despotic government had reached its
height. Anna Korba saw her friends and comrades arrested by the dozen,
sent to the scaffold, or buried alive in prison. The “white terror”
raged. In 1882 the chief of the secret police, Soudyèhkin, had succeeded
in capturing most of the Terrorists who still remained at large after
the assault on Alexander II., and Anna Korba took up the task of
continuing the struggle in company with the last remnants of the
fighters. A secret laboratory for the manufacture of dynamite bombs was
set up in Petersburg; this was discovered by Soudyèhkin, and in June,
1882, Anna Korba was arrested, together with Gratchènsky, the officer
Butzèvitch, and the married couple Prybylyev. Next spring she was tried
with sixteen others, and sentenced to twenty years’ penal servitude.
Footnote 101:
See portrait, p. 266.
Anna Korba was a highly educated woman, in character courageous,
even-tempered, and persevering. She holds the same views to-day as when
she first threw herself into the fight, and this unswerving faith in her
cause impresses with respect even people who cannot share her opinions.
Before I proceed to describe the other inmates of the women’s prison, I
must digress for a moment to relate an incident which in its time caused
great excitement among the newspaper-reading public. Towards the end of
February, 1881, the police of Petersburg had their suspicions directed
to a certain cheesemonger’s shop in that city, where something illegal
was supposed to be going forward. A search-party, one member of which
was an engineer of the pioneer corps, was sent to investigate, but
discovered nothing of any consequence. The next day came the
assassination of the Tsar, and three days after that the cheese-shop was
suddenly deserted by its occupants, among whom had been a married couple
calling themselves Kòbozev—peasants from the interior of Russia,
according to their perfectly regular papers. The police now made a more
effectual search, and found that a subterranean passage had been made
from the cheese-shop to the Màlaya Sadòvaya, a street through which the
Tsar often passed. This tunnel had been meant to serve as a mine for
blowing up the Tsar’s carriage in case the bombs had failed to do their
work. It is easy to imagine what must have been the feelings of the two
revolutionists who passed under the name of Kòbozev when the police made
their first visit to the shop; the underground passage had then just
been completed, and the cases and barrels, supposed to contain cheese,
were filled with the earth that had been dug out. Had the police but
lifted the straw matting that covered them, the whole plot, like many
others before, might have been doomed to failure.
The humble peasant-woman who had served in that shop was Anna Yakìmova.
She was the daughter of a priest, and had been a village schoolmistress.
Like so many others, she had gone “among the people,” and had been one
of the accused in the “Case of the 193”; she was acquitted, but was
nevertheless sent by administrative order to a forlorn spot in the north
of Russia, whence in 1879 she escaped and came to Petersburg, where I
made her acquaintance. Subsequently she joined the _Naròdnaia Vòlya_,
and took an active part in a series of attempts against the life of the
Tsar. She had helped Zhelyàbov and others in 1879 to undermine the
station at Alexandròvskaya, through which the Tsar was expected to pass.
After many escapes she was eventually arrested, and condemned to death
in the “Trial of the Twenty”; but her sentence was commuted, she was
imprisoned in the Fortress of Peter and Paul, and sent to Kara in 1884.
I need hardly say that Anna Yakìmova was a person of strong-willed and
determined character; all the women who took part in our movement of the
seventies were of one type in that respect, and eminently so Praskòvya
Ivanòvskaya and Nadyèshda Smirnitskaya, (both sentenced in 1883,) who,
with Yakìmova, formed a little group by themselves in the Kara prison.
They had been friends of old, shared the same opinions, and were similar
in tastes and temperament.
Besides these, Elizabeth Kovàlskaya,[102] Sophia Bogomòletz,[102] and
Elena Rossikòva,[103] all of whom were brought to Kara in 1885, and
Maria Kalyùshnaya—who, it will be remembered, had travelled thither with
Tchuikòv and myself—completed the number of our women “politicals.”
Footnote 102:
See note, p. 189 _et seq._
Footnote 103:
See page 192.
These inmates of the women’s prison constituted in a certain sense the
_élite_ of our band; for while in the men’s prison a great number were
mere boys whose opinions were scarcely formed, and who only languished
in Siberia because of senseless persecutions under martial law, the
women were without exception tried and convinced adherents of the
revolutionary movement, whose sentiments and ideas were fixed once and
for all. In Russia alone has the historical development of events
induced so great a number of women belonging to the upper classes of
society to leave the circles in which they were born, in order to aid in
freeing a nation from political slavery.
Conditions of life in the women’s prison were on the whole a little
better than in ours. Above all, each had a cell to herself—small, dark,
and damp, it is true, but this spared them the most irksome of our
trials, that absence of quiet which made our existence so hard to bear.
They could enjoy companionship if they so desired, as a large common
room was also provided for them, and the doors of the cells were left
open by day; but whenever they pleased they could isolate themselves.
They were better provided with material comforts than we were, for they
received more money from their relations; and they could even
occasionally contribute to our exchequer. Then, of course, they had not
to submit to the barbarous process of head-shaving; they might wear
their ordinary clothes, and the staff generally abstained from teasing
them with petty restrictions. But the peculiar characteristics of these
women, their whole mode of thought, their inflexibility of
purpose,—which under such conditions inevitably develops into
contrariety of temper,—led to a series of conflicts between themselves
as well as with the authorities. There was no unity of principle among
them in their attitude towards the prison rules. Whilst Sophia
Bogomòletz, Maria Kovalèvskaya, and Elena Rossikova regarded it as a
part of their political programme, to which they conscientiously
adhered, that they should maintain a continual feud with the staff about
any and every possible circumstance, the others held that conflicts
should not be needlessly provoked. These differences of opinion caused
frequent friction, and personal relations between the prisoners were
occasionally somewhat strained.
In the spring of 1887 Maria Kovalèvskaya was brought from Irkutsk to
Kara. She arrived just at a time when the disputes in the women’s prison
had become unbearable; and shortly afterwards Sophia Löschern von
Herzfeld, Anna Korba, Anna Yakimova, and Paraskova Ivanòvskaya
petitioned the commandant to separate them from the others, their
request being granted. At the same time, in consequence of some squabble
with the staff, Sophia Bogomoletz and Elena Rossikòva were removed to
another prison; there were, therefore, for some time only four women in
the prison at Ust-Kara—Kovàlskaya, Kovalèvskaya, Kalyùshnaya, and
Smirnitskaya.
Early in 1888 the Governor-General, Baron Korf, came to visit the
prisons of Kara. When he arrived with his suite at the women’s prison
Elizabeth Kovàlskaya was sitting on a bench out in the open air, and as
the Governor-General came up to her she remained quietly seated,
vouchsafing him not a glance. He addressed her harshly, saying that in
his presence she ought to stand up, that he was the highest official in
the district.
“I did not elect you to that position,” replied Kovàlskaya calmly, and
remained as before.
The functionary was beside himself with rage, and informed the
commandant that he would send written instructions how to deal with this
refractory prisoner; so shortly afterwards there came an order to send
Kovàlskaya to the central prison in Verkhny-Udinsk, “because by her
unruly behaviour she had a demoralising influence on the other prisoners
in Ust-Kara.”
Kovàlskaya’s friends asserted that she had purposely provoked the
conflict in order to effect her removal to another prison, so hateful
had the sojourn in Kara become to her. The Governor-General’s order
would therefore have been most welcome to her; but the stupid, cowardly
commandant Masyukov supposed otherwise, and took it into his head that
she and her companions would offer resistance. He thereupon came to the
idiotic and inhuman decision that the delinquent should be conveyed away
secretly. Early one morning, while the prisoners still slept, gendarmes
accompanied by ordinary convicts burst into her cell, seized on the
sleeping Kovàlskaya, and dragged her, clad only in her nightdress, to
the office, where she was ordered to dress and make ready to start for
her new place of confinement. Naturally the unfortunate lady screamed
when aroused so rudely from her sleep, and the other prisoners waking up
sprang from their beds and were witnesses of the inexplicable and
insulting treatment to which their comrade was subjected. They could
imagine nothing else but that a common assault on her honour was
meditated, and their fury against the commandant knew no bounds.
For a long time only uncertain rumours about these events reached our
ears, for our secret post was not working regularly at the time. We were
first supplied with exact tidings through Golubtsòv, the sergeant of the
guard, in a very unusual way. This honest fellow, Golubtsòv, who could
hardly read and write, was a very important personage in our prison. He
was a remarkably sensible, clever, and tactful man; his relations with
the “politicals” during a long course of years and under different
commandants had taught him a great deal, and he thoroughly understood
our way of looking at things. He was thus enabled to avoid rubs and
disputes, and we were always on the best of terms with him; this
strengthened his position, and with his good sense and tact gave him the
upper hand over the stupid and inexperienced Masyukov. The wise
sergeant, in fact, was the presiding genius of the place, and ruled the
commandant completely.
When the Governor-General’s order arrived, and Masyukov in his foolish
shortsightedness evolved his plan of carrying off Elizabeth Kovàlskaya,
Golubtsòv warned him what would be the consequences; but for once no
heed was paid to his advice, and it was only when the women prisoners
started a hunger-strike as a protest against their comrade’s treatment
that the commandant sought counsel from his subordinate. Golubtsòv
advised him to lay the matter before the “politicals” in the men’s
prison, and ask us to intervene. This was the more natural and
reasonable, because one of our number, Kalyùshny, had a wife and a
sister among the strikers. He had been a student in the University of
Khàrkov, was an intelligent, high-spirited young man, a charming
companion, and a great favourite among us. He was a Terrorist, had been
sentenced in 1888 to fifteen years’ “katorga,” and with him his wife,
Nadyèshda Smirnitskaya. Maria Kalyùshnaya, my companion on the journey
to Kara, was his sister, and both these ladies had witnessed the
alarming scene which had led to the desperate protest they were now
making. These facts suggested to the wise sergeant his plan, and he
advised Masyukov to appoint Kalyùshny as intermediary in the affair.
Masyukov was sensible enough to agree; he had Kalyùshny brought to his
house, and told him straightforwardly all that had taken place, ending
with the information that Kalyùshny’s wife, his sister, and Maria
Kovalèvskaya, had been refusing food for several days. He then begged
Kalyùshny to go to Ust-Kara, pacify the women, and induce them to give
up their hunger-strike, promising beforehand that he would do anything
in reason to give them satisfaction. Kalyùshny said to us afterwards
that he was sure the unlucky commandant really regretted his conduct in
the affair.
Kalyùshny told Masyukov he must consult his comrades before undertaking
the mission, and asked that we might be allowed to take counsel
together. This was agreed to, and we all met to consider and discuss the
circumstances—a thing that had not been heard of in Kara since the
prison had been put under the gendarmerie. The tidings given us by the
unhappy husband and brother regarding the hunger-strike of the women
moved us deeply. When he ceased speaking a stillness as of death reigned
over our gathering, and then the usually silent Yatzèvitch began the
debate. Without much discussion we decided that another delegate must
accompany Kalyùshny, and that they should try to prevail on the women to
desist from their protest, assuring them that we should ourselves now
take over the arrangement of the business with Masyukov. To the
commandant we declared that he must apologise to the three ladies.
It was arranged that our two delegates should be taken to the women’s
prison, fifteen versts (about ten miles) distant, accompanied by
gendarmes, though all this was entirely against the regulations.
When they returned from their mission, and we had assembled to hear the
result, they told us that the famishing women absolutely refused to be
contented with an apology from the commandant. They all three declared
that they would only desist from their protest if Masyukov were
withdrawn from Kara.
The majority of us—myself among the number—saw at once that this was an
impossible demand. The reactionary Government, with Count Dmitri Tolstoi
at its head, would never recall the commandant, even if all the
“politicals” in Siberia starved themselves to death; but we thought we
might perhaps find a way out of the difficulty if we could induce the
commandant to ask of his own accord to be transferred elsewhere on some
pretext or other. To this the commandant on his side, and the ladies on
theirs, consented; but the latter insisted positively that if Masyukov
had not taken his departure within a certain fixed period of some
months, they would again refuse food and persist in their protest to the
bitter end.
This, as might readily be foreseen, meant merely a postponement of the
question. But I must return for the present to our own affairs in the
men’s prison.