OUR CELEBRATION OF THE CENTENARY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION—SERGIUS
BOBOHOV—THE END OF THE TRAGEDY
Among my recollections of the year 1889, one pleasant memory remains to
me—how we commemorated the hundredth anniversary of the storming of the
Bastille. While the French nation, amid fervent rejoicings, celebrated
the centenary of their great Revolution, a handful of convicts,
imprisoned by the Russian despot in a barren wilderness of the Far East,
took their share in the festival. Ours was truly but a modest
ceremonial—no banquet, no toasts, no speeches. Tea and a cake provided
at the common expense were all that we could afford; and our banqueting
hall was the prison-yard, whither all the tables from our cells were
carried for a public feast. There we sat, and thought of the great
triumph of the Revolution, and of its heroes—the spiritual heroes of the
civilised world.
“Will the day ever come when the people will demolish our Bastilles—the
Fortress of Peter and Paul, Schlüsselburg, the Citadel of Warsaw, and
all the other gaols in which Tsarism imprisons its foes?” we asked
ourselves; “and will any of us be still alive then?”
“The battle for freedom will have been fought and won by the beginning
of the twentieth century,” our optimists averred.
“Who knows if it will ever take place?” said the sceptics.
The subject was argued over and discussed up and down. Many who then
were full of hope now rest in their graves; others languish to this day
in Siberian deserts.
I return to the sorrowful events that were then happening in Kara. After
Sigida’s assault upon the commandant the women began their
hunger-strike, their third and most terrible. They adhered resolutely to
their decision; Masyukov must go, if it cost them their lives. For
sixteen days they abstained from food. Sigida, it was asserted, remained
fasting for twenty-two days, and when the prison doctor reported that he
could not answer for her life, the Governor sent an order that she was
to be fed artificially. Whether the doctor carried out that instruction
I do not know. A rumour came to us during those dreadful days that he
had had a scene with Maria Kovalèvskaya: he went—it was said—into her
cell one day, when she was lying on her bed, exhausted by hunger; and
she, supposing he had come to administer nourishment to her forcibly,
struck him in the face. The doctor, a rather humane kind of man, seems
to have looked on this simply as the act of an invalid not properly
responsible for her actions; he told her she was doing him an
injustice,—that he was not going to touch her,—whereupon she begged his
pardon. He said to his friends afterwards that he had never seen a woman
with such strength of character, so spirited and eloquent as she.
When it became evident that these women, who were already at death’s
door, would never give in, the higher authorities consented to the
following compromise: Masyukov could not be removed, lest it should be
said that the prisoners had forced such a step on them, but the Governor
should arrange that Sigida, Kalyùshnaya, Kovalèvskaya, and Smirnitskaya
should no longer be under the commandant, but should be removed to the
female criminals’ prison, and treated in future as ordinary convicts.
Our comrades agreed to this, and ceased their hunger-strike. But the
martyrdom of the unhappy women was not yet accomplished, worse
sufferings still were in store for them.
In the second half of October Masyukov, who had kept in the background
since Sigida’s encounter with him, entered our prison one day surrounded
(as had never before been the case) by a guard of armed soldiers. The
man looked thoroughly shaken and upset; he sheltered himself behind the
soldiers, and told us to come and listen to an order from the
Governor-General. When we had all assembled in the corridor he read
aloud with trembling voice a document saying that in consequence of the
disturbances among the political prisoners in Kara the Governor-General
warned us that on any repetition of such occurrences the most stringent
measures would be taken against us, and that recourse would even be had
to corporal punishment.
Now the “politicals” had had much to bear, but had never been legally
liable to personal chastisement; the mere threat was held by many as an
insult only to be wiped out with blood, and this view was voiced by
Sergius Bobohov. I have not hitherto mentioned this excellent man; for
the part that he played, and that gives him a place in the annals of the
Russian revolutionary movement, only began with this challenge from the
Siberian satrap.
Sergius Bobohov was born in the Volga district. He had studied in the
Petersburg veterinary college, and had been expelled towards the end of
the sixties for taking part in a riot of the students directed against
Professor Zion, an affair that made a good deal of stir at the time. He
was subsequently banished by “administrative methods” to the government
of Archangel, and in 1878 attempted unsuccessfully to escape. When he
was recaptured he fired a revolver-shot in the air, hoping that this
would cause him to be brought to trial, and that so he might have an
opportunity of denouncing the arbitrariness of the so-called
“administrative methods.” For this shot he was sentenced to twenty
years’ “katorga,” and brought to Kara in 1879.
During the nearly thirty years of my intercourse with Russian
revolutionists I have met many remarkable men, but none that lived on a
higher moral plane than Bobohov. Genuine sincerity, seriousness of
purpose, and boundless devotion to his ideal were his leading
characteristics. He was the most modest of men, but when the honour of a
revolutionist was at stake, or if it were a question of duty, he would
undergo a transformation and become a fiery and inspired prophet. There
was never the slightest contradiction between his words and his deeds,
he was the most logical and consistent of men, and it was no wonder if
he won universal respect and esteem in Kara, even though everyone did
not share his opinions.
Bobohov was but a youth when I entered the prison, and the ideas that he
had imbibed were the then prevalent, rather anarchistical views of the
Buntari, to which he remained faithful all his life. Imprisonment and
exile are apt to exercise a conservative influence on the mind; the
opinions with which one enters prison tend to become stereotyped.
Bobohov was well read, and interested himself keenly in all questions of
social politics; but it happened with him as with many other intelligent
men among us—he gathered from every book he read only what tended to
strengthen anew the opinions he already held. He took great interest in
the Social-Democratic theory, for instance, but his way of thinking
prevented him from properly grasping its argument, and he was
continually combating those who were attracted by it. He and I were
never room-mates, but when walking in the yard I used to have endless
discussions with him on this subject, and he always showed himself an
exemplary debater, attentive, restrained, never ill-tempered or
personal.
Bobohov took the threat of flogging more keenly to heart than any of the
others. His idea, which he at once did his best to promulgate, was that
we should immediately send a telegram to the Minister of the Interior,
declaring that if the threat of the Governor-General were not withdrawn
we would all commit suicide; and he further demanded of us that if the
minister had not yielded within a certain time, we should each in our
turn, to be decided by lot, take measures to put an end to our lives.
I had an opportunity one day of speaking to him about this proposal, and
I tried to convince him of its impracticability, especially arguing
against his impossible notion of casting lots, which would make suicide
cease to be a voluntary act, as those who had at first agreed might feel
in honour bound to cast away their lives, even if when the time came
they had changed their minds. Moreover, I reasoned, if we were to
announce such an intention to the authorities, they would at once take
steps to prevent its being carried out.
Bobohov passionately disputed my arguments. “I cling to life as much as
any other man,” he said. “If I am ready to face death as a means of
protest, it would only be if I could reckon on others to follow my
example. Without casting lots—that is, without making it a duty—there
would be no sense in the undertaking; the others might draw back after I
had taken my life, and my sacrifice would have been in vain, for the
effect on the Government would be lacking.”
The impression I gathered from the whole of this conversation with
Bobohov was that life was really dear to him, and that he would not
commit suicide, so that my worst fears were quieted. But his fate and
that of some others of our comrades was already sealed.
Rumours reached us directly after this that, by order of the
Governor-General, Nadyèshda Sigida was to be subjected to corporal
punishment for assaulting the commandant. We took this rumour as quite
improbable. In all the history of our movement there had been no single
instance of a woman being punished in such a manner; and among the men
even, Bogolyùbov alone (sentenced to fifteen years’ “katorga” on account
of the demonstration in the Kazan Square of December, 1876) had suffered
this indignity. And since, to avenge him, Vera Zassoùlitch had fired at
and wounded Trèpov, and had been acquitted by a jury, in all the twelve
years that had elapsed no attempt had ever again been made to inflict
corporal chastisement on a political prisoner. Certainly it had been
repeatedly threatened in cases of attempted escape; but the threat had
never been carried out, only lengthened terms of imprisonment imposed.
It seemed therefore impossible to believe that such treatment of a woman
should be meditated. On the other hand, in view of the Yakutsk tragedy,
the victims in which had been mere boys and girls, we could not but fear
that the Government of the “peace-loving Tsar” would shrink from no
barbarity.
Terrible days followed for us, but our uncertainty was not of long
duration. In the beginning of November we learned that the
Governor-General’s order had actually been executed.
I find it hardly possible to describe our state of mind. It was not
depression that we felt, but deep agitation and gloomy resolution.
Externally we strove to preserve calm, lest the gendarmes should become
suspicious.
We soon heard that Sigida had died immediately after the infliction of
the punishment. Some reports said that she had succumbed to a nervous
seizure; others that she had poisoned herself. And at the same time we
were informed that Kovalèvskaya, Kalyùshnaya, and Smirnitskaya had taken
poison, and had died in the prison infirmary.
On hearing these tidings many of our number silently resolved, without
any discussion or consultation, to follow the example of the women. They
got poison from outside, and determined to take it after roll-call one
evening. No one asked now who was going to join in the act, but each man
who had made up his mind to it possessed himself of a portion of the
opium that lay on the table in every room.
Bobohov, during these days, had appeared calm, serious, and taciturn as
ever, behaving as though nothing unusual lay before him. Kalyùshny, too,
seemed long ago to have taken an unalterable decision. This decision had
brought them together, and the two were now close friends.
Seventeen men—seventeen out of the nine-and-thirty that made up our
number—had resolved to put an end to their lives. On the appointed day,
after the evening rounds, singing was heard in the “Yakutsk room,” where
were Bobohov and Kalyùshny and the greater number of the others who had
also determined to die, though there were some in every room—two in
ours. This singing was the signal to them all. Those who were to die
then took leave of their comrades and swallowed the poison.
Shortly after, they began to feel ill, with headache and great
weariness, and they lay down on their beds to sleep, not expecting to
wake again.
I had taken no poison, but when this general suicide began it seemed as
though it would be easier to kill oneself than to witness the deed. How
strong and deep was the impression made on me may be gathered from the
fact that late in the night I began to suffer from severe headache and
general uneasiness, and the doctor said afterwards that I had exhibited
all the symptoms of poisoning.
However, our comrades had not effected their purpose. The opium was
bad—either old or adulterated—and was not deadly; the unhappy men awoke
next morning in great pain and distress. But the frustration of their
design did not in most cases weaken their resolution. Three only
abandoned the attempt; the others determined to take a more potent
drug—morphia.
Next evening the farewell scenes were repeated. The nerves of the
survivors were still further tortured; our position was indeed cruel.
The morphia also proved bad; most of those who had swallowed it were
very ill, but eventually recovered. Bobohov and Kalyùshny, however,
having each taken a treble dose, speedily became unconscious. In the
night Bobohov awakened yet once again. He heard Kalyùshny’s throat
rattle, and tried to rouse him, embracing him, covering his face with
kisses. When he saw that his friend would never wake more, he seized a
whole handful of opium, swallowed it, and lying down beside Kalyùshny,
closed his eyes for ever.
When the inspector and the gendarmes made their rounds the next morning,
they found the two insensible. The doctor was fetched, and pronounced
that the death-agony had already begun; Kalyùshny expired that evening,
Bobohov not until the following morning. The corpses were removed to the
mortuary, and were subsequently buried side by side with those of the
four dead women.
[Illustration:
GRAVEYARD OF POLITICAL PRISONERS AT KARA
To face page 290
]