conditions of life on the crown-property of the Altai, as compared
with the rest of West Siberia, back to its own past. The parents and
forefathers of the present inhabitants, notwithstanding their bondage,
never felt oppressed. They were serfs, but of the lord and ruler of the
vast land in which the cradle of their fathers stood. They were obliged
to labour for their master, and to yield up their sons for nearly a
generation to his service; but this master was the Czar, a being in
their eyes almost divine. In return, the Czar maintained them, freed
them from all the obligations of citizenship, permitted them to wrest
from his land what it would yield, placed no hindrances in the way
of their prosperity, protected them, as far as possible, from the
oppressions of unjust officials, and was, besides, a benefactor to
their children in that he compelled at least some of them to attend
school. The officials under whose superintendence they were, stood far
above the majority of the servants of the crown as regards culture;
nearly all had studied in Germany, not a few were even of German
extraction, and brought, if not German customs, at least widened views
into the country over which they ruled in the name of the Czar. Even
now, Barnaul, the capital of the crown-lands, is a centre of culture
such as can be found nowhere else in Siberia; and, while the mining
industry was at its best, it was the undisputed intellectual capital of
Northern and Central Asia, and the light emanating from it shone the
more brilliantly because it found in every mining centre a focus which
helped to spread it more widely. Thus the royal domain of the Altai has
always held a prominent position among the districts of Siberia.
It was probably never the intention of the administration of the
Altai to specially favour the peasant class. Until the suppression of
serfdom, at all events, the class was regarded much as a necessary
adjunct to the working of the mines. But times have changed. From the
day on which the serfs were emancipated, mining has retrograded as
steadily as agriculture has advanced. The authorities have not yet
been able to make up their minds to abandon the old routine of work,
but they have to pay such high sums to get it carried on that the
net profit from the mines is now inconsiderable. Throwing open the
mines freely to energetic workers, probably the only thorough means
of improving the present state of things, has been proposed in some
districts, but is still far from being an accomplished fact. The free
use of the soil, as far as the plough penetrates, has been customary so
long that it has become, to a certain extent, a prescriptive right. To
be sure, as I have already pointed out, no one owns the land he tills,
not even the spot on which his house stands, but, in the peasants’
eyes, what belongs to the Czar belongs to the “good Lord God”, and the
latter willingly permits every believer to make use of it. As a matter
of fact, the administration of the crown-lands levies forty _kopeks_ of
annual rent on every _hektar_ of land (2½ acres) which is brought under
the plough; but it is not particularly strict in the matter, and the
peasant on his side does not feel it at all incumbent on him to be very
precise. Thus each peasant, in reality, cultivates as much as he can,
and chooses it wherever he pleases.
It is doing the peasant of to-day on the crown-lands no more than
justice to describe him as well-built, wide-awake, handy, skilful,
intelligent, hospitable, good-natured and warm-hearted, and it is
not too much to say that his prosperity has given him considerable
self-esteem and a certain appreciation of freedom. His bearing is freer
and less depressed than that of the Russian peasants. He is polite
and obliging, submissive, and therefore easily managed; but he is not
servile, cringing or abject, and the impression he makes on a stranger
is by no means unfavourable. But he possesses all the qualities which
we call loutishness in a high degree, and several others as well, which
are calculated to weaken the first impression. Although he has had more
educational advantages than any others of his class in Siberia, he is
anything but in love with school. He is strictly religious and ready to
give up what he possesses to the Church, but he looks upon school as an
institution which spoils men rather than educates them. With a lasting
recollection of a former state of things, when the old discharged
soldiers, who held the educational sceptre in the times of his fathers,
did not scruple to send the scholars for “schnaps”, and even to
maltreat them while under its influence, he is exceedingly suspicious
of everything connected with “education”. He also clings, peasant-like,
to whatever has been in the past, and imagines that more knowledge than
he himself possesses will be injurious to his children, and it is by no
means easy to convert him from this opinion. The state of education is
thus very low. It is only exceptionally that he has acquired the art
of writing, and he invariably regards books as entirely superfluous
articles. But he clings, on that account, so much the more firmly to
the superstition which his Church countenances and promulgates. He
rarely knows the names of the months, but can always tell off the
names of the saints and their festivals on his fingers: God and the
saints, archangel and devil, death, heaven, and hell occupy his mind
more than all else. He cannot be described as easily satisfied, yet he
is perfectly contented. He does not wish for more than the necessaries
of life, and therefore only works as much as he absolutely must. But
neither his farm premises nor the fields which he calls his can be too
large, neither his family nor his flock too numerous.
“How is it with you here?” I asked, through an interpreter, one of the
heads of a village whom we picked up on the way.
“God still bears with our sins,” was the answer.
“Are your wives good, faithful, kindly, and helpful to you?”
“There are good and bad.”
“Are your children obedient, and do they cause you joy?”
“We have nothing to complain of in regard to them.”
“Is the land you till fruitful; does it yield you a rich harvest?”
“If it yields us corn tenfold, we are content.”
“Do your cattle thrive?”
“We are content.”
“How many horses have you?”
“Thirty-two; there may perhaps be thirty-five.”
“And how many of these do you require for your work?”
“Eight, ten, and sometimes twelve.”
“Then you bring up the rest to sell?”
“I may perhaps sell one of them some day.”
“And what shall you do with the others?”
“_Nitschewo._”
“How many cows and sheep have you?”
“I do not know. My wife takes charge of the cows, sheep, and pigs.”
“Have you heavy taxes to pay?”
“I am content.”
“Have you anything to complain of?”
“I am content.”
“So you have no complaints whatever to make; everything is quite
satisfactory?”
“No, not everything; I have one complaint.”
“What is that?”
“The land is becoming uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable; what does that mean?”
“Why, it is getting too small for us.”
“Too small; in what way?”
“Oh, the villages are springing up everywhere like mushrooms from the
soil. One has scarcely room to turn now, and does not know where to lay
out one’s fields. If I had not been too old I should have left this
part.”
“The villages spring up like mushrooms from the soil? But where? I see
none. How far is the next village from yours?”
“Fifteen _versts_” (ten miles).
Thus does the peasant of the crown estate speak and think. The vast
land is not spacious enough for him, and yet the twentieth part of what
he has at his disposal would suffice for him if he would cultivate it.
For the land is so fertile that it richly rewards even a very small
amount of labour. But if it does once fail, if the harvest does not
turn out as well as usual, if the peasant suffers from want instead of
from superfluity, he regards this not as the natural consequence of his
own laziness, but as a dispensation of God, as a punishment laid upon
him for his sins.
In reality, however, he is very comfortable in spite of his sins and
their punishment, and has more reason to talk of his reward. For not
scarcity but superfluity troubles him. The government allows each
peasant fifteen _hektars_ of the best land, usually at his own choice,
for every male member of his family; but of the 400,000 square _versts_
of the crown-estate, only 234,000 had been taken up till 1876, so it
does not matter much even now whether a peasant restricts himself
to what he has a right to or not. Some families use not less than
twelve or fifteen hundred _hektars_, and to these it is certainly a
matter of indifference whether they keep only the number of horses
necessary for their work, or twenty or thirty more. In reality, it
often happens that the superfluous animals relieve the peasants from a
heavy care--that of turning to account the over-abundant harvest which
the extremely deficient means of transport prevent his converting into
money. In a country in whose capital, under ordinary circumstances,
the _pood_ or thirty-six pounds of rye-meal is sold at sixpence, of
wheat-meal at ninepence, of beef in winter at about one shilling and
twopence at most; where a sheep costs four shillings, a weaned calf
ten, a pig eight, and an excellent horse seldom more than five pounds
of English money, an unusually good season lowers prices so far that
the too-abundant harvest becomes a burden. When the peasant, who in
any case works only when he must, can only get about one shilling and
twopence for about two hundredweights of grain, the flail becomes too
heavy in his hand, and the harvest, according to his limited ideas,
becomes a curse.
These conditions, which apply to the present day, explain most of the
vices as well as many of the virtues of our colonist: his laziness, his
incorrigible contentment, his indifference to losses, his liberality to
the needy, his compassion for the unfortunate. They also explain the
intense desire, innate in all Siberians, to increase the population.
The vast land is hungry for inhabitants, if I may so speak. Therefore
even now the Siberian looks with pride on a numerous family; and
there is no foundling asylum in the whole country. Why should there
be? Every woman who cannot bring up the child she has borne, or who
wants to be rid of it, finds someone willing and anxious to take the
little creature off her hands. “Give it to me,” says the peasant to
the faithless mother: “I will bring it up;” and he looks as pleased as
if a foal had just been added to his stock. In former times, when the
population was considerably less than it is now, children were married
while still immature, or scarcely mature, so that they might become
parents as soon as possible and gain other hands to help them; now
youths do not usually marry until the beginning of their eighteenth
year, but they frequently wed older women who give promise of early
child-bearing, and the designs of such women upon marriageable youths
are not only winked at but encouraged by the bridegroom’s parents.
In order that romance may not be altogether awanting, I may mention
that elopements of young girls with love-struck youths, and secret
marriages, are by no means rare occurrences among the peasants of the
Altai. But the great majority of these elopements take place with the
consent of all concerned, thus also of the parents of both bride and
bridegroom--to avoid the customary entertaining of the whole village at
a meal, simple in itself, but accompanied by a great deal of brandy. As
may be imagined, however, love overcomes all obstacles, particularly
the disapproval of parents, on the crown-lands as elsewhere. The
maiden, like every other on the round earth, is soon won over by the
youth who desires to run away with her; a holy servant of the Church
can also be procured at all times by the payment of an exorbitantly
high fee; but the angry parents are not so easily reconciled. The
mother curses her daughter, the father his son; both swear by all the
saints never to see their depraved children again.
“And Heaven, full of kindness,
Is patient with man’s blindness.”
But it is not from above that the reconciliation comes; that is brought
about by a magic power beyond compare, known as _schnaps_ among the
races who inhabit German territory, as _vodki_ among those living on
the sacred soil of Russia. As soon as the father-in-law drinks, the
young bridegroom has gained the day; for the mother-in-law drinks
too, and the luscious nectar softens her inflexible heart also. If
some friends arrive, as if by chance, to assist at the reconciliation
festival, they are not denied admittance, for the cost of entertaining
them is much less than if the whole village had assembled, and,
drinking fervently, had called down the blessing of Heaven upon the
newly-united pair. Who can deny after this that love, pure, holy love,
makes even a peasant youth of the Altai inventive?
The bride of the Altai receives no dowry; her mother, on the other
hand, expects a gift from the bridegroom, and sometimes demands it with
much storming, weeping and howling, after the manner of women. Only
under special circumstances, as, for instance, when, on the morning
after the wedding, the nuptial linen does not fulfil the expectations
of the assembled guests, the contrary takes place. The intelligent
and experienced father-in-law makes use of the magic means already
mentioned, produces an inspiriting number of bottles thoughtfully
laid in beforehand, promises the indignant, or at any rate downcast
son-in-law a foal, an ox, a sucking-pig, and the like; the minds of all
are made easy again, and the reconciliation is effected.
And why should the bridegroom be angry for ever? Others have fared no
better, and the future will equalize much. Paternal joys often blossom
even under irregular circumstances, and they are paternal joys all the
same. For even the poorest couple have no cares about their household
expenses, if they will use their hands at all; people are willing to
help them with this and that, and if a bountiful Heaven will only be
moderate enough for a few years in the outpouring of its blessings, so
that the price of grain and stock may not fall too low, a tea-caddy and
cups will adorn a corner table, and silk coverlets the big double-bed,
shining images the right-hand corner, and indescribably noble pictorial
representations of the hunting of the lion, tiger, bear, wolf,
elephant, stag, and crocodile the walls of the cleanly-kept “best
room”, which is never awanting in the better class of peasant houses.
A domestic life scarcely differing from that already described beckons
to every convict who is exiled to Siberia, to one sooner, to another
later, if he wishes to attain to it, if he lives long enough, and is to
a certain extent favoured by fortune. While in Siberia I came to have
views about exiles and banishment very different from those I had held
before visiting the country; but I may remark at the outset that I am
not one of those who bestow more sympathy upon a murderer, a robber, an
incendiary, a thief, or any other scoundrel, than upon the industrious
paterfamilias who strives, in the sweat of his brow, to bring up a
numerous family honestly, and that I have never been able to soar to
that loftiness of view which seeks to mitigate all punishment and relax
all confinement.
On an average, fifteen thousand people are sent from Russia,
“verschickt”, as the expression is among the German Russians. Those
who have been guilty of grave crimes are sentenced for life, of less
serious offences for a number of years. It is not within my province
to discuss the severities or deficiencies of the Russian penal code;
but the fact that the penalty of death is imposed only for the gravest
and rarest of all crimes does not suggest too great severity. But it
is undoubtedly a hardship that exiles sentenced for political causes
should be treated on the way to Siberia, and often when there, exactly
like common criminals.
Condemned exiles are first transferred from the prison in the district
town to that in the capital of the government, and thence transported
by rail or by the ordinary peasant-wagon to Nijni-Novgorod, Kasan,
or Perm. Whether criminals are still forced to march in chains, two
abreast, and thus to carry their fetters for the whole journey, I do
not know; I have never seen this, and I am firmly convinced that the
well-known mildness of the late Czar would never have suffered this
barbarous proceeding. In the towns already mentioned, as well as in
Tjumen and Tomsk, there are spacious prisons, and, at intervals along
such routes as have not been deserted because of the railway, there
are less roomy buildings for the safe housing of the exiles during
night. Whenever it can be avoided, the exiles are not compelled to
travel on foot, but are conveyed to their destination by rail, by the
wagons already referred to, or by regularly plying steamers: thus from
Nijni-Novgorod or Kasan to Perm, from Tjumen _via_ Thura, Tobolsk,
Irtish, Ob, and Tom, to Tomsk. The prisons are simple buildings, but
thoroughly clean; the hospitals connected with, but sufficiently far
apart from them, are model institutions; the river-boats are unusually
long, two-decked vessels, which may best be described as gigantic
floating cages, for the whole upper portion above the deck is latticed
after the fashion of a bird-cage. Each of these boats, which is towed
by a steamer, affords the necessary accommodation for six hundred
persons, and contains also a large kitchen, a sick-room, a small
dispensary, quarters for the accompanying soldiers and for the crew.
Between Perm and Tjumen run wagons, which also resemble bird-cages, and
which serve for the transport of dangerous criminals.
Every exile receives from government a cloak of heavy gray woollen
material, in the middle of the back of which is fastened a
diamond-shaped piece of cloth of colours varying with the length of
the sentence, so that the soldiers in charge may be acquainted with it
as far as is necessary. For procuring food on the journey, ten, or in
the case of “unfortunates” of higher social standing, fifteen _kopeks_
a day are allowed to each; but during a prolonged stay in prison the
rate is seven and fifteen respectively. This sum is so liberal that, if
spent with care, it suffices to procure all the necessaries of life,
although every day, except during Lent, three-quarters of a pound of
meat are served out to each. If wife and children accompany a condemned
criminal, each of these receives a similar sum. Additional earning is
permitted, and money gained by work or begging flows, though perhaps
not quite untaxed, into the pockets of the condemned himself, or down
his throat in the form of vodki.
[Illustration: Fig. 75.--Exiles on the Way to Siberia.]
I said that everyone was at liberty to take his wife and children with
him into exile, and I may add that he usually does so. A long sentence
of imprisonment for a serious crime is a ground of divorce even in
Russia; every married woman is, therefore, free to choose whether she
will accompany her husband into exile, or remain in her native land.
Even children who have attained their fourteenth year have the right to
decide for themselves whether they will leave Russia for Siberia with
their parents or not. But the government prefer that wife and children
should accompany the criminal, and they encourage it in every possible
way, therefore they give much consideration to the question of how far
it is practicable to lessen the difficulties and disagreeablenesses of
the journey.
That it is oppressive under all circumstances cannot be denied; but
the journey of the exiles is by no means so indescribably dreadful
as it has been depicted. Only those convicted of the gravest crimes
are conducted to their destination in chains; the rest enjoy more
freedom than our convicts. The portion of the journey which has to be
performed in the steamers or the boats they tow is the worst. Here all
the exiles and their families are cooped up together, and excesses of
all descriptions are committed by the most degraded criminals, who are
only, or can only, be kept under sufficient restraint in rare cases.
The expert thief steals from the bungler in the same disreputable
calling, the more violent overpowers the weaker, or takes the soles off
the boots of a sleeper to possess himself of the bank-notes supposed
to be hidden there; the incorrigible shakes the resolution of the
penitent, or destroys utterly those who had previously given ground for
hopes of improvement. Male and female criminals are now separated from
each other, but the members of a family remain with their head, and the
wife and daughters of an exile are always in danger during the journey,
no matter what attempts are made to avoid this. On the other hand,
the steamer shortens the journey tenfold, and thus removes those
who are not irretrievably ruined, and those who are not criminals,
so much the sooner from evil influences. More difficult, certainly,
yet less dangerous to the more hopeful criminals, is the journey by
land. Driving along Russian roads in a Russian peasant-wagon drawn by
galloping Russian horses is certainly a species of torture according
to our ideas; but it is not so to those who have, from their youth
upwards, been accustomed to no better conveyances or smoother roads. To
be sure, the exiles are more closely packed in a wagon holding six or
eight people than the peasant packs his when he drives with his family;
the driver or the accompanying soldier is in no way more comfortable
than the convicts, with the exception of the worst criminals, whose
chains jar more uncomfortably than usual on such a journey. An exile
belonging to a cultured family, and convicted, for instance, on
political grounds, cries out under the torture of such a journey, and
is fully justified in depicting it in the blackest possible colours
from his own point of view; but if we take into account the local
conditions, and the customs of the country, we must at least acquit
the directors of these forced journeyings from the charge of cruelty
under which they lie. And as for the journeys on foot, these never take
place in winter, it is only strong and able men who are forced to make
them, not more than forty _versts_ a day are traversed, and every third
day is spent in resting at one of the prisons on the way. The soldiers
in charge walk too, they must keep constant watch over the prisoners
for whom they are responsible, and must therefore exert themselves
much more; for if the murderer has to drag his chains, the soldier
has to carry his weapon, baggage, and ammunition. He, however, is the
irreproachable servant of the state, the other an outcast from society!
But it is certainly unjust that an exile of higher social position who
has been convicted of a common crime should, if he has still means
at his disposal, or can obtain them, be treated otherwise than one
of lower degree, who is sentenced for the same crime. The former is
permitted to travel to his place of banishment at his own time, and
with every comfort, guarded only by two Cossacks, whom he must pay for
the double journey.