KRASNOIARSK—_continued_.
Privileged criminal exiles—Ordinary criminals—A marching
convoy on the road—Convoy soldiers—The convoy—Proceedings
on arrival at the Perasilny of Krasnoiarsk—The staroster of
the gang—A stroll round the Perasilny—The married prisoners’
quarters—A “privileged” prisoner in his cell—Scene outside the
prison—Prison labour—I give it a trial—Details as to outside
employment of prisoners.
[Illustration: THE CATHEDRAL, KRASNOIARSK.]
Having given some slight idea of the bright side of life in Krasnoiarsk,
a little about the reverse of the medal will doubtless be of interest.
In a vast country like Siberia, where a great part of the population—I
mean of the lower middle class and working orders—is composed of criminal
exiles, it may readily be imagined that there exists a peculiar state
of social opinion, which is positively amusing at times. If a man
conducts himself well, and is liked, it matters not a straw that he
be an exiled “gentleman criminal” doing his time, for he is received
almost everywhere, and one need not be ashamed to be seen associating
with him, as even the officials shake hands with him when they meet. He
himself makes no secret of his misdemeanour—rather the contrary, as a
rule—for most of them seem to think that “coming to reside in Siberia”
absolutely whitens them again in the eyes of society. As a matter of
fact, they are encouraged in this belief, for they are always spoken of
as “unfortunates.” Perhaps they are called so because they were found
out and sent here! On one occasion two men I knew very well met in my
rooms; both were criminal exiles who had formerly occupied high positions
in St. Petersburg—one, a German, having been “sent” for uttering forged
bonds; the other, a Russian, for embezzlement of Government money. As
they were not acquainted, I naturally introduced them to each other.
It was difficult to realize that these two well-dressed and polished
men, who spoke several languages fluently, were each doing a ten years’
penal sentence. After a short preamble on the usual everyday topics, the
Russian asked the German if he were an inhabitant of Krasnoiarsk.
“_Gott sei dank, nein_,” replied he; “I was only sent for ten years, and
my time is nearly up.”
“Ah! then you’re a _verschickte_? I thought you were. So am I. What did
you come for?”
“Oh, only for so and so. And you?”
“Oh, mine” (with a certain amount of pride) “was a big affair; I managed
to get _over_ forty thousand roubles out of the Government.”
And so the conversation rattled pleasantly on, gradually drifting into
(for me) more congenial subjects. There was not the least bit of shame
about them—they talked of their offences, while smoking their cigarettes,
as naturally as most men would relate an interesting episode in their
lives, and I sat and listened—and wondered. The same unbiassed way of
looking on the state of affairs exists among the lower orders; and
soldiers, with gangs of criminals in prison garb and heavy clanking
chains, push their way on foot through the crowd in the market-place,
attracting no notice, the prisoners being, to all appearance, stolidly
indifferent to their situation.
_Priviligierts_, or well-to-do criminals, that is to say, men of
intelligence who have received a good education, either in a Government
school or gymnase, and who have occupied good positions in their
time, when they are only guilty of such petty offences as forgery or
misappropriation, are never absolutely associated with the vulgar horde
of ordinary, everyday criminals. On their way to Siberia, although
they travel with the same gang, they do so apart, even in their own
conveyance, if they have the means to pay for it. On arrival at the
different _étapes_, the prisons in the villages, they are provided with
a room to themselves, till the detachment is ready to start again, and
on reaching their destination are turned loose, so to speak, and left
to shift for themselves. I had no difficulty whatever in learning all
this, for my various “criminal” acquaintances were not reticent; in fact,
seemed glad to tell me all about it, as an interesting story.
All this naturally excited my curiosity and made me desire to witness
personally, if possible, some of the proceedings, and, as good luck had
it, I was soon enabled to do so. An officer with whom I had been very
friendly was told off with his detachment to escort a large body of
prisoners coming from Tomsk; he had to take them over from their previous
escort some fifty versts back and convoy them to Krasnoiarsk; so he
courteously let me know of the probable time of his arrival at a certain
point on the road, so that I could drive out to meet him and make as many
photos and sketches as I wished. It is needless to say I jumped at the
invitation, and on the appointed day took an isvoschik and drove along
the Tomsk road.
We had driven some considerable distance without seeing the slightest
sign of life on the deserted highway, when suddenly on the crisp frosty
air I distinguished a faint distant sound, so peculiar and weird that
it immediately attracted my attention, as it was evidently approaching
us. It was not unlike the noise which would be produced by hundreds of
small birds singing all at once, yet I could see nothing of any sort
anywhere on the vast plain, so I drew my driver’s attention to it as well
as I could with my limited vocabulary of Russian. To him it was neither
novel nor interesting; he knew what it was at once. “The arrestanti are
coming,” he briefly told me; and shortly after, on ascending a rise in
the road which had concealed them from our view, there came in sight
a big body of men coming slowly along, and I then discovered that the
strange noise which had so impressed me was produced by the clanking of
the heavy chains they wore. But then, alas! all preconceived illusions
vanished, for it was a loathsome and depressing sight, and rendered
doubly so under the bright sunlight. There was absolutely nothing of the
poetic about it that I had been led to expect from the descriptions I
had read so often before coming to Siberia. It was simply a huge crowd
of what looked like (and probably was) the very scum of the earth, for
all races seemed to be represented amongst it, making as villanous and
evil-looking a lot of men as one could possibly see. In front and on
either side of the column were soldiers with rifles and fixed bayonets.
By the way, many writers speak of these soldiers as Cossacks; as a
matter of fact, Cossacks are now never under any circumstances used for
this or any duty in connection with prisoners, nor have they for many
years past. On the road, as well as round the prisons, only special men
are employed; these are known all over Russia and Siberia as “convoy
soldiers,” and form a big brigade, which is under the command of a
special general and a large staff of officers. All the men must have
served a certain time in the regular army before they are eligible for
this branch of the service.
[Illustration: A CONVOY OF PRISONERS ON THE MARCH.
(_Enlargement from an instantaneous Kodak photo._)
[_To face p. 138._]
How any writer who has actually seen a gang of criminal exiles on the
march can describe it in any way as a pathetic sight beats me, and my
only astonishment is that convicts of other countries are not also spoken
of in the same sentimental way, for they are probably far worse off than
Siberian criminals, who, as a matter of fact, have a much better time
of it, _considering their crimes_, than they would have anywhere else,
barring, of course, the trifling discomfort of having to “foot it” the
whole distance if they are able. If they are footsore or lame they are
permitted to ride on one of the baggage conveyances. The more I learn
about the prisoners’ life, either on the road or in the ostrogs, the more
astonished I am at the humane way in which they are treated, and how
little is really known of it in the outer world. I am not referring to
the system as a whole, which I feel convinced is not only a wrong but a
demoralizing one, but to minor details, which show a kindly feeling on
the part of the authorities which is somewhat unexpected. For instance,
all Jews or Mohammedans receive ten kopeks (3_d._) per day, both on the
road and when in prison, so that they can purchase their own food, and
have it cooked according to their belief, the food and cooking being
looked after by one of their own religion deputed by themselves. In a
country where it is said that the Jews are so persistently persecuted
by the authorities, this comes as rather an astounding revelation, in
my opinion. I know nothing whatever about prison life in England, but I
am anxious to know if we treat our convicts in the same way. Political
prisoners never march (unless they wish to do so), but are conveyed
on telegas or sledges according to the season, and always follow some
distance behind the criminals, with whom they never are associated.
Considering how slowly the column advances, for I am informed it is
often no less than four or five months on the road, resting as it does
every second day, this must be an awful journey indeed for those who are
leaving friends, home, and in fact all behind them for ever. For these
“unfortunates,” when not criminal ones, all one’s sympathy is due; but
the canaille marching on ahead, and who are thus most _en évidence_, in
most cases richly deserve more than their fate, and ought to thank their
lucky stars they are Russian and not English convicts.
[Illustration: PRISONERS UNLOADING SLEDGES ON ARRIVAL AT PERASILNY,
KRASNOIARSK.
[_To face p. 140._]
[Illustration: VERIFICATION OF PRISONERS ON ARRIVAL AT PERASILNY,
KRASNOIARSK.
[_To face p. 141._]
In the rear of the column followed about twenty open sledges, on which
were women, children, footsore prisoners, and miscellaneous baggage. Even
the drivers were soldiers, and with their rifles across their knees
presented a curious appearance. Last of all came my friend, the officer
in charge of the detachment, in a luxurious covered-in sledge. There were
no “politicals” with the party.
As I was desirous of seeing for myself all that takes place on the
arrival of a gang of convicts at the _étape_ or perasilny of a large
town, I returned to Krasnoiarsk at the head of the detachment, and made
sketches and photos to my heart’s content of the unsavoury crowd of
ruffians following closely behind me.
The perasilny of Krasnoiarsk is situated on the outskirts of the town,
quite close to the _ostrag_, or regular prison, and, like most buildings
of its kind I have hitherto seen, built entirely of wood, even to the
high wall surrounding it. It is composed of several blocks of buildings
in which prisoners are indiscriminately placed pending their removal
to their ultimate destination. On arrival outside this building, the
convicts were formed up two deep for inspection, and immediately after
told off to unload the sledges and get their baggage; after which
they were marched into the building preparatory to being “verified.”
In a large bare whitewashed room sat the officer who had brought the
detachment and two prison officials, with a heap of papers before them.
All the prisoners were in an adjoining room, at the door of which stood
the _staroster_, or leader of the gang, waiting to call out the name as
each man was required.
[Illustration: THE STAROSTER OF THE GANG.]
It may not be generally known that in Russia every gang of prisoners has
its _staroster_, or captain, who is elected by themselves from amongst
their number, and who on all occasions acts as their spokesman. It is
difficult to ascertain on what particular merits he is elected—perhaps
it is that he is known to be the biggest dare-devil villain amongst
them, or that he is generally feared; at any rate, from all accounts,
the staroster has always such unbounded influence and power amongst his
fellows that if he were to decree the death of one of them there is no
doubt whatever but that the sentence would be carried out. As a matter of
fact, cases of the kind have been frequently known, the sort of liberty
which Siberian prisoners enjoy amongst themselves rendering this an easy
matter, and detection of the actual assassin absolutely impossible. A
weak prisoner, therefore, who is in the bad books of his staroster must
have a bad time of it, for he can be bullied and knocked about with
impunity, and would never dare to report it. I have heard of an incident
which happened quite recently, and which will give some idea of prison
life here.
A prisoner had the foolhardiness (for one can call it nothing else)
to inform the officials of the intended evasion of three of the most
desperate characters in the prison. Whether he did it out of revenge or
to suit his own ends is not known; at any rate, his treason (for such it
would undoubtedly be considered amongst his fellows) got somehow to be
known, and his death decreed by the staroster. In the mean time, however,
he had been removed to another cell, so it was arranged that it should
take place at the Government photographer’s, when the gang went to be
photo’d; but the officials heard of his danger, and he was removed to
another room—only just in time, for he would have been lynched, to a
certainty, otherwise. Although after this he was placed in another part
of the building, the news had spread, and his life was made so awful
for him that he was eventually placed in solitary confinement till he
could be sent to another prison. Capital punishment not existing in
Siberia (except in the rarest and most extreme of cases), criminals are
absolutely reckless, as they know they cannot get worse than they have
got, so there are many prisoners with a list of murders and other crimes
against them which would probably make an English criminal open his eyes.
[Illustration: GROUP OF PRISONERS (FROM A GOVERNMENT PHOTOGRAPH).]
But _revenons à nos moutons_ (or rather convicts). As the different men
were required the staroster called out their names, and they then came
to be “verified”—that is to say, compared with their photo, which is
attached to the paper relating to each one. I omitted to mention that all
convicts, before starting on the long march across Siberia, have their
heads shaved on one side, to render them immediately recognizable as
prisoners, and so as to prevent them from running away; and very hideous
does this operation render them, as there is no concealing it. Still,
in spite of it, numbers of them do escape, as I shall have occasion to
tell you in a subsequent chapter. After the “verification” the prisoners
were let loose into the courtyard of the perasilny, and left to shift
for themselves and find accommodation where they could in the building.
As I have already remarked, the perasilny is only a sort of depôt for
prisoners; they never remain in it long, only till a detachment is
starting for the prison or mine to which they have been consigned.
I was permitted to roam about all over the place with my sketch-book,
quite alone, so made sketches amongst the unsavoury crowd of ruffians
to my heart’s content, and although they came closer to me at times
than I desired, still I was in no way molested. It was certainly a most
extraordinary sight. Groups of evil, sullen-looking men were either
roaming about the spacious courtyard, or else hanging about in groups,
talking in an undertone to each other. Most of them were in chains,
and their clanking noise harmonized well with the gloomy surroundings.
It gave one the impression of being in a den of human wild beasts, and
judging from their faces I should fancy most of them were but little
better. They all seemed pretty well free to do what they pleased,
and I noticed many were smoking cigarettes or pipes. The principal
occupation, whilst I was there, seemed to be noting the new arrivals as
they individually made their appearance inside the gate. In some cases
the new-comers immediately found friends among the crowd, in which,
event he was introduced by them to the others, and the mutual greetings
were most effusive, and doubtless sufficient to raise feelings of envy
in the breasts of younger prisoners standing by, and who were unknown
to criminal fame. I was told afterwards that new-comers, if they are
absolutely unknown to any one in their cell, have to stand a sort of
supper, or _bienvenue_—pay their “footing,” as a matter of fact. Fancy
this sort of thing in an English prison! I naturally asked how a prisoner
would manage if he had no money. “He can always get enough for that,” was
the reply. How?
Whilst I was strolling about making notes and sketches, a warder came up
and asked me if I would like to visit the building, and volunteered to
show me over it. Naturally I accepted the offer, and was much interested,
and I may say astonished, at all I saw. There were three blocks of wooden
buildings, the windows of which were heavily grated; though why there
were bars I could not make out, for all doors were unlocked, and the
prisoners appeared to be free to go and come as they pleased. It was
more like a large school-house than a prison. In the rooms, or rather
dormitories, the same liberty prevailed, as there seemed to be no one to
maintain discipline or order; in fact, there was such a row in all of
them that the warder accompanying me had to call out several times at
the top of his voice in order to get a little silence, as the noise was
simply deafening. The sleeping accommodation in all the rooms consisted
of the usual sloping wooden shelves fixed down the centre of the room.
What astonished me most in the whole place was the married prisoners’
quarters; for in the large dormitory there were at least two hundred men,
women, and children of all ages herded together indiscriminately. No
words can fitly describe the scene. The evil faces, the babel of voices,
the crying of children, the clanking of the men’s chains, and, above
all, the indescribable stench which seems inseparable from the Siberian
prisons, all combined to make as hideous an impression as could well
be imagined. All round, seated or standing, were little family parties,
so to speak. Tea was going on at the moment I entered, and the women
naturally were in their element; in fact, it was more like a picnic
of the lower orders than a prison scene. The heat of the place, which
appeared to be without ventilation, was as usual fearfully oppressive,
and many of the men and women were in the very scantiest of attires, for
decency did not appear to affect them much, and the sight of so many poor
little innocent children, in such foul surroundings, struck me as being
particularly horrible.
[Illustration: A “PRIVILIGIERT,” OR PRIVILEGED PRISONER.]
We afterwards visited the room of a _priviligiert_, or swell prisoner,
who was too good to associate with the ordinary horde of vulgar
scoundrels, although possibly he may have caused as much misery in his
time to his fellow-creatures as any of them. The “gentleman” in this
case, I heard, “wrote too well.” He was in ordinary civilian attire,
and looked a well-dressed, gentlemanly fellow. His little son was with
him in the room he occupied, which was really not an uncomfortable one,
for there were two real beds in it, with sheets, bedding, etc., washing
appliances, looking-glass, tea-things, plates, saucers, etc.—in fact,
quite a little _ménage_. He was sitting on the bed when I entered, and
my visit evidently did not seem to please him much, for he immediately
turned his back on me and began muttering to himself. However, I went in
all the same and had a good look round, and made a sketch of him in spite
of his ungracious reception.
[Illustration: PEASANT WOMEN SELLING PROVISIONS TO PRISONERS.]
On coming out of the prison I was surprised to see quite a little crowd
of peasant women with baskets of bread, etc., gathered round a hole in
the outer wall, through which they were selling the provisions to such
fortunate prisoners who happened to have a little money. It was a curious
sight, and well worthy of a sketch, I thought—the grimy hands thrust out
through the aperture, and in the background the mass of swarthy, evil
countenances—a subject worthy of Doré.
As I was driving back to town with my friend, the conversation naturally
turned on the scenes I had just witnessed, and I asked him if no work
was ever done in the prisons. He then informed me that all work, except
such as wood-cutting, getting water, etc., is optional; if the prisoners
can find work and care to take it they are at liberty to do so, as there
are specially reserved rooms for them to work in. Many, he told me,
made money by making cigarettes, at which they were very clever, and
naturally could turn them out cheaper than they could be bought at the
shops. Being in want of some at the moment, I thought it would not be a
bad idea to get some made by a prisoner, just out of curiosity. So the
next day I purchased some tobacco and paper, and went to the _ostrog_
(the regular prison, not the depôt) with a friend to interpret for me. It
seemed a usual sort of proceeding, for the gaoler we spoke to about it
said immediately, “_Morgenor_” (it can be done), and opening the large
heavily ironed and barred door leading into the courtyard, called out at
the top of his voice, “_Paperossnik_” (a cigarette-maker). There was a
clanking of chains, and in a few minutes a miserable-looking wretch in
prison clothes came forward. I had only brought a little tobacco, so it
was not a big commission I had to give him. On asking what they would
cost, he replied that he would make me a thousand for sixty kopeks (1_s._
6_d._), that these few he would make me as a sample, and I could give him
what I chose for them. However, the result, though not exactly a failure,
was not a success, as they were not particularly well made, and I had
strong reason to believe that at least a third of the tobacco had been
purloined, for I had got very many less cigarettes than I ought to have
received. So much for convict labour in the prison itself. I shall have
occasion, in a subsequent chapter, to speak about outdoor employment of
the prisoners.
Of course, there are many political exiles living in Krasnoiarsk, but
most of them are time-expired prisoners who cannot leave the district.
At the time of my visit several were employed as clerks, and so forth,
at the various Government offices; and, as far as I could see or hear
(and I had many opportunities for so doing), were not treated with the
severity one hears so much of in England. As a matter of fact, there
is a great deal more complaint out of Siberia about the tyranny of
officials than there is inside it, and the average notions about life
there seems to me to be the outcome of entire ignorance. I must say,
however, that the Russian officials take things too much _au sérieux_.
They “drop upon” people for doing things which in England would be
laughed at and forgotten in twenty-four hours. They don’t believe in
the safety-valve principle, but maybe one official thinks that if he
doesn’t take notice of a thing some other official will, and probably
report the first official into the bargain. Everybody is watched, from
a governor downwards. You don’t see the working of the system, but it
is there all the same. I will give an instance in proof of this. There
was a fancy-dress ball at the club, and, as usual in Siberia, everybody
wore a mask. One young fellow thought he would create a sensation—and he
did. He appeared as a sort of walking advertisement. On his breast were
written some of the advantages of life in Siberia. On his back were the
disadvantages, so strongly worded that a police official tapped him on
the shoulder and requested him to step into a private room. This he did,
his mask was removed, and it was found that he was a young student at the
Tomsk University. He was told to leave the place, notwithstanding the
indignation of the other guests at the official’s action. The official
reported the matter; there was telegraphing backwards and forwards;
the culprit was finally sent back to Tomsk, and I don’t know what
became of him. Probably he is at this moment in solitary exile in some
out-of-the-way place. At any rate, as every one at the ball agreed in
conversation about the affair, his life was practically ruined through
a freak which, in any country not under Russian rule, would simply have
been laughed at.
Local malefactors, whatever their offence, are first taken before the
chief of police (_politcemeaster_), who, if the charge be only a petty
one, disposes of it himself; if, however, it be of a grave nature it
is sent for trial at the high court of justice of the district. I was
informed that it goes very hardly indeed with a liberated criminal exile
if he is ever caught committing a felony in Siberia, for he has then but
a very slight chance of ever regaining his liberty. The police court
itself offered little of interest, being merely a large room with a big
table in it, at the head of which sat the chief and all his officers. The
prisoners were brought in in charge of a soldier or a warder, and stood
about anywhere, for there was no dock, and the proceedings, though novel,
were not interesting.
I had heard a good deal about the “night refuges for the destitute,”
which exist in all Siberian towns, so was determined to visit one,
although at first it seemed likely to prove a difficult matter, as my
friends were not eager to go to such an uninviting den, even in the
interests of art. However, at last I persuaded one to accompany me
late one night. The refuge naturally was situated in the poorest part
of the city, and we had some difficulty at first in finding it. It only
consisted of two fairly large rooms, lighted by a swinging lamp. The
effect was almost the same as in the prison, for there was the same
fearful heat and stench, the same crowd of unkempt wretches, most of
whom looked like old gaol-birds. The only difference was that these two
rooms were simply packed to their utmost capacity, every available corner
being occupied, even to the floor underneath the sloping shelf which
served as the sleeping-place—so much so, in fact, that it was positively
difficult to get in without treading on some one’s face or body. As may
be imagined, I hurried up with my sketch as much as possible, for I was
anxious to get out into the open air again without delay. Beyond the
sloping shelf no other “bedding” is supplied, the men having to provide
any further luxuries themselves; but the heating arrangements were so
complete that no coverings whatever were needed. Besides the actual
lodging, the men are given a mug of tea and piece of bread for supper,
and the same in the morning for breakfast. Those who are known to have
a little money are charged five kopeks (1½_d._) for the lodging. Before
leaving, I was permitted to have a peep into the female dormitory, which
was comparatively empty, for I only saw three miserable old hags in their
“beauty sleep.”
[Illustration: WATCHMAN ON DUTY IN FIRE TOWER, KRASNOIARSK.
[_To face p. 155._]
As in most Siberian towns where wood is principally used in the
construction of the houses, the fire brigade forms a most important
feature in the municipal arrangements. All over the city are to be seen
large and in many cases handsome watch-towers, in which watchmen are
always stationed, with a big bell close at hand to give the alarm when
necessary; whilst below several manuals are in constant readiness with a
supply of warm water during the winter, to avoid risk of its freezing.
The theatre is really quite an imposing building, and rendered more so
by being situated in the centre of an immense open space. Performances
take place in it three times a week during the winter, and, judging from
the way they are patronized, histrionic art is evidently well appreciated
here.
Taking it all in all, therefore, I found Krasnoiarsk a very interesting
place, and well worth the six weeks’ stay I made in it; in fact, I was
quite sorry to leave it.