PRISON LIFE IN SIBERIA—_continued_.
Outdoor employment of prisoners—A chat with an employer of
convict labour—The “convict’s word”—An interview with a
celebrated murderess—The criminal madhouse—Political prisoners
in solitary confinement—I get permission to paint a picture in
one of the cells—End of my visits to the prison.
[Illustration]
Outdoor employment away from the prison is often granted to prisoners who
have been remarked for special good conduct, and they are drafted off
either to Government or private works, such as salt or iron workings.
Those sent to private works are thus rewarded for exceptionally good
behaviour whilst in prison; they get well paid whilst thus employed,
and they work side by side with free men, receiving the same pay, and
enjoying the same allowances, the only difference being that of course
they cannot leave of their own accord. The pay struck me as being
exceptionally good, for it averages twenty-five roubles (£3) per month
for foremen, and ranging down to four roubles for ordinary labourers.
Besides this pay each man receives eighty pounds of flour for himself,
and if married forty for his wife, and the same amount for each child
from the day of its birth till it is thirteen years of age. Eight roubles
per year are also allowed for boots and gloves. Housing is provided by
the owners of the works, but the convicts may if they choose live apart
on the works at their own expense. At the Government works (not the
hard-labour ones) it is very different, for although it is a distinct
rise in the prisoner’s position to be sent to them, the pay is very poor
indeed, being only five kopeks (a little over one penny) per day, and
the men are always under the supervision of convoy soldiers. There is no
military guard over men working at private works.
I had an interesting interview with the owner of some salt works who
largely employs convict labour. He told me that he would far rather
employ convicts than ordinary labourers, as they were “more reliable.”
If a convict gave his “convict’s word” to do or not to do a thing, as
the case might be, he could rely on his never breaking it, for it would
be contrary to the recognized code of prison honour. For instance, he
told me, it would often happen, when the gang he had ordered arrived,
the _staroster_ of it would inform him that such and such prisoners were
unreliable, as they had declared their intention of running away at the
first opportunity. “But how about the others?” he would ask; “for it
would be awkward to find one’s self shorthanded at a critical moment.”
“Oh, the others,” would reply the _staroster_, “have given me their
‘convict’s word’ to remain and do their best, so you can rely on them.”
This system of thus utilizing convict labour is undoubtedly part of a
huge scheme for gradually colonizing this vast continent, as round the
works small villages gradually spring up.
After visiting the men’s quarters we went to the portion reserved for the
fair sex, which, beyond being very crowded, offered but little of novelty
or interest. Just as we were turning to leave the building, however, the
doctor said, “Let’s go and see how the baroness is;” so we went back and
down a corridor, at the end of which was a door by itself. Before going
in I was informed that this was the cell of the famous poisoner, Sofie de
Willup, Baroness de Sachs, whose trial, with that of her lover, a groom,
some years ago in St. Petersburg, for murdering her second husband by
slow poison, was a _cause célèbre_, for it then transpired that her first
husband had also died in some mysterious manner. The case was proved to
the hilt, I was told, and in England her fate, the gallows, would have
been inevitable; but in Russia it was different, for she was a scion
of a noble and wealthy house, and her relatives moving in the highest
circles. Still, she could not entirely escape punishment of some sort,
and she was eventually sent to Siberia for life, nominally to “hard
labour at the mines,” where a poor and unknown woman would undoubtedly
have gone; but the governor of the province she was consigned to was
a relative of hers, so she naturally never reached her destination,
but remained in the Irkutsk prison as “an invalid.” Her lover, being
a nobody, was sent to work in chains for the remainder of his life in
Saghalien, and is doubtless there still.
[Illustration: THE BARONESS.]
In response to a discreet knock by the governor, a female voice from
within bade us enter. Imagine my astonishment, after having been told
all the lady was, to find myself in a small but comfortably furnished
room, with flowers and birds in cages in the window, and books and other
“luxuries” lying about in profusion; whilst in a cupboard I noticed
the usual extensive wardrobe of a stylish woman. On a carved bedstead
in one corner of this unique prison “cell” lay the invalid, a healthy,
not unprepossessing young woman of about thirty years of age; she was
dressed in ordinary walking costume, and on hearing our knock had
evidently hastily thrown herself on the bed and covered herself with a
smart travelling rug, so as to carry out fully her invalid condition.
The whole look of the place was certainly the most hollow mockery of
justice I had ever seen, and I could not help involuntarily contrasting
her surroundings with those of the poor wretches in other parts of
the building, whose crimes were probably not half as bad as hers. The
lady languidly gave us her hand to shake, and in reply to the doctor’s
question as to how “Madame la baronne” felt, said she felt a little
better.
“By the way,” said the governor, “you speak English, or French, or
German, don’t you, Baronne?”
“Oh yes,” she replied, “all three.”
So I was formally introduced, and had my first conversation with a
real live murderess. It was rather embarrassing at the commencement,
for I hardly knew what to say; but she helped me out of the difficulty
by asking in very fair English how dear old London looked, and how
long it was since I had left it, etc., and we ended by having quite
a cosmopolitan chat together, first in English, then in French, and
gradually drifting into German, as, so to speak, we wandered about
Europe, talking of the different places we knew, whilst I meanwhile was
making a rough sketch of the room and its occupant. She told me, to my
surprise, that she hoped to be free in a couple of months, when, although
she would not be allowed to leave Siberia, she could live on her means
(which, I believe, were ample) in some designated village or town. “After
six years of ‘prison’ life,” she added, “any place will be an agreeable
change for me.”
On leaving the baroness the doctor suggested that the criminal madhouse
might interest me, so we all adjourned to a neighbouring building
standing within a high stockade. The unfortunate inmates were evidently
well looked after, for the place was as warm as toast and as clean as
possible. There were no dangerous madmen there when we visited it, so the
padded rooms were empty. It gave one more the impression of a hospital
than a madhouse. As we entered, a wretched-looking little individual
rushed up to the director and loudly complained about his being still
detained there because the governor-general of Irkutsk refused to pay him
what he owed him. The director agreed with him that it was very unfair
his being there under the circumstances, but assured him that the matter
was receiving the attention it deserved, and doubtless in a few days he
would be permitted to leave. This seemed to satisfy the poor fellow,
and he withdrew, after thanking us all for having honoured him with our
visit.
In another of the wards amongst the patients was an actor (absurdly like
Willard). Immediately he caught sight of us he ran up to the doctor, and
in excited tones informed him that he had not yet received the thirty
thousand roubles, which were owing to him for his last performance. The
doctor pacified him with the assurance that the money would shortly
be forthcoming, but had not yet been received by the officials, and
further, to humour him, asked how the performance for his “benefit” was
progressing. In reply, the fellow gave us, in the centre of the room,
what evidently was part of a scene he had once acted in, and went through
some extraordinary performance, alternately weeping, tearing his hair,
and grovelling on the floor, whilst uttering incoherent sentences,
and then rushing about as though with a sword in his hand and singing
operatic airs. It was a painful rather than an amusing sight, and one
which I shall not easily forget—the poor half-witted chap in the centre
of the large room declaiming to an imaginary audience, and all round,
sitting or standing by their beds, were the other lunatics, watching his
movements in rapt amazement.
[Illustration: A “POLITICAL.”
(_From a Government photo._)
[_To face p. 205._]
We then went back to the prison, as I expressed a wish to see the
prisoners in the solitary, or _sekrétene_, cells. This was the only part
of the building which was really like a prison. And very gloomy and
depressing was it; no less than three heavily barred iron doors had
to be unlocked before we reached the corridor where these cells were
situated. A warder is on duty here, I was told, night and day, for there
were several political prisoners, and the rest were the most desperate
characters. In each door was a little hole about the size of a sixpence,
through which could be seen the interior of the cell. I had a peep into
all; it was almost like looking at some caged wild beasts, the clanking
of the heavy chains they wore on their hands and feet heightening the
illusion. Some of the prisoners had, I was informed, been there for
years, and only were allowed out for exercise for an hour a day, and
were not permitted to mingle with the other prisoners. It was easy to
distinguish which were the “politicals,” for they were in ordinary
civilian costume and had no chains on, as far as I could see. Most of
them were quite young men, one being a mere lad, his curly hair and
good-looking face not giving him the appearance of being so dangerous a
political character as to necessitate such elaborate precautions being
taken to prevent his escape. To my astonishment—for I had always read
to the contrary—I noticed that all these political prisoners were not
only allowed books to read, but in most cases were smoking also, and in
every instance had their own mattresses and bedding; so their cells, at
any rate, looked cleaner and more cheerful than those of the ordinary
criminals, to whom filth seemed indifferent.
As we were crossing the quadrangle on our way out, a prisoner came up
and offered to sell me a horsehair chain he had made. The fact of the
governor and other officials being present did not seem to matter a bit,
so as the work was curious I bought it of him, and as I had no small
money about me, he took a rouble note and went and got change from some
other prisoner!
This my first visit to the prison was followed by many others, and I made
a heap of sketches; in fact, I fancy I got to be looked upon as quite
an _habitué_ of the gruesome place. I even obtained permission to make
a painting of a prisoner in one of the solitary cells, and had a whole
day’s work at it under the supervision of a warder, a break in the poor
wretch’s awful existence which he will probably remember for many a long
year, whilst probably wondering what the _Angliski Gospodin_ could have
seen worthy of being painted in so dreary a place.
[Illustration: VISITING DAY IN THE IRKUTSK PRISON.—“SWEETHEARTS AND
WIVES.”
[_To face p. 236._]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
On the morning of my last visit to the prison, when I went to fetch away
my canvas and paint-box, I was rather surprised to notice as I drove up
a tall, well-dressed woman walking up and down, accompanied by a gaoler,
in the sunshine, outside the gates, in front of the group of warders
and soldiers who were always lolling about smoking and chatting on the
benches against the wall. On getting nearer, I found it was my murderess
friend the baroness. We shook hands in the most unconstrained manner, and
she told me in French that she was taking her usual “constitutional”
after breakfast. We then had quite a long talk together, for she had
news to give me. In a month she would be free again, and was going to
live at a little place called Oussolié, near Irkutsk, where she intended
building a house for herself. She then told me a lot more about her
future plans—I almost felt inclined to ask if they included any more
husbands! Whilst thus chatting, the warders in no way interfered with
us; they did not seem to consider it in any way strange my speaking to a
prisoner. Before leaving her she said she would be glad to write to me if
I ever cared to hear from her, and would also send her photo if I liked.
My murderess friend was evidently “smitten”! I gave her my address, and,
to my surprise, a few days later received the letter, of which I give a
facsimile, and also enclosing her photo, which I afterwards learnt she
had had taken expressly for me. With this somewhat novel adventure ended
my visits to the prison.