SECRET POLICE.
The new principle of referring things to a popular vote is coming into
play on every side; nowhere in a form more striking than in the courts
of law. Some twenty years ago the administration of justice was the
darkest blot on Russian life.
What the Emperor had to meet and put away, on this side of his
government, was a colossal evil.
In a country over which the prince has to rule as well as reign, a
good many men must have a share in the exercise of irresponsible and
imperial power--more perhaps than would have to divide the beneficent
authority of a constitutional king. A prince has only two eyes, two
ears, and two hands. The circle which he can see, and hear, and reach,
is drawn closely round his person, and in all that he would do beyond
that line he must act through an intelligence other than his own; and
for the blunders of this second self he has to bear the blame.
The parties who exercise this power in the imperial name are the
secret police and the provincial governors, general and local.
The secret police have an authority which knows no bounds, save that
of the Emperor's direct command. They have a province of their own,
apart from, and above, all other provinces in the state. Their chief,
Count Shouvalof, is the first functionary of the empire, the only man
who has a right of audience by day and night. In Eastern nations rank
is measured in no small degree by a person's right of access to the
sovereign. Now, the right of audience in the winter palace is governed
by the clearest rules. Ordinary ministers of the crown--home office,
education, finance--can only see the Emperor once a week. Greater
ministers--war and foreign affairs--can see him once a day, but only
at certain stated hours. A minister of police can walk into his
cabinet any hour of the day, into his bedroom any hour of the night.
Not many years ago the power of this minister was equal to his rank at
court; in home affairs he was supreme; and many a poor ruler found
himself at once his tool and dupe. Much of this power has now been
lodged in courts of law, over which the police have no control; but
over and beyond the law, a vast reserve is left with the police, who
can still revise a sentence, and, as an "administrative measure," send
a man into exile who has been acquitted by the courts.
While I was staying at Archangel, an actor and actress were brought
from St. Petersburg in a tarantass, set down in the grass-grown
square, near the poet's pedestal, and told to shift for themselves,
though they were on no account to quit the town without the governor's
pass. No one could tell what they had done. Their lips were closed;
the newspapers were silent; but a thousand tongues were busy with
their tale; and the likelier story seemed to be, that they had been
playing a part in some drama of actual life. Clandestine marriages are
not so rare in Russia as they are in England and the United States.
Young princes love to run away with dancers, singers, and their like.
Now these exiles in the North country were said to have been concerned
in a runaway match, by which the pride of a powerful family had been
stung; and since it was impossible to punish the offending parties,
these poor artists had been whisked off their tinsel thrones in order
to appease a parent's wounded pride. The man and woman were not man
and wife; but care for such loss of fame as a pretty woman might
undergo by riding in a tarantass, day and night, twelve hundred
versts, through a wild country, with a man who was not her spouse,
seems never to have troubled the director of police. Stage heroines
have no character in official eyes. There they were, in the North; and
there they would have to stay, until the real offenders should be able
to make their peace, whether they could manage to live in that city of
trade, as honest folks should live, or not. Clever in their art, they
opened a barn long closed, and the parlors of Archangel were agog with
glee. What they performed could hardly be called a play. Two persons
make a poor company, and these artists were of no high rank. They just
contrived to keep their visitors awake by doing easy tricks in magic,
and by acting short scenes from some of the naughtiest pieces in the
world. It is to be hoped, on every ground, that the angry gods may be
appeased, that the hero and heroine of this comedy may come back to
the great city in which their talents are better known.
These actors were sent from the capital on a simple order from the
police. They have not been tried; they have not been heard in defense;
they have not been told the nature of their crime. An agent drove to
their door in a drojki, asked to see So-and-so, and on going up, said,
in tones which only the police can use: "Get ready; in three hours we
start--for Archangel." Young or aged, male or female, the victim in
such a case must snatch up what he can, follow his captor to the
street, get into his drojki, and obey in silence the invisible powers.
Not a word can be said in bar of his sentence; no court will open its
doors to his appeal; no judge can hear his case.
Their case is far from being a rare one. In the same streets of
Archangel you meet a lady of middle age, who has been exiled from St.
Petersburg on simple suspicion of being concerned in seducing students
of the university from their allegiance to the country and the Church.
Following in the wake of other changes, some reforms have been made in
the universities; made, on the whole, in a liberal and pacific sense.
Nicolas put the students into uniform; hung swords in their belts; and
gave them a certain standing in the public eye, as officers of the
crown. They were his servants; and as his servants they enjoyed some
rights which they dearly prized. They ranked as nobles. They had their
own police. They stood apart, as a separate corporation; and, whether
they sang through the street or sat in the play-house, they appeared
in public as a corporate body, and always in the front. But the
reforming Emperor seeks to restore these civilian youths to the habits
of civil life. Their swords have been hung up, their uniforms laid
aside, their right of singing songs and damning plays in a body put
away. All these distinctions are now abolished; and, like other
civilians, the students have been placed under the city police and the
ordinary courts.
These changes are unpopular with the students, who imagine that their
dignity has been lessened by stripping them of uniform and sword; and
some of these young men, professing all the while republican and
communistic creeds, are clamoring for their class distinctions, and
even hankering for the times when they were "servants of the Tsar."
In the month of March (1869) some noisy meetings of these young men
took place. The Emperor heard of them, and sent for Trepof, his first
master of police--a man of shrewd wit and generous temper, under whom
the police have become all but popular. "What do these students want?"
his Majesty began. "Two things," replied the master; "bread and
state." "Bread?" exclaimed the Emperor. "Yes," said the master; "many
of them are poor; with empty bellies, active brains, and saucy
tongues."
"What can be done for them, poor fellows?"
"A few purses, sire, would keep them quiet; twenty thousand rubles
now, and promise of a yearly grant in aid of poor students." "Let it
be so," said the prince.
These rubles were sent at once to the rector and professors to
dispense, according to their knowledge of the students' needs; but,
unluckily, the rector and professors treated the imperial gift as a
bit of personal patronage, and they gave the purses to each others'
sons and nephews, lads who could well afford to pay their fees. The
students called fresh meetings, talked much nonsense, and drew up an
appeal to the people, written in a florid and offensive style.
Treating the Government as an equal power, these madcaps printed what
they called an ultimatum of four articles: (1.) they demanded the
right of establishing a students' club; (2.) the right of meeting and
addressing the Government as a corporate body; (3.) the control of all
purses and scholarships given to poor students; (4.) the abolition of
university fees. Following these articles came an appeal to the people
for support against the minions of the crown!
A party in the state--the enemies of reform--were said to have raised
a fund for the purpose of corrupting these young men; and this party
were suspected of employing the agency of clever women in carrying out
their plans. It was not easy to detect these female plotters at their
work, for the revolution they were trying to bring about was made with
smiles and banter over cups of tea; but ladies were arrested in
several streets, and the lady to be seen in Archangel was one of these
victims--exiled on "suspicion" of having been concerned in printing
the appeal.
When she came into exile every one was amazed; she seemed so weak and
broken; she showed so little spirit; and when people talked with her
they found she had none of the talents necessary for intrigue. The
comedy of government by "suspicion" stood confessed. Here was a
prince, the idol of his country, armed in his mail of proof,
surrounded by a million bayonets, not to speak of artillery, cavalry,
and ships; and there was a frail creature, fifty years old, with
neither beauty, followers, nor fortune to promote her views: in such a
foe, what could the Emperor be supposed to fear?
A young writer of some talent in St. Petersburg, one Dimitri Pisareff,
was bathing in the sea near his summer-house, and, getting beyond his
depth, was drowned. The young man was a politician, and, having caused
much scandal by his writings, he had passed some years in the fortress
of St. Peter and St. Paul. Freed by the Emperor, he resumed his pen.
After his death, Pavlenkoff, a bookseller in the city, who admired his
talents, and thought he had served his country, opened a subscription
among his readers for the purpose of erecting a stone above the young
author's grave. The secret police took notice of the fact, and as
Dimitri Pisareff was one of the names in their black list, they
understood this effort to do him honor as a public censure of their
zeal. Pavlenkoff was arrested in his shop, put into a cart, and, with
neither charge nor hearing, driven to the province of Viatka, twelve
hundred versts from home. That poor bookseller still remains in exile.
A more curious case is that of Gierst, a young novelist of mark, who
began, in the year 1868, to publish in a monthly magazine, called
"Russian Notes" ("Otetchestvenniva Zapiski"), a romance which he
called "Old and Young Russia." The opening chapters showed that his
tale was likely to be clever; bold in thought and brilliant in style.
Gierst took the part of Young Russia against Old Russia, and his
chapters were devoured by youths in all the colleges and schools.
Every one began to talk of the story, and to discuss the questions
raised by it--men and things in the past, in contrast with the hopes
and talents of the present reign. The police took part with the
elders; and when the novelist who made the stir could not be answered
with argument, they silenced him by a midnight call. An officer came
to his lodgings with the usual order to depart at once. Away sped the
horses, he knew not whither--driving on night and day, until they
arrived at Totma, one of the smaller towns in the province of Vologda,
nine hundred versts from St. Petersburg. There he was tossed out of
his cart, and told to remain until fresh orders came from the minister
of police.
None of Gierst's friends, at first, knew where he was. His rooms in
St. Petersburg were empty; he had gone away; and the only trace which
he had left behind was the tale of a domestic, who had seen him
carried off. No one dared to ask about him. Reference to him in the
journals was forbidden; and the public only learned from the
non-appearance of his story in the "Notes" that the police had somehow
interfered with the free exercise of his pen. The letters which he
wrote to the papers were laid aside as being too dangerous for the
public eye; and it was only by a ruse that he conveyed to his readers
the knowledge of his whereabouts.
Gierst sent to the editor of "Notes" a letter of apology for the
interruption of his tale. He merely said it would not be carried
farther for the present; and the police raised no objection to the
publication of this letter in the "Notes." They overlooked the date
which the letter bore; and the one word "Totma" told the public all.
The world enjoyed a laugh at the police; and the irritated officials
tried to vent their rage on the young wit who had proved that they
were fools. Gierst remains an exile at Totma, and the public still
awaits the story from his hands. But a thousand novels, rich in art
and red in spirit, could not have touched the public conscience like
the haunting memory of this unfinished tale.