The descendants of exiles are in much greater number than the exiles
themselves. Eastern Siberia is mainly peopled by them, and Western
Siberia very largely so. They are all free peasants and enjoy a
condition far superior to that of the serf under the system prevalent
before 1859. Many of them have become wealthy through gold mining,
commerce, and agriculture, and occupy positions they never could have
obtained had they lived in European Russia. I know a merchant whose
fortune is counted by millions, and who is famous through Siberia for
his enterprise and generosity. He is the son of an exiled serf and has
risen by his own ability. Since I left Siberia I learn with pleasure
that the emperor has honored him with a decoration. Many of the
prominent merchants and proprietary miners were mentioned to me as
examples of the prosperity of the second and third generation from
banished men. I was told particularly of a wealthy gold miner whose
evening of life is cheered by an ample fortune and two well educated
children. Forty years ago his master capriciously sent him to Siberia.
The man found his banishment ‘the best thing that could happen.’
The system of serfdom never had any practical hold in Siberia. There
was but one Siberian proprietor of serfs in existence at the time of
the emancipation. This was Mr. Rodinkoff of Krasnoyarsk, whose
grandfather received a grant of serfs and a patent of nobility from
the empress Catherine. None of the family, with a single exception,
ever attempted more than nominal exercise of authority over the
peasants, and this one paid for his imprudence with his life. He
attempted to put in force his full proprietary rights, and the result
was his death by violence during a visit to one of his estates.
The difference between the conditions of the Russian and Siberian
peasantry was that between slavery and freedom. The owner of serfs had
rarely any common interest with his people, and his chief business was
to make the most out of his human property. Serfdom was degrading to
master and serf, just as slavery degraded owner and slave. The moujik
bore the stamp of servility as the negro slave bore it, and it will
take as much time to wear it away in the one as the other. Centuries
of oppression in Russia could not fail to open a wide gulf between the
nobility and those who obeyed them. Thanks to Alexander the work of
filling this gulf has begun, but it will require many years and much
toil to complete it.
The comparative freedom enjoyed in Siberia was not without visible
result. The peasants were more prosperous than in Russia, they lived
in better houses and enjoyed more real comforts of life. The absence
of masters and the liberty to act for themselves begat an air of
independence in the peasant class that contrasted agreeably with the
cringing servility of the serf. Wealth was open to all who sought it,
and the barriers between the different ranks of society were partially
broken down. The peasants that acquired wealth began to cultivate
refined tastes. They paid more attention to the education of their
children than was shown by the same class in Russia, and the desire
for education rapidly increased. The emancipation of the serfs in
Russia was probably brought about by the marked superiority of the
Siberian population in prosperity and intelligence.
In coming ages the Russians will revere the name of Alexander not less
than that of Peter the Great. To the latter is justly due the credit
of raising the nation from barbarism; the former has the immortal
honor of removing the stain of serfdom. The difficulties in the way
were great and the emperor had few supporters, but he steadily pursued
his object and at length earned the eternal gratitude of his people.
Russia is yet in her developing stage. The shock of the change was
severe and not unattended with danger, but the critical period is
passed, and the nation has commenced a career of freedom. The serf has
been awakened to a new life, and his education is just commencing.
Already there is increased prosperity in some parts of the empire,
showing that the free man understands his new condition. The
proprietors who were able to appreciate and prepare for the change
have been positively benefited, while others who continued obstinate
were ruined. On the whole the derangement by the transition has been
less than many friends of the measure expected, and by no means equal
to that prophesied by its opponents. But the grandest results in the
nation’s progress are yet to come, and it is from future generations
that Alexander will receive his warmest praise.
The working of mines on government account has greatly diminished in
the past few years, and the number of hard labor convicts in Siberia
more than equals the capacity of the mines. When the political exiles,
after the revolution of 1863, arrived at Irkutsk, the mines were
already filled with convicts. The ‘politiques’ sentenced to hard labor
were employed in building; roads, most of them being sent to the
southern end of Lake Baikal. In June, 1866, seven hundred and twenty
prisoners were sent to this labor, and divided into eight or ten
parties to work on as many sections of the road. Before the end of the
month a revolt occurred. Various accounts have been given and
different motives assigned for it. I was told by several Poles that
the prisoners were half starved, and the little food they received was
bad. Hunger and a desire to escape were the motives to the
insurrection. On the other hand the Russians told me the prisoners
were properly fed, and the revolt must be attributed entirely to the
hope of escaping from Siberia.
I obtained from an officer, who sat on the court-martial which
investigated the affair, the following particulars:
On the 24th of June, (O.S.,) the working party at Koultoukskoi, the
western end of the road, disarmed its guard by a sudden and bloodless
attack. The insurgents then moved eastward along the line of the road,
and on their way overpowered successively the guards of the other
parties. Many of the prisoners refused to take part in the affair and
remained at their work. A Polish officer named Sharamovitch assumed
command of the insurgents, who directed their march toward Posolsky.
[Illustration: TARTAR CAVALRY.]
As soon as news of the affair reached Irkutsk, the Governor General
ordered a battalion of soldiers by steamer to Posolsky. On the 28th of
June a fight occurred at the river Bestriya. The insurgents were
defeated with a loss of twenty-five or thirty men, while the force
sent against them lost five men and one officer. The Polish leader was
among the killed. After the defeat the insurgents separated in small
bands and fled into the mountains. They were pursued by Tartar
cavalry, who scoured the country thoroughly and retook all the
fugitives. The insurrection caused much alarm at its outbreak, as it
was supposed all prisoners in Siberia were in the conspiracy.
Exaggerated reports were spread, and all possible precautions taken,
but they proved unnecessary. The conspiracy extended no farther than
the working parties on the Baikal road.
The prisoners were brought to Irkutsk, where a court-martial
investigated the affair. A Russian court-martial does not differ
materially from any other in the manner of its proceedings. It
requires positive evidence for or against a person accused, and, like
other courts, gives him the benefit of doubts. My informant told me
that the court in this case listened to all evidence that had any
possible bearing on the question. The sitting continued several weeks,
and after much deliberation the court rendered a finding and sentence.
In the finding the prisoners were divided into five grades, and their
sentences accorded with the letter of the law. The first grade
comprised seven persons, known to have been leaders in the revolt.
These were sentenced to be shot. In the second grade there were a
hundred and ninety-seven, who knew the design to revolt and joined in
the insurrection. One-tenth of these were to suffer death, the choice
being made by lot; the remainder were sentenced to twenty years labor.
The third grade comprised a hundred and twenty-two, ignorant of the
conspiracy before the revolt, but who joined the insurgents. These
received an addition of two or three years to their original sentences
to labor. The fourth grade included ninety-four men, who knew the
design to revolt but refused to join the insurgents. These were
sentenced “to remain under suspicion.” In the fifth and last grade
there were two hundred and sixty, who were ignorant of the conspiracy
and remained at their posts. Their innocence was fully established,
and, of course, relieved them from all charge.
It was found that the design of the insurgents was to escape into
Mongolia and make their way to Pekin. This would have been next to
impossible, for two reasons: the character of the country, and the
treaty between China and Russia. The region to be traversed from the
Siberian frontier toward Pekin is the Mongolian steppe or desert. The
only food obtainable on the steppe is mutton from the flocks of the
nomad inhabitants. These are principally along the road from Kiachta,
and even there are by no means numerous. The escaping exiles in
avoiding the road to ensure safety would have run great risk of
starvation. The treaty between China and Russia requires that
fugitives from one empire to the other shall be given up. Had the
exiles succeeded in crossing Mongolia and reaching the populous parts
of China, they would have been once more in captivity and returned to
Russian hands.
The finding of the court-martial was submitted to General Korsackoff
for approval or revision. The general commuted the sentence of three
men in the first grade to twenty years labor. Those in the second
grade sentenced to death were relieved from this punishment and placed
on the same footing as their companions. In the third grade the
original sentence (at the time of banishment) was increased by one or
two years labor. Other penalties were not changed.
During my stay in Irkutsk the four prisoners condemned to death
suffered the extreme penalty, the execution occurring in the forest
near the town. A firing party of forty-eight men was divided into four
squads. According to the custom at all military executions one musket
in each squad was charged with a blank cartridge. The four prisoners
were shot simultaneously, and all died instantly. Two of them were
much dejected; the others met their deaths firmly and shouted “_Vive
la Pologne_” as they heard the order to fire.
I was told that the crowd of people, though large, was very quiet,
and moved away in silence when the execution was over. Very few
officers and soldiers were present beyond those whose duty required
them to witness or take part in the affair.
One of the most remarkable escapes from Siberia was that of Rufin
Piotrowski, a Polish emigrant who left Paris in 1844 to return to his
native country, with impossible plans and crude ideas for her relief.
The end of his journey was Kamimetz, in Podolia, where he gave himself
out as a Frenchman, who had come to give private lessons in foreign
languages, and received the usual permit from the authorities without
exciting any suspicion. He was soon introduced into the best society;
and the better to shield his connections, he chose the houses of
Russian employés. His security rested upon his not being supposed to
understand the Polish language; and, during the nine months that he
remained, he obtained such command over himself, that the police had
not the slightest suspicion of his being a Pole. The warning voice
came from St. Petersburg, through the spies in Paris.
Early one winter’s morning he was roughly shaken out of slumber by the
director of police, and carried before the governor of the province,
who had come specially on this errand. His position was represented to
him as one of the greatest danger, and he was recommended to make a
full confession. This for many days he refused to do, until a large
number of those who were his accomplices were brought before him; and
their weary, anxious faces induced him to exclaim loudly, and in his
native tongue—“Yes, I am a Pole, and have returned because I could
not bear exile from my native land any longer. Here I wished to live
inoffensive and quiet, confiding my secret to a few countrymen; and I
have nothing more to say.” An immediate order was made out for the
culprit’s departure to Kiev. According to the story he has published
his sufferings were frightful, and were not lessened when they stopped
at a hut, where some rusty chains were brought out, the rings of which
were thrust over his ankles: they proved much too small, and the rust
prevented the bars from turning in the sockets, so that the pain was
insupportable. He was rudely carried and thrown into the carriage, and
thus arrived in an almost insensible condition at the fortress of
Kiev.
After many months’ detention in this prison, being closely watched and
badly treated, he was sentenced to hard labor in Siberia for life,
degraded from his rank as a noble, and ordered to make the journey in
chains. As soon as this was read to him, he was taken to a kibitka,
with three horses, irons were put on, and he was placed between two
armed soldiers; the gates of the fortress were shut, and the road to
Siberia was before him. An employee came up to M. Piotrowski, and
timidly offered him a small packet, saying—“Accept this from my
saint.” The convict not understanding, he added, “You are a Pole, and
do not know our customs. It is my fête-day, when it is above all a
duty to assist the unfortunate. Pray, accept it, then, in the name of
my saint, after whom I am called.” The packet contained bread, salt,
and money.
Night and day the journey continued, with the utmost rapidity, for
about a month, when, in the middle of the night, they stopped at the
fortress of Omsk, where he was placed for a few hours with a young
officer who had committed some breach of discipline. They talked on
incessantly until the morning, so great was the pleasure of meeting
with an educated person. A map of Siberia was in the room, which
Piotrowski examined with feverish interest. “Ah!” said his companion,
“are you meditating flight? Pray, do not think of it: many of your
fellow-countrymen have tried it, and never succeeded.”
At midday he was brought before Prince Gortchakoff, and the critical
moment of his fate arrived: he might either be sent to some of the
government factories in the neighborhood, or to the mines underground.
An hour passed in cruel suspense while this was debated. At length one
of the council announced to him that he was to be sent to the
distillery of Ekaterinski, three hundred miles to the north of Omsk.
The clerks around congratulated him on his destination, and his
departure was immediate.
On a wintry morning he reached a vast plain near the river Irtish, on
which a village of about two hundred wooden huts was built around a
factory. When introduced into the clerks’ office, a young man who was
writing jumped up and threw himself into his arms: he also was a Pole
from Cracow, a well-known poet, and sent away for life as “a measure
of precaution.” Soon they were joined by another political criminal:
these spoke rapidly and with extreme emotion, entreating their new
friend to bear everything in the most submissive and patient manner,
as the only means of escaping from menial employment, and being
promoted to the clerks’ office. Not long was he permitted to rest. A
convict came and ordered him to take a broom and sweep away a mass of
dirt that some masons had left; a murderer was his companion; and thus
he went on until nightfall, when his two friends were permitted to
visit him, in the presence of the soldiers and convicts, most of the
latter of whom had been guilty of frightful crimes.
Thus day after day passed on, in sweeping, carrying wood and water,
amid snow and frost. His good conduct brought him, in a year and a
half, to the office, where he received ten francs a month and his
rations, and the work was light. During this time he saw and conversed
with many farmers and travelers from a distance, and gained every
information about the roads, rivers, etc., with a view to the escape
he was ever meditating. Some of the natives unite with the soldiers in
exercising an incessant supervision over the convicts, and a common
saying among the Tartars is: “In killing a squirrel you get but one
skin, whilst a convict has three—his coat, his shirt, and his skin.”
Slowly and painfully he collected the materials for his journey. First
of all, a passport was an essential. A convict who had been sentenced
for making false money, still possessed an excellent stamp of the
royal arms; this Piotrowski bought for a few francs. The sheet of
paper was easily obtained in the office, and the passport forged.
After long waiting, he procured a Siberian wig—that is, a sheepskin
with the wool turned in, to preserve the head from the cold—three
shirts, a sheepskin bournouse, and a red velvet cap bordered with
fur—the dress of a well-to-do peasant. On a sharp frosty night he
quitted Ekaterinski for Tara, having determined to try the road to the
north for Archangel, as the least frequented. A large fair was shortly
to be held at Irbit, at the foot of the Urals, and he hoped to hide
himself in the vast crowd of people that frequented it. Soon after he
had crossed the river a sledge was heard behind him. He trembled for
his safety—his pursuers were perhaps coming.
“Where are you going?” shouted the peasant who drove it.
“To Tara.”
“Give me ten sous, and I will take you.”
“No; it is too much. I will give eight.”
“Well, so let it be. Jump in quickly.”
He was set down in the street; and knocking at a house, inquired in
the Russian fashion—“Have you horses to hire?”
“Yes—a pair. Where to?”
“To Irbit. I am a commercial traveler, and going to meet my master. I
am behind my time, and wish to go as quickly as possible.”
No sooner had they set off than a snow-storm came on, and the driver
lost his way. They wandered about all night in the forest, and it was
impossible to describe the anguish and suffering Piotrowski endured.
“Return to Tara,” said he, as the day broke; “I will engage another
sledge; and you need not expect any money from me, after the folly you
have shown in losing your way.”
They turned, but had hardly gone a mile before the driver jumped up,
looked around, and cried—“This is our road.” Then making up for lost
time, he set him down at a friend’s house, where he procured some tea
and fresh horses. On he went in safety, renewing his horses at small
expense, until late at night, when he suffered from a most unfortunate
robbery. He had not money at hand to pay the conductor. They turned
into a public-house, where a crowd of drunken people were celebrating
the carnival. He drew out some paper-money to get change, when the
crowd coming round, some one seized his papers, among which were
several rouble notes, his invaluable passport, and a note in which he
had minutely inscribed all the towns and villages he must pass through
on the road to Archangel. He was in despair. The very first day, a
quarter of his money was gone, and the only thing by which he hoped to
evade suspicion, his passport. He dare not appeal to the police, and
was obliged to submit.
Regret and hesitation were not to be thought of. He soon found himself
on the high-road to Irbit, crowded with an innumerable mass of
sledges, going or returning to the fair. It is the season of gain and
good humor, and the people show it by unbounded gaiety. Piotrowski
took courage, returned the salutations of the passers-by—for how
could he be distinguished in such a crowd? The gates of Irbit were
reached on the third day. “Halt, and shew your passport,” cried an
official; but added in a whisper—“Give me twenty copecks, and pass
quickly.” The demand was willingly gratified, and with some difficulty
he procured a night’s lodging, lying on the floor amidst a crowd of
peasants, who had previously supped on radish-soup, dried fish,
oatmeal gruel, with oil and pickled cabbage.
Up at daybreak, he took care to make the orthodox salutations, and
passing rapidly through the crowded town, he walked out of the
opposite gate, for, henceforwards, his scanty funds demanded that the
journey should be made on foot. In the midst of a heavily falling
snow, he managed to keep the track, avoiding the villages, and, when
hungry, drawing a piece of frozen bread from his bag. At nightfall, he
buried himself in the forest, hollowed a deep hole in the snow, and
found a hard but warm bed, where he gained the repose he so greatly
needed. Another hard day, with a dry cutting wind, forced him to ask
for shelter at night in a cottage, which was granted without
hesitation. He described himself as a workman, going to the
iron-foundries at Bohotole, on the Ural Mountains. Whilst the supper
was preparing, he dried his clothes, and stretched himself on a bench
with inexpressible satisfaction. He fancied he had neglected no
precautions; his prayers and salutations had been made; and yet
suspicion was awakened, as it appeared, by the sight of his three
shirts, which no peasant possesses. Three men entered, and roughly
shook him from sleep, demanding his passport.
“By what right do you ask for it? Are you police?”
“No; but we are inhabitants of the village.”
“And can you enter houses, and ask for passports! Who can say whether
you do not mean to rob me of my papers? But my answer is ready. I am
Lavrenti Kouzmine, going to Bohotole; and it is not the first time I
have passed through the country.”
He then entered into details of the road and the fair at Irbit, ending
by showing his permission to pass, which, as it bore a stamp,
satisfied these ignorant men.
“Forgive us,” said they. “We thought you were an escaped convict; some
of them pass this way.”
Henceforward, he dared not seek the shelter of a house. From the
middle of February to the beginning of April, in the midst of one of
the severest winters ever known, his couch was in the snow. Frozen
bread was his food for days together, and the absence of warm aliments
brought him face to face with the terrible spectres of cold and
hunger. The Urals were reached, and he began to climb their wooded
heights. On passing through a little village at nightfall, a voice
cried: “Who is there?”
“A traveler.”
“Well, would you like to come and sleep here?”
“May God recompense you, yes; if it will not inconvenience you.”
An aged couple lived there—good people, who prepared a meagre repast,
which seemed a feast to Piotrowski: the greatest comfort of all being
that he could take off his clothes.
[Illustration: SIBERIAN EXILES.]
They gave him his breakfast, and would not accept any remuneration
but his warm and cordial thanks.
One evening Piotrowski’s life was nearly extinct. The way was lost,
the hail pierced his skin, his supply of bread was exhausted, and
after vainly dragging his weary limbs, he fell into a kind of torpor.
A loud voice roused him—“What are you doing here?”
“I am making a pilgrimage to the monastery of Solovetsk, but the storm
prevented my seeing the track, and I have not eaten for several days.”
“It is not surprising. We who live on the spot often wander away.
There, drink that.”
The speaker gave him a bottle containing some brandy, which burned him
so fearfully, that in his pain he danced about.
“Now try to calm yourself,” said the good Samaritan, giving him some
bread and dried fish, which Piotrowski ate ravenously, saying—“I
thank you with all my heart. May God bless you for your goodness.”
“Ah, well, do not say so much; we are both Christians. Now, try to
walk a little.”
He was a trapper; and led him into the right path, pointing out a
village inn where he could get rest and refreshment. Piotrowski
managed to crawl to the place, and then fainted away. When he
recovered himself, he asked for radish-soup, but could not swallow it;
and toward noon he fell asleep on the bench, never awaking until the
same time on the next day, when the host roused him. Sleep, rest, and
warmth restored him, and he again started on his long pilgrimage.
The town of Veliki-Ustiug was reached, where he determined to change
his character and become a pilgrim, going to pray to the holy images
of Solovetsk, on the White Sea. There are four of these holy places to
which pious Russians resort, and everywhere the wayfarers are well
received, hospitality and alms being freely dispensed to those who are
going to pray for the peace of the donor. Passports are not rigorously
exacted, and he hoped to join himself to a company, trusting to be
less marked than if alone. As he was standing irresolute in the
market-place, a young man accosted him, and finding that they were
bound to the same place, invited him to join their party. There were
about twenty; but no less than two thousand were in the city on their
way, waiting until the thaw should have opened the Dwina for the rafts
and boats which would transport them to Archangel, and then to
Solovetsk. It was a scene for Chaucer: the half-idiot, who sought to
be a saint; the knave who played upon the charity of others; and the
astute hypocrite. The rafts are loaded with corn, and the pilgrims
receive a free passage; or a small sum of money is given them, if they
consent to row; from forty to sixty sailors being required for each,
the oars consisting of a thin fir-tree. Piotrowski was only too happy
to increase his small store of money by working. At the break of day,
before starting, the captain cried—“Seat yourselves, and pray to
God.” Every one squatted down like a Mussulman for a moment, then rose
and made a number of salutations and crossings; and next, down to the
poorest, each threw a small piece of money into the river to secure a
propitious voyage.
Fifteen days passed, during which Piotrowski learned to be an expert
oarsman. Then the golden spires of Archangel rose before them; a cry
of joy was uttered by all; and the rowers broke off the lower parts of
their oars with a frightful crash, according to the universal custom.
It was a heartfelt prayer of gratitude that Piotrowski raised to God
for having brought him thus far in safety. How pleasant was the sight
of the ships, with their flags of a thousand colors, after the snow
and eternal forests of the Urals! But there was again disappointment.
He wandered along the piers, but could not find a single vessel bound
for France or Germany, and not daring to enter the cafes, where
perhaps the captains might have been, he left Archangel in sadness,
determined to skirt the coast towards Onega. He would thus pass the
celebrated monastery without the necessity of stopping, and pretend
that he was proceeding to Novgorod and Moscow on the same pious
pilgrimage.
Through marshes and blighted fir-plantations the weary wayfarer sped,
the White Sea rising frequently into storms of the utmost grandeur;
but the season was lovely, and the sun warm, so that camping out
offered less hardship. The wolves howled around him, but happily he
never saw them. Many soldiers, who were Poles, were established at
different points to take charge of the canals.
Having reached Vytegra, he was accosted on the shore by a peasant, who
asked where he was going. On hearing his story, he said—“You are the
man I want. I am going to St. Petersburg. My boat is small, and you
can assist me to row.”
The crafty fellow evidently intended to profit by the pilgrim’s arms
without wages; but, after long debate, he agreed to supply Piotrowski
with food during the transport. It seemed strange, indeed, to go to
the capital—like running into the jaws of the lion—but he seized
every occasion to pass on, lest his papers should be asked for. As
they coasted down through Lake Ladoga and the Neva, they took in some
women as passengers, who were servants, and had been home to see their
parents. One of them, an aged washerwoman, was so teased by the
others, that Piotrowski took her part, and in return she offered him
some very useful assistance.
“My daughter,” she said, “will come to meet me, and she will find you
a suitable lodging.”
It will be guessed with what joy he accepted the proposal; and during
all the time spent in the boat, no one came to ask for passports. The
house she took him to was sufficiently miserable; as the Russians say,
“It was the bare ground, with the wrist for a pillow.” He asked his
hostess if he must see the police to arrange the business of his
passport. “No,” she said. “If you only stay a few days, it is useless.
They have become so exacting, that they would require me to accompany
you, and my time is too precious.”
As he passed along the quays, looking for a ship, his eyes rested on
one to sail for Riga on the following morning. He could scarcely
master his emotion. The pilot on board called out—“If you want a
place to Riga, come here.”
“I certainly want one; but I am too poor to sail in a steamer. It
would cost too much.”
He named a very small sum, and said—“Come; why do you hesitate?”
“I only arrived yesterday, and the police have not _visé_ my
passport.”
“That will occupy three days. Go without a visé. Be here at seven
o’clock, and wait for me.”
Both were to their time. The sailor said, “Give me some money,” and
handed him a yellow paper; the clock struck; the barrier was opened,
and, like a dream, he was safely on the ocean.
From Riga he went through Courland and Lithuania. The difficulty of
crossing the Russian frontier into Prussia was still to be managed. He
chose the daytime; and when sentinels had each turned their backs, he
jumped over the wall of the first of the three glacis. No noise was
heard. The second was tried, and the firing of pistols showed that he
was perceived. He rushed on to the third, and, breathless and
exhausted, gained a little wood, where for many hours he remained
concealed. He was in Prussia. Wandering on through Mernel, Tilsit, and
Konigsberg, he decided at the last place to take a ship the next
morning to Elbing, where he would be near to Posen, and among his
compatriots. Sitting down on a heap of stones, he intended taking
refuge for the night in a corn-field; but sleep overcame him, and he
was rudely awakened in the darkness by a policeman. His stammering and
confused replies awakened suspicion, and to his shame and grief, he
was carried off to prison. He announced himself as a French
cotton-spinner, but returning from Russia, and without a passport. Not
a word he said was believed. At length, after a month’s detention,
weary of being considered a concealed malefactor, he asked to speak to
M. Fleury, a French advocate, who assisted at his trial. To him he
confessed the whole truth. Nothing could equal his advocate’s
consternation and astonishment.
“What a misfortune!” he said. “We must give you up to the Russians;
they have just sent many of your countrymen, across the frontier.
There is but one way. Write to Count Eulenberg; tell your story, and
trust to his mercy.”
After ten days he received a vague reply, desiring him to have
patience. The affair got wind in the town, and a gentleman came to
him, asking if he would accept him as bail. Efforts had been made in
his favor, and the police were ready to set him free. M. Kamke, his
kind friend, took him home, and entertained him for a week; but an
order came from Berlin to send the prisoner back to Russia, and he
received warning in time to escape. Letters to various friends on the
way were given him, to facilitate his journey; and just four years
after he had left Paris he reached it in safety again, after having
crossed the Urals, slept for months in the snow, jumped over the
Russian frontier in the midst of balls, and passed through so many
sufferings and privations.
[Illustration: TAIL PIECE]