TWO FAMOUS FORTRESSES
The fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul—Political prisoners confined
within its walls from an early date—Used by Peter the Great—The
imprisonment of the author, Chernyshevski—Dmitri Pisarev—The
Trubetzkoi Bastion—Kropotkin’s account of the prison—Leo Deutsch’s
experiences there—The sad case of Netchaiev—Probability that he was
flogged to death—Severity of the régime of the Alexis Ravelin—The fate
of prisoners confined in Schlüsselburg unknown—The prison of Kiev—Leo
Deutsch confined there—Succeeds in making his escape—Other
escapes—Prison of Moscow—General depot for exiles about to embark for
Siberia—Account of the journey to Siberia by train—Kindliness shown by
the peasants—Food and gifts of clothing brought to the train for the
exiles—The Red Cross League—The exiles’ begging song—Treatment of the
“politicals”—Dastievich and the governor—Women revolutionists.
The government of the Czar was not slow to avail itself of the coercive
means afforded by cellular confinement, and to use them especially
against political offenders. At first these prisoners were distributed
among the common criminal prisons such as that of Kharkov, and located,
where the accommodation existed, in “secret” or solitary confinement
cells. According to George Kennan, the secret cells in Siberian prisons
were intended for persons accused of murder and other capital crimes.
They had neither beds nor sleeping platforms and contained no furniture.
Their occupants slept without pillows or bed clothing on the cold cement
or stone floor, and during the day they had either to sit or lie on this
floor, or to stand.
The politicals at Kara in Eastern Siberia lived under “dungeon
conditions,” absolutely apart, breathing foul air continually, starving
on bad and insufficient food and completely deprived of exercise. The
need for separate prisons nearer home led presently to the adaptation of
existing fortresses in or close to St. Petersburg, such as the St. Peter
and St. Paul on the banks of the Neva, and the Schlüsselburg or “Castle
of Stone-bags” on an island in Lake Ladoga, whose waters lap the base of
its walls. The records of these formidable places of durance are made up
of human suffering.
The first named, the “Petropaolovskaya,” is never mentioned by Russians
without a shudder. It is stained indelibly with the imprint of appalling
cruelty and savage ill-treatment. Its grim, gray bastions crouch low,
flush with the water’s edge, opposite the imperial palace, and in full
view of the great city. Within its extensive perimeter are included
several fine buildings; the mint, the cathedral, the burial place of the
reigning dynasty, military barracks and well filled arsenals, while the
ordinary street traffic passes through it in the day time.
From its earliest days this fortress was the scene of murderous and
cruel atrocities. Peter the Great used it recklessly when imposing his
will upon the enslaved people; torture, the lash, horrible mutilations
and death were continually inflicted within its gloomy walls. Peter is
said to have executed his only son Alexis in this fortress. Defeated
conspirators against autocracy constantly languished in its deep sunken
dungeons or were thrown into the Neva from its battlements. Generations
of unsuccessful revolutionists, during reign after reign, have eaten out
their hearts here in lifelong imprisonment. Many of the “Dekabrists,”
mostly nobles who rose against the Czar Nicholas in 1826, lingered in
one of its cells for twelve years. Since then, numbers of hapless
people, defeated in their vain efforts to compass freedom and liberal
institutions for their country, have been imprisoned, neglected and
forgotten in the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul.
The fortifications of St. Peter and St. Paul cover an extent of three
hundred acres. It is a five-sided or pentagonal work, constructed on the
old-fashioned plan of Vauban, having six conventional bastions and two
salient ravelins, one on the eastern and the other on the western front.
To the northward, on the far side of the Neva, leading away from the
city and partly overlooking the zoological gardens, is a crown work or
hornwork of red brick built by Nicholas I. Various parts of the fortress
have been appropriated for prison purposes. One of the most famous was
the so-called “Courtine” of Catherine, connecting the south and west
bastions, facing the Neva; the bastion on the west being known as the
Trubetzkoi. This also became a famous prison, for when completed and
opened, being newer, more spacious and safer, it largely replaced the
Courtine, now no more than a place of detention for officers under
arrest for breaches of discipline.
[Illustration: _The Fortress of Peter and Paul_,]
The famous fortress of “Peter and Paul” is stained indelibly with the
imprint of appalling cruelty and savage ill-treatment. Its grim, gray
walls rise opposite the Imperial Palace in St. Petersburg. Within the
enclosure are several fine buildings, including the burial place of the
Czars. In the daytime ordinary street traffic passes through it. Peter
the Great is said to have executed his only son, Alexis, in this
fortress, after torture. Many noted conspirators against the government
of the Czar have languished in its deep sunken dungeons or have been
thrown into the river Neva from its battlements.
Some notable prisoners have been lodged in the Courtine of Catherine.
Chernyshevski wrote his novel “What is to be done?” in one of its
cells,—a book which had potent, widespread influence over the youth of
Russia, and which greatly developed the usefulness of women in the
revolutionary propaganda by raising their status. He is the gifted
writer who inspired the chivalrous attempt of the student Myshkin to
effect his release, as already described. Another inmate of prominent
literary attainments was Dmitri Pisarev, who devoted himself while
imprisoned to writing his remarkable analysis of Darwin’s “Origin of
Species.” He was confined without even the form of trial, and was held a
close prisoner until his mental powers waned. Soliviov was the last
“political” immured in the Courtine, but individuals have been sent
there from the Trubetzkoi Bastion when special isolation was deemed
necessary. One, Saburev, was removed to one of its cells, where he was
stupefied with drugs so that he might be photographed while insensible.
The best account of the Trubetzkoi Bastion and its prison is to be found
in Count Kropotkin’s book, “In Russian and French Prisons.” He spent
more than two years there after 1873. The prison was in the _reduit_, an
inner building of vaulted casements conforming to the five sides of the
main bastion and constructed within to serve as a second line of
defence. One side was taken up by the quarters of the governor of the
fortress, and two sides were occupied by cells on two stories. These
cells were spacious enough for a gun of large calibre; they were not
light, for the windows opened upon the interior enclosure, and the high
wall of the outer bastion faced the windows at a distance of fifteen or
twenty feet. In St. Petersburg the sky is often overcast, but Kropotkin
was able to write his book on the Glacial period in his cell, and to
prepare his maps and plans on especially bright days. A lining of felt
covered the cell walls, at a distance of five inches, intended to
prevent communication by knocking, which nevertheless frequently took
place.
The cells in this prison were heated from the corridor outside by large
stoves, and the temperature was kept high to prevent the exudation of
moisture on the walls. It was necessary to close the stove doors very
soon and while the coal was blazing, with the result that asphyxiating
gases were generated and the inmates ran the risk of being suffocated.
An idea prevailed that the authorities purposely caused these mephitic
gases to enter the cells so that the prisoners might be poisoned, but
this was an exaggeration with no foundation in fact. The food at one
time was good, but Kropotkin says that it deteriorated, and no
provisions were permitted to be brought in from outside except the
Christmas and Eastertide doles of white bread, charitably given by
compassionate merchants. Books, if approved, might be received from
relatives, and there was a small prison library. Out-of-door exercise
was allowed daily from half an hour to forty minutes, but in the short
daylight of the northern winter it was limited to twenty minutes twice a
week.
On the whole, detention in the Trubetzkoi Bastion was not, according to
Kropotkin, “exceedingly bad, although always hard.” One of its worst
features was the unduly prolonged solitary confinement, which was
extended to two or three years, far beyond the limit ordinarily
prescribed in modern civilised countries. Another terrible infliction
was the dead silence compelled. “Not a word is heard,” wrote Leo
Deutsch, “the silence is intense. No one could imagine that men live
here year after year. Only the chimes of the clock upon the ear, sound
out every quarter of an hour the national hymn, ‘How glorious is our
Lord in Zion.’” As to this, Kropotkin says, “The cacophony of the
discordant bells is horrible during rapid changes of temperature, and I
do not wonder that nervous people consider these bells as one of the
plagues of the fortress.” The same writer bears witness to the
taciturnity of the officials. “If you address a word to the warder who
brings you your clothes for walking in the yard, if you ask him what the
weather is, he never answers. The only human being with whom I exchanged
a few words every morning was the colonel (governor) who came to write
down what I wanted to buy: tobacco or paper. But he never dared to enter
into conversation, as he himself was always watched by some of the
warders.”
The fortress contained other prisons far worse than that of the bastion.
There was the Trubetzkoi Ravelin to the west of it, the cells in which
are so dark that candles are burned in them for twenty-two hours out of
the twenty-four. Their walls were literally dripping with moisture and
there were pools of water on the floor. An account of the sufferings of
some who were concerned in the “Trial of the Sixteen,” whose death
sentences had been commuted to imprisonment in the ravelin, was
published in the _Narodnaya Volya_. “Not only books were prohibited, but
everything that might help to occupy the attention. Zubkovski made
geometrical figures with his bread to practise geometry, and they were
immediately removed by the gaoler, who said that hard-labour prisoners
were not permitted to amuse themselves.” Of those whose sentences were
commuted one became consumptive and another was attacked with scurvy and
brought to death’s door. Two of the five condemned to hard labour in the
same fortress went mad, and one attempted to commit suicide.
One of a party transferred to the Moscow prison was so helpless from
scorbutic wounds that he was carried out of the cellular wagon in a
hand-barrow. Two fainted as soon as they were taken into the open air.
Tatiana Lebedieva had been sentenced to twenty years’ hard labour.
“But,” says the medical report, “she cannot live so long. Scurvy has
destroyed all her gums; the jaws are visible beneath; she is moreover in
an advanced stage of consumption.” Another, a mother, was nursing her
eighteen months’ old baby, and every minute it seemed the child must die
in her arms. As for herself, she did not suffer much, either physically
or morally.
Regarding the Alexis Ravelin on the eastern front, no very authentic
details are forthcoming, but it is said to contain underground cells as
bad as any _oubliettes_ in the dark ages. The only proof of their
existence is to be found in the fact that a number of soldiers of the
garrison were tried by court-martial for having conducted a clandestine
correspondence for some of the prisoners, carrying out letters for them
and smuggling in newspapers, money and other prohibited articles. The
prisoners concerned were nameless. The inevitable fate of those
committed to the Alexis Ravelin was to lose their identity; they were
forgotten and became mere numbers, only distinguished by the numerals of
the _oubliettes_ they occupied. This happened to one, Netchaiev, who
killed a spy at Moscow and fled to Switzerland, from where he was
extradited by the authorities of a free country, but on condition that
he should be tried as a common-law prisoner. Netchaiev absolutely
disappeared after he was tried at Moscow and sentenced to hard labour.
There is no record of his incarceration in any central prison or of his
departure for Siberia. It is nearly certain that he was lost to all
knowledge in some hidden depth of the Schlüsselburg fortress.
Netchaiev was treated with great inhumanity. Overtures had been made to
him by General Potapov to turn informer, and so insultingly that the
prisoner struck the general in the face. For this he was flogged
terribly, chained hand and foot and riveted to the cell wall. He managed
to appeal direct to the Czar, Alexander II, in a letter written with his
own finger nail and in his own blood; a modest letter stating the facts
of his imprisonment, and asking if they were really known to the emperor
and met with his sanction. This letter was entrusted to some one working
under his window, but it was intercepted and the ultimate fate of the
prisoner was never positively known. It was said that he had died of a
second flogging, and posthumous letters attributed to him were published
in the year 1883.
The régime of the Alexis Ravelin was brutally severe. Exercise was
forbidden, the windows of the cells were boarded up, and the hot-air
openings of the stove were closed, so that consumption rapidly developed
in the feeble frames of the prisoners. It was fatal to one young man,
Shirayev, whose crime was too free comment upon the state of affairs. He
had dared to prophesy a time when the Czar would no more govern, and
power would be held by popular representatives. Another, Shevich, an
officer of the military academy, went mad in the Alexis Ravelin, to
which he was committed for having left the ranks and improperly
addressing Alexander III on the occasion of an imperial parade.
Despite the elaborate precautions taken, and the strict rules
prescribed, the secrecy of the Alexis Ravelin could not be kept
inviolate. The government hoped that the silence of the grave might
close over its captives. But too many travelled the sad road, and news
came back from some. Letters penetrated the thick walls; the inmates
found sympathy with their gaolers, who would not remain invariably mute.
Some more effectual tomb for the living must be devised, and a large sum
(150,000 rubles) was forthwith expended upon the enlargement and
improvement, from a disciplinary point of view, of the ancient castle of
Schlüsselburg, once the favourite prison of Paul I.
This new prison became available in 1884, and was to be the receptacle
for the most dangerous and influential politicals. It was freely
admitted by the authorities that the very harshest régime would prevail
there: close confinement, scanty diet and entire absence of all that
makes life endurable,—books, correspondence, the visits of relatives and
friends. Above all, when the gates closed on a new arrival in the
Schlüsselburg, hope died within him. Lifelong imprisonment was before
him; there was no release this side of the grave. Few who enter the
prison are ever set free again. The inmates are buried alive, suffering
perpetual martyrdom.
It was here that the “humane” Peter the Great imprisoned his first wife,
the unhappy Evdokia. He had forced her to enter a convent as he had
become tired of her. Young and beautiful, she rebelled against the life
of a working nun, and when, a few years later, a young army officer was
detailed to inspect the convent, they fell in love with each other. When
Peter heard of this, he had the officer impaled on a stake, and at the
instigation of his new wife, the empress Catherine, Evdokia was thrust
into the Schlüsselburg. The stone tower which she occupied and where she
died is still known as the “Czarina’s Bower.”
In a cell underneath this stone tower, the great Polish patriot Valerian
Lukasinski spent the greater part of the thirty-seven years of his
imprisonment in the fortress. He had previously been immured in a Polish
prison for nine years, so that he endured a continuous imprisonment of
forty-six years, and died in the Schlüsselburg at the age of eighty-two.
The castle of Schlüsselburg figured in the war with Charles XII when
Peter the Great took it from the Swedes in 1702. It stands just where
the Neva issues from Lake Ladoga, a bare fortress on a lonely island. A
small, desolate town surrounds it, whose sparse inhabitants are easily
kept under surveillance, and access to the castle is impossible for any
but those authorised or permitted by the police.
The political prison was emptied in 1905; the prisoners were freed, and
the building was thrown open to the public for inspection. It was
supposed this would end the gruesome history of the fortress as a
prison, but just one year later, after the triumph of the reactionists,
it was again put to use as a place of durance, and instead of the few
veteran politicals who were liberated in 1905, three hundred
revolutionists were crowded into the prison under fearful conditions.
A French publicist, M. Eugene Petit, a member of the bar, seems to have
visited the prison, and his report appeared in the _Revue Penitentiare_
of July, 1906.
The government has always chosen to send whom it pleases to this state
prison and to subject them to such treatment as it pleases, usually of
the most arbitrary and rigorous kind. The leading idea is absolute
isolation in cells of limited dimensions, nine feet by seven feet. The
furniture is of the conventional kind; an iron flap, fastened to the
wall when not in use, supplies the bed, but cannot be let down except
between eight o’clock in the evening and six in the morning, and at
other times rest can only be obtained by lying on the floor. A petroleum
lamp lights the cells while darkness lasts, which in winter is for
eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, and this has a very injurious
effect on the eyesight besides vitiating the air; the windows are high
and glazed with opaque glass. The prisoner is kept constantly under
observation through the “judas” or inspection plate in the door, and a
warder in slippered feet comes to look through every five minutes. The
dietary is characterised as detestable and quite insufficient. The early
morning meal consists of cabbage soup, _shchi_, and _kasha_, a kind of
porridge, with black bread often full of worms.
To complete isolation is added deadly silence and unbroken idleness. Not
a word is uttered anywhere in the neighbourhood of a prisoner; the
warders never speak to them, but issue orders by signs and gestures.
Books are withheld until after a long period of confinement and when the
mind is failing, and then only devotional works are allowed. Brief
exercise in the open air is conceded after about the same lapse of time,
first for a quarter of an hour, then half an hour, and when over, a
warder carefully brushes away the footsteps lest it might be imagined
they had been made by a friend. Employment is also given as a great
favour,—permission to remove a little sand from a heap, which the next
prisoner shovels back to the old place.
All communication from without or within is peremptorily forbidden. No
news of the day comes in; no report of the condition of prisoners
filters out. Konachevich’s father died after years of fruitless inquiry,
without hearing where his son was or whether he was still alive. A
prisoner, Polivanov, left the prison in 1902 to hear that his father had
died thirteen years before. It was not until 1896, that a prisoner, when
he died in hospital, was allowed to have a single friend or comrade at
his bedside. He was quite alone. Every sort of humiliation was inflicted
upon him. He was never permitted to use the familiar address “thou” to
his warders, although they spoke to him in that way in the second person
and he must not resent it.
A retired military officer named Lagovskoi was shut up in Schlüsselburg
in 1885 by “administrative process,” without trial, and sentenced for
five years, which was prolonged for another five years, still without
trial. For having dared to address the governor with the familiar
“thou,” he was confined in a strait-jacket and his legs were tied
together; then they gagged him, and holding him just a yard above the
ground dropped him repeatedly till his head was cut open. The same
treatment was administered to another prisoner, Popov, who was also
gagged and his head banged upon the floor.
The effect of the imprisonment was seen in its results. In the six years
after 1891, just forty-eight persons were removed into Schlüsselburg
from the Alexis Ravelin, all of them young and in sound health at the
time. At the end of these six years, five had committed suicide or had
been shot, three were still retained but were out of their minds, three
had died insane, nine others had died, the majority of them carried off
by consumption. Twenty out of forty-eight was a large proportion, and
the fact is authenticated by M. Petit, who can give the names and exact
dates.
After the year 1896, the rigours of the régime were in some measure
slackened. Books were allowed, such as scientific manuals, grammars and
dictionaries for the study of languages, and historical books of a date
previous to the eighteenth century, but no works of a purely literary
character and no periodicals, reviews or newspapers. Writing materials
were issued, a few sheets during the daytime, which, with whatever was
written thereon, were withdrawn in the evening. By degrees the dietary
was slightly improved, the period of exercise was prolonged and the
prisoners were occasionally allowed to work in the garden or in the
carpenter’s shop. Still better, association with a fellow prisoner for a
brief space was conceded twice a week when at exercise. Later, extracts
from the letters of relatives were read out to the prisoner once yearly,
communicating a brief message such as, “We are alive and well and living
at such and such a place.” By and by the prisoners were permitted to
reply no less briefly, but never to state where they were confined.
Two provincial prisons were much concerned with political prisoners,
those of Kiev and Moscow. The former was the scene of many tragic
episodes, and fierce conflicts between the revolutionists and the
authorities. Some remarkable escapes were made from them. The university
of Kiev was a hot-bed of political unrest, and its students were active
and determined conspirators. An independent spirit was always present in
the prison, the product of past resistance. It was from Kiev that the
well-known Leo Deutsch escaped with two others in 1878, through the
courageous assistance of a comrade Frolenko, who managed as a free man
to get a false passport and obtain employment as a warder in the prison.
He took the name of Michael and was in due course appointed to take
charge of the corridor in which his friends Deutsch, Stefanovich and
Bohanovsky were located. They had pretended to protest against his
coming to their ward so as to disarm suspicion.
Frolenko set to work without loss of time. He provided disguises, two
suits of private clothes and a warder’s uniform, which the prisoners put
on, and he then released them from their cells. As they were stumbling
along the passage, one of them tripped against a rope which he caught at
and pulled frantically. It proved to be the alarm bell of the prison and
caused a deafening noise. The false “Michael” at once explained to the
authorities what he had done unwittingly, and the disturbance passed off
without further discovery. Again the fugitives, who had hidden
themselves in the first corners they found, started on their journey and
got out of the prison, where a confederate met the party and led them to
the river and to a boat stored with provisions which awaited them. They
voyaged along the Dnieper for a whole week, concealing themselves when
necessary in the long rushes, and at last reached Krementchug, where
they were furnished with passports and money and successfully passed the
frontier. “Michael” went with them, and it was long supposed by the
officials that he had been made away with by the prison breakers.
Beverley, a young man of English extraction, met death when escaping
from the Kiev prison. He had been arrested for living under a false
passport and being active in the revolutionary propaganda with a comrade
Isbitski. He had driven a tunnel from their cell to a point beyond the
prison walls. The authorities had discovered the tunnel and had posted a
party of soldiers at the exit, where the fugitives must emerge into the
upper air. As soon as they appeared they were shot down. Beverley was
mortally wounded, and as he lay on the ground he was despatched by
repeated bayonet stabs. Isbitski was also struck down, but was carried
back alive after a severe beating.
Leo Deutsch gives other cases of escape that proved more successful. A
student Ivanov was helped to freedom by the officer commanding the
guard, Tihonov, who was a member of the _Narodnaya Volya_ society, or
the “Will of the People.” Another prisoner disappeared under the most
mysterious circumstances which were never explained. But the most
important escape was in August, 1902, when eleven noted prisoners,
arrested a short time before, broke prison in a body. They exercised
every evening in the prison yard which was bounded on one side by an
outer wall overlooking fields and which was unguarded on the outside.
The prisoners got into the field, taking with them an iron anchor
weighing twenty pounds, and a rope ladder. At a given moment some of
them had fallen upon their warder, overpowered him, gagged and bound
him. Two others, climbing on each other’s shoulders, reached the top of
the wall, where they pulled up the anchor, made it fast, and then
secured the rope ladder, which served for the ascent of the prisoners on
one side and their descent on the other. So much sympathy was felt for
them in the town that they were effectually concealed when at large and
provided with the necessary funds for leaving the country. Throughout
the whole affair no blood was shed and no one was hurt. Many more
escaped from Kiev in a different fashion, passing out of its walls to
the scaffold.
The great central prison of Moscow, locally known as the “Butirki,”
served as a general depot for ordinary criminals on the point of
departure as exiles about to be transported to Siberia. It is a vast
establishment with accommodation for thousands; a mighty stone building
which looks like a gigantic well. A great wall with a tower at each of
the four corners encloses it, and the various classes of politicals were
confined in these towers. In the north tower were the “administrative”
exiles; in the “chapel” tower were those still under examination, and in
another the female prisoners were kept. All the male political prisoners
in Moscow wore chains and the convict dress. It was a degrading costume,
made the more humiliating by the method of shaving the right side of the
head and leaving the left side with the hair cut close.
To Leo Deutsch, who was subjected to the prison barber before leaving
Kiev, the ordeal was extremely painful. He says: “When I saw my own face
in the glass a cold shudder ran down my spine and I experienced a
sensation of personal degradation to something less than human. I
thought of the days—in Russia, not so long ago—when criminals were
branded with hot irons.
“A convict was waiting ready to fasten on my fetters. I was placed on a
stool and had to put my foot on an anvil. The blacksmith fitted an iron
ring round each ankle, and welded it together. Every stroke of the
hammer made my heart sink, as I realised that a new existence was
beginning for me.
“The mental depression into which I now fell was soon accompanied by
physical discomfort. The fetters at first caused me intolerable pain in
walking, and even disturbed my sleep. It also requires considerable
practice before one can easily manage to dress and undress. The heavy
chains—about thirteen pounds in weight—are not only an encumbrance, but
are very painful, as they chafe the skin round the ankles; and the
leather lining is but little protection to those unaccustomed to these
adornments. Another great torment is the continual clinking of the
chains. It is indescribably irritating to the nervous, and reminds the
prisoner at every turn that he is a pariah among his kind, ‘deprived of
all rights.’
“The transformation is completed by the peculiar convict dress,
consisting of a grey gown, made of special material, and a pair of
trousers. Prisoners condemned to hard labour wear a square piece of
yellow cloth sewn on their gowns. The feet are clad in leather slippers
nicknamed ‘cats.’ All these articles of clothing are inconvenient, heavy
and ill-fitting.
“I hardly knew myself when I looked in the glass and beheld a fully
attired convict. The thought possessed me, ‘For long years you will have
to go about in that hideous disguise.’ Even the gendarme regarded me
with compassion. ‘What won’t they do to a man?’ he said. And I could
only try to comfort myself by thinking how many unpleasant things one
gets used to, and that time might perhaps accustom me even to this.”
A later episode in the experience of Deutsch is rather amusing. Many of
the ordinary prisoners were in the habit of ridding themselves of their
chains, at first at night and afterward during the day. The trick was
winked at by the warders. Deutsch called for a nail and a hammer and
openly broke the rivets in the presence of his warders. “Go and tell the
governor what I have done,” he said, and the offender was haled into the
presence of the great man who indignantly protested, saying that it was
a serious business. “Not at all,” replied Deutsch, “it should prove to
you that I have no intention of attempting to escape. And you see I
still keep them on tied up with string.” Nothing more was said for the
moment; nor was the barbarous practice insisted upon when the politicals
stoutly refused to submit to it.
The immunity continued until the time of departure arrived, when the
officer who was to command the convoy insisted upon the strict
observance of the regulations. Deutsch and his comrades still refused to
comply. They were determined to resist till the last, and kept together
lest they might be overcome singly. Just as they were to be marched off,
they were told that if they chose to be examined by the prison doctor,
he would excuse them from travelling on foot. When taken into his
presence, a strong posse of warders fell upon them and overpowered them
by sheer force. One by one they were dragged into a corner and held
forcibly down on a bench while the barber shaved half their heads and
the blacksmith firmly riveted the chains.
Dostoyevski, whose “Reminiscences of the Dead House,” recording his
personal experiences of convict life, are quoted, says that long
afterward he shuddered at the mere thought of the head shaving: “The
prison barbers lathered our skulls with cold water and scraped us
afterward with their sawlike razors.” Fortunately it was possible to
evade the torture by payment. A fellow convict for one kopeck would
shave anyone with a private razor. This man was never to be seen without
a strop in his hand on which, night and day, he sharpened his razor,
which was always in admirable condition. “He was really quite happy when
his services were in request, and he had a very light hand, a hand of
velvet.” He was always known as “the Major,” no doubt a survival of the
old institution of the barber-surgeon, as military doctors often bear
the rank of major.
There were some compensations for the politicals. One was the unvarying
sympathy they evoked from the population on the rare occasions when they
came in contact with them. Kindly folk, when they could, forced
charitable gifts upon them. When Deutsch and his party took the train at
Moscow for Nizhni-Novgorod, the platform was crowded with well-wishers,
and they started for Siberia amid the tears and sobs of friends and
relatives, shouting affectionate farewells and joining in the plaintive
melody struck up by the prisoners, many of whom sang beautifully. At the
first station peasants and workmen came to the carriage windows
unhindered, with humble offerings. One old woman pressed a kopeck, the
smallest copper coin, upon Deutsch, crying, “Here! Take it in the
Virgin’s name. Take it, take it, my dear.” She insisted when he
protested he did not need it as much as many others. But he accepted it,
and kept it as a remembrance of the warm-hearted old creature.
It was the same all along the road. Everywhere, as they passed, groups
of people waved their hands with expressive gestures. It was the custom
of the country to show compassion thus for “the children of misfortune,”
the kindly designation of the poorer classes for all prisoners. Deutsch,
with his shaven head, convict garb and clanking chains, won especial
interest. Many sought to serve him and begged him to write down any
special article he was in need of and it should be sent after him.
There were societies formed to assist prisoners with presents of small
useful articles when starting for their dreary exile. Long before the
party left Moscow, Deutsch and his companions were begged to make out a
list of their requirements, and as they were fifty in number, and were
to be half a year on the road, the demands on the kindness of their
benefactors were not few. But at any cost and with much personal
inconvenience, all that was asked for was given. These same friendly
societies came under the officious attentions of the police, for a list
of the members was once seized at a search of houses, and as they were
supposed to belong to some secret associations with evil aims, they were
immediately classed as a branch of the Red Cross League of the “People’s
Will” organisation. The most criminal action of the society was that of
seeking to provide political prisoners with old clothes. Yet a number of
arrests of members followed, and many of these perfectly harmless,
well-meaning people were detained for some time in gaol.
The kindly custom prevails throughout Russia of sending gifts of food to
the prisoners at festival seasons. The “Easter table” is generally the
rule in Russian cities, when the master keeps open house and any visitor
may enter to be hospitably entertained with food and drink. The
principle is even carried further and helps to soften the hardships of
the prisoners. At Moscow all manner of good things were sent in, Deutsch
tells us: “Easter cakes, eggs, hams, poultry, and all that is customary,
including several bottles of light wine and beer, so that our Easter
table was a magnificent sight. Under the superintendence of the old
governor and his staff,” he continues, “we spent the evening and half
the night in a merry fashion not often witnessed in a prison. Songs were
sung, there were jokes and laughter; finally a harmonica appeared, and
the young people began to dance. Yet, despite so much hearty and
unfeigned cheerfulness, not one of us could forget our real condition;
indeed, the very sight of gaiety brought to the minds of many of us
remembrance of home, where our dear ones were at this moment celebrating
the feast-day, though with many sad thoughts of the absent.”
It was the same in far-off Siberia. At Omsk, where Dostoyevski was
confined for four years, gifts were sent to the prison at Christmastide
in enormous quantities,—loaves of white bread, scones, rusks, pancakes
and pastry of various kinds. There was not a shopkeeper in the whole
town who did not send something to the “unfortunates.” Among these gifts
were some magnificent ones, including many cakes of the finest flour,
and also some very poor ones, rolls worth no more than a couple of
kopecks, the offerings of the poor to the poor, on which a last kopeck
had been spent. These delicacies were divided in equal portions among
the occupants of the various prison barracks, and caused neither protest
or annoyance, as every one was satisfied.
There were good Samaritans in Siberia who spent their lives in giving
charitable assistance to the “unfortunates.” Dostoyevski very rightly
calls their compassion, which is quite disinterested, “something
sacred.” There was a lady in the town of Omsk who laboured unceasingly
to assist all exiles and especially the convicts in the prison. It was
conjectured that some dear one in her family had gone through a like
punishment, and, in any case, she spared no effort to offer help and
sympathy. The most she could do was but little, for she was very poor;
“but,” says the author, “we convicts felt when we were shut up in the
prison that outside we had a devoted friend.” He made her acquaintance
when leaving the town, and with some of his comrades spent an entire
evening at her house. “She was neither old nor young, neither pretty nor
ugly. It was not easy to guess whether she was intelligent or high-bred.
But in her actions could be seen infinite compassion, and an
irresistible desire to please, to solace, to be in some way agreeable.
All this could be read in the sweetness of her smile.”
When her visitors left she gave each of them a cardboard cigar box of
her own making. It was all but valueless, but the gift was inestimable
as a proof of her desire to be remembered. Dostoyevski here analyses the
theory that a great love for one’s neighbour is only a form of
selfishness, and asks very pertinently what selfishness could animate
such a nature as this.
But for the charity of the Siberian peasantry, the terrible journey of
many thousands into exile could never be accomplished. The government
issues a beggarly allowance in cash, a sum varying between five and
twelve kopecks per head, according to the locality, out of which the
exiles provide their own food. The prices also vary with the season and
the harvests. This money hardly suffices for the commonest ration; it
will buy at most bread, a few vegetables and a little tea. Gambling is,
however, such an ingrained vice that many waste all of their substance
daily, and the spendthrifts would starve but for begging by the road.
When a party passes a village, permission is sought from the convoy
officer to raise the _miloserdnaya_ or “exiles’ begging song,” and
selected convicts go from door to door, cap in hand, soliciting alms.
This song is inconceivably pathetic. George Kennan, who often heard it,
declares that it resembles nothing with which he was acquainted. It is
not singing nor chanting, nor like wailing for the dead, but a strange
blending of all three. “It suggests vaguely the confused and commingled
sobs, moans and entreaties of human beings who were being subjected to
torture, but whose sufferings were not acute enough to seek expression
in shrieks or high pitched cries.... No attempt was made by the singers
to pitch their voices in harmony or pronounce the words in unison. There
were no pauses or rests at the ends of the lines, no distinctly marked
rhythm. The singers seemed to be constantly breaking in upon one another
with slightly modulated variation of the same slow, melancholy air, and
the effect produced was that of a rude fugue of a funeral chant.” The
following is an extract from the words sung:—
“Have pity on us, O our fathers!
Do not forget the unwilling travellers,
Do not forget the long imprisoned.
Feed us, O our fathers—help us!
Feed and help the poor and needy!
Have compassion, O our fathers,
Have compassion, O our mothers,
For the sake of Christ, have mercy
On the prisoners.”
“If you can imagine these words, half sung, half chanted slowly, in
broken time and in a low key, by hundreds of voices, to an accompaniment
made by the jingling and clashing of chains, you will have a faint idea
of the song. Rude, artless and inharmonious as the appeal for pity was,
I never in my life heard anything so mournful and depressing. It seemed
to be the half articulate expression of all the griefs, the misery and
the despair that had been felt by generations of human beings in the
_étapes_, the forwarding prisons and the mines.”
The collections made both in cash and kind were taken on to the next
halting place, when they were divided with scrupulous exactitude under
the watchful control of the _artel_, or prisoners’ association, which
rules in every prison with an iron hand.
An advantage enjoyed by the political prisoners in Russian prisons is
the affable demeanour of the official staff towards them. Every prison
official as a rule treats them with a certain amount of courtesy and
respect. This is due to an unwritten law arising from the long
established belief that these “politicals” belonged to the educated and
cultured classes, and that their offences, so-called, have been
committed with high motives, in obedience to the dictates of reason and
conscience, in the hope of improving the condition of the people and
winning a greater measure of liberty and independence for their
down-trodden nation. Superior officers were, as a rule, polite in their
address, and subordinates spoke civilly and treated them with marked
consideration. The prisoners watched jealously the attitude of their
masters toward them, and fiercely resented any failure of respect, or
anything that tended to lower their personal dignity.
Leo Deutsch tells a story of the sharp lesson in manners taught to a
great functionary, the chief personage and head of the prison
department, M. Galkin Vrasski. The incident occurred at Moscow when he
was making a tour of inspection through the provincial prisons. The
politicals had heard that, conscious of his power and self-importance,
he was in the habit of entering cells, when visiting them, with his hat
on. The first he reached was occupied by one Dashkievich, who had been a
theological student,—“a man of very calm but unyielding temperament, and
permeated to an uncommon degree with the instinct of justice and
fairness.” The great chief entered with much ceremony, escorted by the
governor and a brilliant staff, and asked Dashkievich pompously whether
he had any complaint to make. “Pardon me,” interrupted the prisoner
quietly, “it is very impolite of you, sir, to enter my apartment without
removing your hat.” Vrasski reddened to the roots of his hair, turned on
his heel and walked out, followed by his entire entourage.
He was at pains to ask the name of the man who had dared to reprove him
thus openly. He had learned his lesson, for he appeared at all the other
cells hat in hand. But the offence rankled, and as Deutsch avers, he
took his revenge later. Dashkievich had been sentenced to “banishment to
the less distant provinces of Siberia;” this was altered by Vrasski’s
order, and he was sent eventually to Tunka in the furthest wilds, on the
border of Mongolia.
In this matter of removing the head-dress, the politicals were very
punctilious. Once, on arrival at the Krasnoyarsk prison, which was
chiefly cellular, a party of politicals had a serious conflict of
opinion with the governor, who ordered that they should be placed in
separate cells singly, instead of in association. They resented and
positively refused to abide by this order, and demanded to be lodged as
heretofore along the road, in company with one another. Pending a change
of decision, they remained in the corridor with their baggage, and would
not budge a step. The governor of the prison insisted upon compliance
with the regulations, and he was backed up by the chief of police, a
very blustering and overbearing person. The prisoners would not yield
and the matter was referred to higher authority, first to the colonel of
gendarmerie, then to the public prosecutor, and lastly to the governor
of the district. Nothing could be decided that night, and the prisoners,
still obdurate, camped out in the passage, being permitted to have their
own way until the district governor had been heard from.
As they sat at dinner the next day, the chief of police brought the
answer. He was in full parade uniform and wore his helmet. “Gentlemen,”
he began ceremoniously, “I am to inform you”—He was abruptly interrupted
by the request to first remove his helmet. The officer protested that
when in parade uniform he was forbidden to do so. “Then we shall not
listen to you,” said the prisoner Lazarev. “We have nothing to do with
your uniform. It is a mere question of manners.” “But I really cannot, I
will not,” replied the officer. “Then you may take your message back to
the governor, we shall not listen to it,” was the answer of the
politicals, and their firmness won the day. The result was a concession
to their demands. “I wonder how many officials,” remarks Deutsch, “have
had to learn this elementary lesson in politeness from us.”
The women revolutionists also showed the highest spirit and were always
ready to fight for their own rights. A police _ispravnik_ had insulted a
political, mistaking him for another with whom he had a difference. It
came to the knowledge of the wife of the political, who was a clever
resolute woman, and she went straight to the police office and boxed the
officer’s ears. The harshness with which one police officer, the chief
at Irkutsk, had treated a number of women politicals brought down on him
a severe rebuke. The officer accompanied a high official during a visit
to the prison of that city. The moment he appeared he was addressed by
the leading political prisoner in these words: “We are astonished at
your impudence in daring to appear before us, after having by your
treatment forced our women comrades into a terrible hunger strike.” The
room was hurriedly emptied of all officials, the chief and his suite,
and the odious policeman was followed by a chorus of uncomplimentary
epithets.