_SIBERIAN POLITICAL PRISONERS._
The Za-Baikal a natural prison.--“Decembrists” of
1825.--Misapprehensions respecting political prisoners.--The
story of Elizabeth.--Vindictive foreign writers.--Palpable
misstatements.--Misleading information.--Dostoyeffsky’s “Buried
Alive.”--Rosen’s “Russian Conspirators.”--Present condition
of political prisoners.--Testimony of Poles.--Treatment
of an attempted regicide.--The number of “politicals”
exaggerated.--Calculations concerning them.--Their mode of
transport.--Paucity of statistics accounted for.
The Trans-Baikal province, east of the “Holy Sea,” was, until within
the past 30 years, a _cul-de-sac_, to which the gravest of political
offenders were commonly deported. It lay outside the two great routes
of Siberian travel. The traveller to the Pacific, by way of the Lena,
left the province on his right; the merchant going to Kiakhta passed it
on his left. There was, indeed, a road running through the province,
but it might be said to lead to nowhere. It was, moreover, a country
from which a prisoner found it difficult to escape. If he went to the
north he came to enormous forests, in which, though he might find
berries in summer, he could not live in winter. Southwards he was
hemmed in by the Mongolian desert. The road eastwards brought him to
a river, down which, if he could float 2,000 miles and escape the
jealous Chinese, he might reach the Pacific; or, again, if he turned
to the west, and rounded or crossed the Baikal lake, he was likely to
be caught in the neighbourhood of Irkutsk; and lastly, in whatever
direction he went, there was a price on his head that could be claimed
by any Buriat who chose to make him his prisoner, and bring him to the
authorities either dead or alive.
There was also another reason, which, in the eyes of the Government,
made the Za-Baikal a suitable place in which to confine the worst
offenders; for the province is rich in silver and gold, and gems
are found in its mountains. It provided a place, therefore, where
they could segregate disturbing elements of society, exact enforced
labour from their convicts, and to some extent mitigate the cost of
keeping them by the value of the minerals obtained. Consequently “the
silver-mines of Nertchinsk” has long been an expression, at the mention
of which the ears of Russians tingle; and so it was with the prisons of
Chita and Petrovski,--connected in their minds with political exiles,
and especially with certain of them called “Decembrists,” who in
December 1825 tried to raise revolt among the soldiers of Nicolas, and
deprive him of his throne.
The mines of Nertchinsk and Kara will be treated of in subsequent
chapters. I purpose to speak in this, not of political exiles with
their families and descendants generally, but of the condition of
_political prisoners_, past and present, and of certain buildings in
which some of them have been confined. That there exists a great deal
of exaggeration and misapprehension in England, on the Continent, and
in America respecting the number, misery, and degradation of Russian
political prisoners I am persuaded; nor is this hard to account for
if regard be had to the character of the books which profess to give
information upon the subject.
Let us begin, for instance, with the touching story of “Elizabeth; or,
the Exiles of Siberia,” by Madame de Cottin, to whose work many English
persons are indebted for nearly all they know of Siberia. The book so
far resembles the truth that, in 1799, a young girl of 18, the only
daughter of a Russian exiled officer, Proscovie Lopouloff, formed the
project of asking forgiveness for her parents, for which purpose she
left Ischim, near Tobolsk, with a few roubles in her pocket, walked
in 18 months 2,000 miles to the capital, was presented, and obtained
her petition, the real account of which is told by Xavier de Maistre
in “La Jeune Sibérienne.” But Madame de Cottin imported a love-match
into the story, and produced one of the most popular books of her day,
depicting, however, a narrative for which she had to rely largely upon
her imagination for many details. She paints a picture of Siberian
exile life very different from anything I ever heard, saw, or read of
in the country itself. Her mistakes, however, were the mistakes such as
any foreign author might easily commit in laying the scene of a story
in a country then almost unknown.
Less excuse can be made for later writers (some of them escaped or
released convicts), who, trading upon the credulity and ignorance
of the public, have retailed and garnished accounts of horrible
severities, which they neither profess to have witnessed, nor
attempt to support by adequate testimony. In one of these books, by
Alexander Hertzen, published in 1855, the author naïvely says in the
preface that, having written in London a work, entitled “Prison and
Exile,” which met with success, he decided to write another volume.
He accordingly did so, and had the audacity to call it “My Exile in
Siberia”; whereas, on reading the book, we find that he was not exiled
to Siberia at all, but simply banished for awhile to Perm, which is
in Russia in Europe! Again we have, in De Lagny’s “Knout and the
Russians,” published in 1854, a tirade against Russia all through, in
which words bad enough can hardly be found to vilify its army, navy,
nobility, and clergy; whilst in the following year was published
“Recollections of Russia by a German Nobleman,” in which he states
that, for prisoners, water was drawn up green from the filthiest canal
in Petersburg; and, as if that were too little, he adds that, after
being knouted, the prisoners had to drink their own blood!
The books quoted thus far are mostly foreign productions, which have
been translated into English; but within the past three years has
been published in London a book called “The Russians of To-day,” by
the author of “The Member for Paris,” and dedicated to the Duke of
Sutherland, which gives the following account of a Russian prison (page
86):--
“A Russian gaol is not built on any wasteful plan of keeping prisoners
warm and comfortable. A black, mouldy house, situate in one of the
slums of the town, it is guarded by a dozen corp-headed soldiers, and
has a painted escutcheon with the Imperial double-headed eagle over the
gate. There is a whipping-post in the front yard. Thieves, murderers,
boys, lunatics, women, are all huddled together in a room of foul
stenches, warmed by a stove, and the only food served out to them is
a pound of black bread in the morning, and a mess of rancid soup at
mid-day. The sexes are separated at night.”
Now as there will appear to be a great difference between this account
and what has been stated in my chapters on Siberian prisons, I think it
only right to say that I have visited Russian houses of detention from
the White Sea in the north to the Black Sea and the Persian frontier
in the south, and from Warsaw in the west to the Pacific in the east,
but have never yet seen a Russian prison such as fairly answers to
the description given above. My experience would place prisons in the
suburbs rather than the “slums” of towns; and as for their atmosphere,
I may safely say that the air I breathed in the worst Russian prison
was incomparably better than that I had temporarily to endure in
some of the peasants’ houses, or which may be inhaled in many of the
post-houses. The “one pound of black bread” should be multiplied by
two and a half or three, and in some cases _four_; and as for “the
whipping-post,” I have seen such a thing in English and in American
prisons, but not in Russia. The “_kobyla_,” or “mare,” used in flogging
with the “_plète_” in _Siberia_, will be described further on; and I
do not deny that in Russia there may be _some_ instrument to which
those to be birched are fastened, but I have never seen one, though I
have usually made a point of asking concerning the mode of corporal
punishment.
Again, the same author says (page 217):--
“The convicts are forwarded to Siberia in convoys, which start at the
commencement of spring, just after the snows have melted and left the
ground dry. They perform the _whole_ journey on foot, escorted by
_mounted_ Cossacks, who are armed with pistols, _lances_, and long
_whips_; and behind them jolt a long string of springless tumbrils,
to carry those who fall lame or ill on the way. The start is _always_
made in the night, and care is taken that the convoys shall only pass
through the towns on their road _after dark_. Each man is dressed in a
grey kaftan, having a _brass numbered plate_ fastened to the _breast_,
_knee_ boots, and a _sheepskin_ bonnet. He carries a _rug_ strapped to
his back, a mess-tin, and a wooden spoon at his girdle. The women have
black cloaks with hoods, and march in gangs by _themselves_, with an
escort of soldiers like the men, and two or three female _warders_, who
travel in carts.
“In leaving large cities like Petersburg, _all_ the prisoners are
chained with their hands _behind their backs_; but their fetters are
removed outside the city, except in the case of men who have been
marked as dangerous. These have to wear leg-chains of 4 lbs. weight all
the way; and some of the more desperate ones are yoked by threes to
a _beam of wood_, which rests on their shoulders, and is fastened to
their necks by iron collars.”
The author then goes on to say that “Nihilist conspirators, patriotic
Poles, and young student girls, are all mixed up, and tramp together
with the criminals.”
The words I have italicised (of which there are 23 in 26 lines)
involve, in many cases, palpable misstatements. In others they are
blunders, or are, at all events, open to serious question. As in the
case of Madame de Cottin (only with less innocence), a very free rein
has been here given to the imagination. The avoiding of towns by day,
the brass plate on the breast (instead of a piece of yellow _cloth_
on the _back_), the accompanying female warders, and the chaining of
men’s hands behind their backs, are _blunders_ utterly inexcusable;
and as for the mounted Cossacks with whips, and the “beams of wood”
on some of the exiles’ necks--_if_ the Cossacks were _mounted_, they
would naturally have whips as part of their accoutrements, as they do
even when riding behind the carriage of the Emperor, but the “beam
of wood” is a pure invention. I never saw, heard, or read of such an
instrument. Upon these last two points, however, to correct my own
opinion if wrong, I spoke to an Englishman living in a town through
which pass all the Siberian exiles. He has lived there many years, and
has seen exiles from Perm to Kiakhta, and under all conditions. He
tells me, however, that he _never_ saw this wooden collar, and never
saw soldiers with whips to conduct exiles; and he added, further, that
he had never witnessed them using exiles improperly or unfairly. Thus
it will be seen that some of the information offered to the public
respecting Russian exiles is open to more than suspicion of grave
misrepresentation.
But there is yet a third class of books which, in detailing past
horrors, leads public opinion astray, not so much by saying what is
absolutely untrue, as by omitting to point out that since the horrors
they relate were enacted, the law has been altered, and that they
are now a thing of the past. Englishmen would think themselves very
unfairly dealt with if a foreigner, having seen an old pair of stocks
in an English village, appealed to this as proof that persons are
still exposed therein; or if he hunted up stories of Tyburn, with
accounts of gibbeted felons hung, drawn, and quartered, or pilloried
criminals with slit noses and cropped ears, and then represented this
as the existing state of things, or left his readers so to infer. This
would be very similar to the treatment Russia receives at the hands of
prejudiced and careless writers now-a-days, as will be seen more fully
hereafter when we speak of the mines.
To keep, however, for the present, to books about prisons, and to
mention one more which has appeared in English dress during the
present year--namely, Dostoyeffsky’s “Buried Alive; or, Ten Years’
Penal Servitude in Siberia,” to which I naturally turned with interest
as it was written by a Russian. I was struck at the outset with the
significant fact that the reader is not properly informed as to places
and dates. The introduction sets forth that a certain Alexander
Petrovitch Goryantchikoff died, after whose death there was found
among his papers a bundle of manuscripts, which the editor, Feodor
Dostoyeffsky, thought would interest the public. But scarcely a word is
dropped to inform the reader when the events referred to took place,
and he is left to form the very natural conclusion that he is reading
of things as they now exist. My suspicions being aroused, I put on my
best critical spectacles to discover, if possible, _where_ the events
happened, and _when_. The writer mentions having been in Tobolsk,
and says that his prison was near the banks of the Irtish. Now there
was, and perhaps is, a prison on the banks of the Irtish at Tara, the
same from which Rufin Pietrowski made his escape; and at first I was
disposed to think this was the place of Goryantchikoff’s captivity,
but two subsequent allusions gave me additional light: one, that in
the prison was a Jew who went out in the town to a _synagogue_; and
another, that on some prisoners running away the _Governor-General_
was told of it. Now, assuming that the Governor-General was living in
the town, then the only prison situate on the banks of the Irtish, in
a town with a synagogue and the residence of a Governor-General, would
be Omsk, and here accordingly I adjudged my man as to his _place_.
Then as for the _date_. The writer speaks of prisoners’ chains made of
“four iron rods, the size of the finger, connected by three rings and
worn under the trousers.” I saw none like these. All we saw had small
_links_, and hence I assumed that the chains described must have been
of an old-fashioned pattern of former days, and I have since learnt
that chains such as the man describes were seen on a prisoner going
to the Caucasus in 1842. Next he speaks a good deal of flogging, and
mentions the running of a prisoner down “the green lane,” that is,
between two rows of soldiers, each of whom gave the culprit a stroke
with a stick. But this method of punishment has long been abolished in
Russia; and, finally, the writer, when speaking of his conversation
with a fellow-prisoner, happens to use this sentence: “I explained to
him Napoleon’s position, adding that he might, perhaps, some day become
Emperor of the French.” Taking, therefore, these three _data_, that
Napoleon became Emperor in 1851, that the flogging of the description
mentioned was abolished not later than 1860, and the old pattern of the
chains, I came to the conclusion that the story must represent events
at least 30 years old; and I have since heard that it was about as
long ago the book appeared in Russia. Now, of course, the translation
might not have sold so well had readers been informed that it treats of
a state of things more than a quarter of a century old; yet, no doubt,
so candid a statement would have prevented many from forming false
opinions respecting the present state of Siberian prisons.[1]
But Goryantchikoff’s, it should be remembered, is a picture of a
convict prison for _criminals_, and not for _political_ prisoners, who
are treated as a class by themselves,--so much so that they are sent
to Siberia, not usually walking, under the charge of Cossacks, but
driving furiously under guard of gendarmes; and if they need to lodge
at an ordinary prison, they are kept in special rooms, and so jealously
watched that frequently I was not allowed to approach the inspection
hole so much as to look at them. It may be that when they reach their
destination they have, in some cases, to work outdoors in company with
criminals. I think I met one case of this at Kara, but even he, in the
prison, was kept apart.
Probably the best, and, as far as I know, the only book in English
which gives the description by an eye-witness of life in a _political_
prison is “Russian Conspirators in Siberia,” by Baron R(osen). He
relates his taking part in the attempt to incite the soldiers to revolt
on the accession of Nicolas in 1825, and how he was condemned with
120 comrades, large numbers of whom were counts, barons, princes, and
some of the very flower of the Russian nobility. About 30 were at once
transported to Chita. There they remained until a new prison was built
expressly to contain them all at Petrovski, near Verchne Udinsk, at
which place are the ironworks already alluded to. In these two places
of confinement the Baron spent six years. I do not remember that he
ever speaks of one of his comrades being thrashed. The Russian law,
even in those days, held exempt from corporal punishments every noble,
not only during his trial, but after his condemnation. The wearing of
chains was included among corporal punishments, and it was forbidden to
put them on nobles going into exile; but the law appears to have been
set aside in the case of some of the Decembrists. The Baron describes
their labour as that of digging and grinding corn in hand-mills. One
of their first occupations was to dig the foundations for their new
prison. “Every day,” the Baron writes, “except Sundays and holy days,
the non-commissioned officer on guard entered early in the morning with
the call of ‘Gentlemen, to work!’ In general we set out with songs
on our lips and energy in our hearts; no constraint was used towards
us.” He gives likewise a vivid picture of their amusements and their
studies. Playing-cards they might have had through the warders, but
they wisely passed their word to each other not to allow card-playing,
in order to prevent any cause of unpleasantness or dissension. Chess
was their sole amusement between the time of work and sleep, and they
formed among themselves a company of singers, which cheered many a sad
hour. Some of them endeavoured, by study, further to improve their
minds. One learnt not only Latin and Greek, but also eight modern
languages; and it says much for the high education of the prisoners
that this proficient found an instructor in each of the languages
among his comrades, one of whom was still living, not many years ago,
at Petrovsky Zavod, and lent my informant several books from what was
the Decembrist library. They had, too, a room in which they practised
the piano, the flute, the flageolet, the violin, and guitar. The most
touching part of the book, however, recounts the arrival of some of
the prisoners’ wives. Every effort short of absolute denial had been
employed to prevent these noble ladies from expatriating themselves.
Their heroic determination wrung tears from the eyes of the officials
who had in vain dissuaded them. These ladies were compelled to resign
their titles, and were warned that they would not be permitted to
return. Several of them, notwithstanding, gave up all to be allowed to
join their husbands, and in so doing covered their names with undying
lustre in the annals of Russian history. They were allowed to live with
or near their husbands, and several had children, two of whom--a lady
and a gentleman--I have met in Europe. The Baron’s book nowhere stoops
to invective or misrepresentation; on the contrary, he acknowledges
“there was reason enough for our having been treated thus”; but at
the same time he tells a sad story, which is all the more touching
because told so calmly, of what he and his comrades suffered. He was
at length allowed to return to his home in Esthonia, in 1839, after 14
years’ imprisonment and exile. About 500 non-commissioned officers and
soldiers, I am told, were sent to Omsk and different places, where they
were by far less well treated than their superior officers under whom
they had rebelled.[2]
I have thus spoken of the political or State prison at Petrovski,
which, as far as I know, is the only building there has ever been
in Siberia that could with propriety be called a State prison for
political offenders. It was burnt down many years ago, and has not
been rebuilt. Of the prison at Chita, and the accommodation for
political prisoners at Kara, mention will be made hereafter. Meanwhile
it should be borne in mind we have been speaking of events which
happened about half a century ago.
We now pass from the condition of political prisoners as they _were_
to treat of political prisoners as they _are_. I shall speak of those
with whom I was brought in contact and with whom I conversed, and will
put the worst case first. It is that of a Pole, who was concerned
in the insurrection of 1863, at which time he was a student for the
Roman priesthood, and, under cover of his clerical garb, had busied
himself in procuring arms and provisions for the Polish rebels. On
the suppression of the insurrection he fled from the country, but was
foolish enough to return, six years afterwards, by permission, he
said, of the Emperor; and within three days was taken, and, without
trial, sent to a prison at Oriel for a year. After this he was sent to
Irkutsk, and there learned that he was condemned for eight years to the
mines, at which he arrived in 1871, having been a year on the route
from Tiumen. He had 20 Polish companion exiles, some of whom were in
irons, though his clerical character saved him from this degradation.
The Polish party travelled by themselves as far as Tobolsk, beyond
which they were sometimes compelled to walk and lodge with criminal
prisoners, who robbed my informant of 300 roubles, which his mother
had sewn at the back of his coat collar. He complained that some of
the prison officers were great despots; in illustration of which he
stated how, whilst they were at Nijni Udinsk, some of the prisoners
having escaped at night, the governor of the jail procured rods from
the neighbouring woods and birched the rest of them, I suppose on the
ground of aiding and abetting the escape of the others. The 21 Poles,
however, were not in the ward from which the escape was made, and this
they urged, but apparently to no purpose, for the governor seemed to
have been enraged beyond bounds, and in some cases to have used, not
only rods, but the plète and clubs. My informant declared that of the
300 Russians and 21 Poles thus treated, 17 subsequently died, though he
could not give me any satisfactory evidence as to how, after leaving
the place, he got this information; but the affair must have been
serious (though abnormal), for, on arriving at Irkutsk they presented
a petition to the governor, an inquiry was instituted (especially as
regards the Poles), and the violent prison official was telegraphed
for, and himself incarcerated, though how punished my informant did not
know. He also complained that one of his companions was badly treated
on the road, being lame, and yet made to hurry along.
When, however, the Polish cleric arrived at the mines, he did not
appear to have once worked in them, as the chief made him his cook,
exchanged his prison allowance for five roubles a month, and fed and
lodged him thus for six years, after which the remaining two years
were remitted on the score of good conduct. He was afterwards located
in a small village in the Za-Baikal, but had obtained permission to
live elsewhere, and when I met him he was respectably dressed, and
apparently earning a good livelihood. Thus my informant’s _gravamina_,
as regarded himself, were not so heavy as it might have been feared.
He said, indeed, that four or five letters reached him at the mines,
informing him that money was enclosed, which he never received.
He had more to say of the way in which some of his fellow-prisoners
were treated, to which I shall allude when speaking hereafter of the
mines.[3]
I did, it is true, meet another Pole who complained, though I do not
know whether he was a political or a criminal offender, but I have
already referred to him and the information he gave me respecting the
prison at Irkutsk. There was a third Pole, also a student, banished
after the insurrection of 1863, whom we met in the streets of Atchinsk,
who looked very gloomy, and spoke in a very dispirited and dissatisfied
manner; but he was free, having his wife and children with him, and he
named no one particular cause of complaint. Still, I have mentioned
these cases fully, though they seem somewhat opposed to the opinion
I have stated, that there exists a great deal of misapprehension
respecting the number, misery, and degradation of Russian political
prisoners.
The severest case of punishment of a political prisoner I met with
was that of, I think, a Nihilist, at Kara, who had daily to go to
work in the gold-mines; but, on returning, he had a room to himself,
some of his own furniture, fittings, and books, one of which was on
political economy. His wife lived in the neighbourhood, and could see
him lawfully, and bring him food at frequent intervals; and it was
not difficult for her to see him unlawfully, for just in front of his
window passed the public road, where she could stand and talk to him
with ease.
I met in Siberia one political prisoner whose case was more surprising,
perhaps, than any I have mentioned. It was that of a man who had been
concerned in one of the attempts upon the life of the late Emperor. He
was sentenced to the mines, and no doubt popular imagination pictured
him chained, and tormented to within an inch of his life; whereas I
found him confined indeed, but only to the neighbourhood, and dressed,
if I remember rightly, in a tweed suit, looking highly presentable,
and engaged in a way that I purposely avoid naming, but which did not
necessitate the soiling of his fingers. Again, I had two opportunities
of speaking to upper-class prisoners in French, which the authorities
accompanying me did not understand; therefore these men had no reason
to fear speaking out plainly. One was a political prisoner; concerning
the other I am not sure; but I asked them both whether they had any
cause of complaint in the prison regimen. The first said the only
thing he thought unjust was that he was not allowed to smoke, which
one of my exile informants deems incredible, since at Nertchinsk,
when, for insubordination, they were deprived of meat, milk, and tea,
for weeks, they were still allowed to smoke, as a supposed preventive
against scurvy. The man, moreover, in the neighbouring cell--a fat
man--a defaulting post-master, a drunkard and a gambler, who would have
made an admirable Falstaff, was smoking, and I should not wonder if
by this time the grievance is mended. The second man, a doctor, said
that he had been taken about from place to place, and did not know his
destination, though he thought it would be Irkutsk, but that he had
nothing to complain of.
Supposing, then, that these instances throw any light upon the misery
and alleged degradation of political prisoners, I have yet to offer
some remarks upon their supposed numbers--that is, the average number
banished annually at the time of my visit--for I do not profess here
to deal with those sent into exile after the Polish insurrection of
1863, with their families and descendants, nor of Nihilists deported
since the assassination of the late Emperor. Mr. Whyte, in his “Land
Journey from Asia to Europe,” says: “It is calculated that in Eastern
Siberia alone there are at least from 30,000 to 40,000 _Polish
political_ exiles, but they are kept in different portions for fear
of disturbances, a great many having to work in the mines.” Now let
us suppose for the moment that these figures are something like the
truth, then let us add to this calculation for Eastern Siberia, whither
are banished the gravest offenders, at least twice as many for Western
Siberia, whither are sent those losing particular rights only; and this
will give, say, 120,000 Polish political exiles in the whole country.
Let us further suppose that they represent the surviving total of 30
years’ deportations, not including, of course, their families and
descendants. Then this gives a yearly influx to Siberia of 4,000 Polish
_political_ exiles! Now from statistics given me in Warsaw last autumn,
taken from the report sent to the Emperor, it appeared that the total
number of Polish _criminal_ prisoners sent to Siberia in the year I
passed through (1879) was 898; and last year, up to September, the
number, as I had it straight from the prison books, was 270. Supposing,
then, the politicals to number one-tenth of the criminals (which I
judge far too great a proportion), it would give less than one-fortieth
of the numbers quoted by Mr. Whyte respecting Polish political exiles.
I base my opinion, however, mainly upon other calculations, such
as these: the prisoners must sometimes be lodged, permanently or
temporarily, as they go to their destinations. But it has been already
stated that there is now no building in Siberia answering to a State
prison, and further that political prisoners, when confined, are kept
not only apart from criminals, but as far as possible from one another.
I fail to see, then, where all these multitudes are to be properly
lodged, as at Tiumen, for instance, whilst they wait for the arrival of
the steamer, or at other prisons where they may have to stop, but in
none of which we found more than a very few separate chambers--always
less, I think, than 20. Again, another difficulty is presented by the
possibilities of separate conveyance for so large a number. It is not
very long since that 78 political exiles passed through Tiumen, a town
where, in summer, from 500 to 700 criminals pass through weekly; but
these 78 politicals excited such a commotion that there was a general
“turn out” to look at them; and the manager of the steamboat was at his
wits’ end to know how properly to convey them; for political prisoners
are not now sent, I am informed, in the common prisoners’ barges.
To give each man a cabin was impossible; to put two in a cabin was
unlawful; and so they compromised the matter by putting husbands and
wives together. But, if a batch of 78 made all this commotion, what
would the annual passing through of 4,000 _politicals_ do?
Again, Kara, I was told, was a special place for political offenders,
and I saw and heard of more there than in any other prison. They had,
at the time of my visit, 2,458 prisoners of all sorts, all of whose
crimes were given me duly tabulated, with the exception of 73, which
came under the heading “_various_.” Now, supposing all these 73 were
political offenders (and I have not the least reason for thinking
they were, but) even then the proportion of politicals would be only
one-thirtieth of the criminals.
Once more: a recent correspondent of the _Gaulois_ for 30th September,
1881, describing the last occasion on which he saw the exiled
Tchernichewsky at Kadaya, near Nertchinsk, just after the news had been
received of the assassination of President Lincoln, says, “At this time
the number of (Russian?) political prisoners was not great; they might
easily be counted.... I believe there were not 20 of them; if mistaken,
I may certainly affirm there were not 50.” This scrap of information
has come to hand very opportunely, for I have reason to believe that
it may be relied on, and Nertchinsk was the only other district for
political prisoners concerning which, until a few days ago, I did not
feel satisfactorily informed.
Lastly, the summer of 1879 was supposed to be a very heavy one for the
transport of Nihilists and revolutionary offenders. It was just after
one of the attempts on the late Emperor’s life, and Petersburg was put
under a military governor. The _Daily Telegraph_, on the 2nd June,
informed its readers, as I have said before, that “a large number of
convicts were about to be despatched to Saghalien from Odessa, the
service which provides for the ordinary transportation of criminals to
Siberia being already overtaxed.” We were therefore traversing Siberia
at a time and under circumstances particularly favourable for knowing
the real condition of things; and as we went along the only route by
which these exiles could possibly travel to Eastern Siberia, it might
have been expected that we should see or hear something of them. The
numbers, however, with whom we were brought in contact on the outward
journey could easily have been counted on our fingers; and if it should
seem that, having started early in the season, we had travelled in
advance of them, then my interpreter, who returned from the Amur, had
the opportunity of meeting them, or hearing of them, as he went back.
As a matter of fact, however, he met, between the Amur and the Urals,
three special convoys only. The first contained one prisoner, who said
he was going to Kara; the next consisted of seven vehicles, each of
which contained a soldier on the box, and a gendarme at the side of the
prisoner; and the third convoy consisted of 21 vehicles, each filled in
like manner. Thus, excepting the 78, or the possible 73 just mentioned,
the total number we met or _definitely_ heard of all across Asia, both
in going and returning, did not amount, I should think, to 50.
I write, then, under correction, and shall be glad to be set right if I
am wrong; but I must now leave it to my readers to judge whether or not
the considerations brought forward are such as to justify my opinion
respecting the number, degradation, and misery of political prisoners.
I have few statistics on the point, from the fact that political
offenders are treated as belonging to a special department, and are
unconnected with the ordinary sources from which I obtained my figures.
This I did not know until I had left European Russia, and hence my
inability to give other than general reasons. My impression, therefore,
is that the greater number of the political exiles either go to prison
only for a short time, or not at all, and are then placed in villages
and towns. They are then expected to get their living. (I have recently
heard that, at the time of the burning of Krasnoiarsk, there were 40
living free in the town.)
This they do in a variety of ways. Some are teachers of languages,
some are tradesmen, and some are photographers. We met, for instance,
two exile photographers at Tobolsk. As strangers we had, of course, no
means of identifying exiles from other people, though we were sometimes
brought into contact with them, from the fact that many of the Poles
speak French. Moreover, as the question of prison and exiles was, so
to say, my speciality, I was always glad, when opportunity presented
itself, to converse with them directly rather than get my information
translated. A stranger, however, who believes every exile who calls
himself a “political,” may easily be misled. To be a “political”
prisoner in Siberia is to be more or less of a gentleman, and many try
thus to pass themselves off. Mr. Ashton Dilke, M.P., who travelled some
years ago in Southern Siberia, and spoke Russian, has told me that,
on asking gangs of convicts if they had any politicals or “gentlemen”
prisoners among them, they usually said “No”; and that, in the case
of one man who imposed upon him and tried to palm himself off as a
“political,” the Governor showed Mr. Dilke the man’s papers, which
described him as a criminal, a thief, etc.
In Irkutsk I met an exile who told me he was a captain, and had been
banished for a duel, which no doubt he thought a respectable crime;
but, upon my repeating it to others who knew the man, they said he was
a forger. Looking, however, at the political prisoners I saw in the
separate rooms of the various prisons, at those with whom I came into
personal contact, those pointed out to me, and those of whom mention
was made as living in the towns through which we passed, I think that,
if I had been commissioned to give a sovereign to each, 50 coins would
have sufficed for the purpose. It is not pretended, of course, that a
lover of statistics can or ought to attempt to build anything definite
upon this statement; but, until proof is brought to the contrary, it
may perhaps tend to modify what I deem the exaggerated and extravagant
notions as to the number of Siberian _political_ prisoners, and to show
at least that they are not as “plentiful as blackberries.”[4]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Let me not fail to add, however, that the whole tone of
Dostoyeffsky’s book is far above that of the vindictive class of
writers, some of whom have been alluded to. It gives an inner view
of prison life, such as no inspector, or philanthropist, or person
visiting prisons as I did, could furnish. Some of this writer’s
statements, indeed, would hardly tally with my own experience, as,
for instance, that they had the bath _seldom_, whereas I found it the
rule once a fortnight, and at Tiumen and Tomsk once a week; above
all, the statement that prisoners were thrashed if found sleeping on
their backs, or the left side instead of the right; also what he says
of thrashing generally, to which I shall allude hereafter. But I have
to thank Alexander Goryantchikoff for his lifelike pictures, many
of which illustrate scraps of information I received concerning the
Siberian prison world--such, for instance, as the various occupations
carried on in secret among the convicts, one being a pawnbroker,
another a _vodka_ seller, others smugglers of spirits into the
prison, the card-playing at night, the exchanging of their names and
punishments, and the horrible language and fighting and quarrelling
of the prisoners. In these things I make no doubt that “Buried Alive”
gives a fairly accurate picture of things as they were, and in some
cases still are, perhaps, among such prisoners as those with whom the
lot of Goryantchikoff (himself a murderer) was cast. Further light also
is thrown upon the interior of prison life in Siberia by the papers
of M. Andreoli in _La Revue Moderne_ for 1868, in which he speaks of
the tricks and vices of both prisoners and officials, and of the evil
effects of the gang system. A great deal of this is inevitable where a
number of the most desperate felons are herded together.
[2] I have been favoured with a few particulars from an unpublished
manuscript, written by a Decembrist prisoner for the use of his wife
and children. He describes his cell at the fortress in Petersburg
as small, dirty, and dark; and speaks of a poor and scanty diet,
adding, “C’était l’Empereur, qui, sur le rapport du comité d’enquête
prescrivait, le régime diétique ainsi que la dure aggravation d’une
détention penible.” He had to leave Petersburg, and many of his
comrades with him, in the middle of the night, in chains (though a
noble), and was not allowed to bid his mother good-bye, though she was
in the next room to him at the post-station. They left in a _telega_,
travelling _viâ_ Jaroslav, Kostroma, Viatka, Ekaterineburg, Omsk, etc.,
and reached Irkutsk in 24 days. At Chita they were kindly treated by
the governor of the prison and attendants, and later on, when allowed
to colonize at Irkutsk and Tobolsk, suffered no hardships, excepting
petty restrictions and vexations.
[3] Perhaps I ought to add that this information was given me in
French, which the Pole had not conversed in for a long time, and did
not speak readily. It was given, too, with a good deal of bitter
feeling, whilst I made notes of what was told me. As he looked on at my
writing, and knew pretty well who I was, and what I was travelling for,
I felt he might be exaggerating, and I therefore asked him pointedly
whether all he had told me was true. He replied in the affirmative,
and I therefore hand on the account to my readers, though, as will be
seen later on, it was a much severer testimony than I received from
political prisoners in general.
[4] Since this chapter has been in type my impressions have been
strikingly confirmed by an official, high in the prison administration,
who in reply to my written inquiries as to the number of political
prisoners sent to Siberia during the last few years, replies that
the deportation of political offenders came under the _prison_
administration only in 1880, but that for the present year, 1881, the
total number of political offenders of _all_ kinds, sent to Siberia, is
72; which number, moreover, includes nearly 40 condemned to the mines
during the years 1875-6-9-80, but who have been detained meanwhile in
the central prisons of the Kharkof district. The year, therefore (up
to November), of the Emperor’s assassination has sent about 30 persons
into exile.