_THE PENAL COLONY OF KARA._
Evil reputation of Kara.--Testimony from Siberians and exiles.--My
own experience.--The Commandant.--Our evening drive.--Hospitable
reception.--Statistics respecting prisoners, their crimes,
sentences, and settlement as “exiles.”--The Amurski
prison.--Cossack barracks.--The upper prison.--Convicts’
food.--Prisoners’ private laws.--Middle Kara prison.--Mohammedan
forçats.--Sunday labour.--Convict clothing.--Guard-house.--A
genuine political prisoner.--The church.--Lack of
preaching.--House of the Commandant.
In the penal colony of Kara I found more than 2,000 convicts, and a few
political prisoners, together with some of their wives and families,
a military staff, and some peasants. The penal institutions of this
place are not so old as those of Nertchinsk; but, like them, they
inherit a bad reputation. Mr. Atkinson appears to have been the first
author to bring the place under the notice of English readers, doing
so in no favourable terms, though he does not profess to speak as
an eye-witness. Before I left England I was told that, if I did not
intend to go east of the Baikal, I should see nothing but what might
be witnessed in the prisons of London, and that I should get no idea
of the real horrors of Siberian exile. This was said by a man who had
worked in the mines of Nertchinsk, and he urged me by all means to see
Kara.
Again, when we reached Siberia, and were travelling on the Obi, my
interpreter conversed with an officer in the prison service, whom he
told that I had come to Siberia for the purpose of seeing its prisons.
The officer expressed his doubts (as numbers of my English friends
had done before) as to whether I should succeed in getting at the
real state of the convicts in the mines and prisons; and he further
mentioned three places where they had to work specially hard, namely,
Alexandreffsky and Nertchinsk (about which I have spoken), and the
third was Kara.
We met further east a gentleman who told me that his brother-in-law,
a colonel, had given him sad accounts of the dreadful state of some
of the prisons in Eastern Siberia. I was introduced to the said
colonel, but a lengthy inquiry was productive of little more, on his
part, than general statements, and I obtained only five lines for my
note-book, the gist of them being that, when I asked for the very worst
places--those in which I should find most horrors--one of the four
places mentioned was Kara.
It is curious to notice that, of the four persons who spoke against
Kara, not one of them (so far as I know) ever went there; and, with
regard to Nertchinsk also, it is observable that the language of
ear-witnesses respecting its mines is far stronger than the language of
eye-witnesses, or even of those who suffered as prisoners. But I need
dwell no longer upon what others have said, and may proceed to write of
what I saw at Kara, where I was, if I mistake not, the first English
visitor.
It was towards evening when our boat reached Ust-Kara. Pacing the
river’s bank was Colonel Kononovitch, the Commandant of the colony. I
had been delayed on the way, and he had been for some hours awaiting
me, but a few words of explanation sufficed to make matters clear. My
tongue, after an enforced silence of nearly 30 hours, was now released.
We talked in French, and I soon discovered that I was addressing
an officer of more than average intelligence. He took me into the
police-master’s house for some light refreshment, and to leave my heavy
baggage, and then suggested that we should start on a drive of eight
miles, so as to reach our destination before dark.
Our way lay over a stony road, through a wild valley, which, in the
shades of evening, had a weird and out-of-the-world appearance.
The ridges of the hills were irregular, and partially covered with
conifers, while lower were deciduous shrubs and trees, though not of
considerable dimensions. Among the rank and tall herbage were some
late flowers, and an orange tiger-lily, about two feet high, that was
strange to me. After we had driven a few miles, we came to a _détour_
in the route, where the colonel proposed that we should clamber up a
bank, and walk down to the road on the other side. From this elevation
the landscape appeared wilder than ever, and the place looked like
a natural prison, from which escape was impossible. There was not
a habitation to be seen, and the consciousness that we were in the
neighbourhood of so many “unfortunates,” as they are called, gave me
similar feelings to those with which I looked down on the forest-bound
prison at Alexandreffsky.
As we drove along, and darkness crept on, there passed us labouring
men returning from work, who saluted us. “Who,” said I, “are they?”
“They are convicts,” said the colonel. “Convicts!” said I; “how,
then, are they loose?” “Oh,” said he, “a large proportion of the
condemned--perhaps half--live out of the prisons in their houses _en
famille_.[1] But they ought not to be out after dark.” I then began
to inquire respecting the crimes of the prisoners, and was informed
that there were in the place about 800 murderers, 400 robbers, and 700
vagrants or “_brodiagi_”; and having been told what proportion of these
were loose, I was not surprised to hear the colonel say that he usually
avoided, if possible, being out at night. I approved his caution. Being
very tired, moreover, and seeing that it was now dark, and that neither
of us was armed, I was heartily glad to reach Middle Kara, the end of
our drive.
Where I was to be quartered I did not know. There was no hotel in the
place, or even a post-house, and I doubt if they could have offered me
lodgings, as at Troitskosavsk, in the police-station. The commandant,
however, had arranged everything for me, and I found that I was to
occupy his own study. There he had prepared a neat, clean little bed;
and as I looked around at the European comforts on the table, in the
shape of writing materials and ornaments, it seemed like an arrival in
the library of an English gentleman rather than the private bureau of
the director of a penal colony.
I wanted to get a thorough rest against the morrow, for we had a stiff
programme before us. Moreover, the last bed I had occupied was nearly
600 miles away; and, with the exception of two nights, I had not taken
off my clothes to sleep for exactly a month. But the colonel insisted
first on giving me food, of which my prominent recollection is that
it was tastefully served, and consisted of delicacies that had been
out of reach for many a day, with tinned fruits, including pears that
had made their way from America up the Amur. When at last I undressed,
and stretched my limbs between a pair of sheets, I felt on excellent
terms with my surroundings in general, and the colonel in particular.
He was a fine-looking man, with intellectual tastes and an intelligent
forehead, and neither smoked, drank, nor played cards,--a trio of
virtues by no means always found in a Siberian official. The room was
clean and sweet; quietness reigned around; and, uninterrupted by the
rumbling of the tarantass or the noise of a post-house, I was left to
sleep in peace.
I had been asked overnight whether next morning I should like a bath.
Of course I jumped at the offer, having been able to get such a luxury
but twice in Siberia. Accordingly, on waking, the colonel brought me
a Turkish dressing-gown and bade me follow him. I thought, perhaps,
he would lead the way to a bath-room, instead of which he opened the
front door and marched me down the middle of his garden to a summer
bathing-shed. Here I splashed about, then returned to my toilet and to
breakfast.
Of course I asked all sorts of questions about the convicts, or, as
they are called, “forçats,” or _katorjniki_--prisoners condemned to
forced labour. Their number at Kara for four preceding years had been
as follows:--
1875 1876 1877 1878 1879[2]
2,600 2,722 2,635 2,543 2,458.
Their classification according to crime is important, as throwing some
light on the number of political prisoners, for whom, I was told, Kara
is a special place of deportation, and I have heard that it has become
more so since my visit. The only class where they could be included
was under the heading “various,” of whom there were 73; and this would
suffice to include the politicals, respecting whose number I asked, and
was told that it was 13 Russians and 28 Poles. I did not hear of any of
the sects of dissenters in prison at Kara.[3]
As regards the sentences of the convicts, they were all, I believe,
condemned to hard labour, either of the fabric or the mines--one year
of work in the mines counting for a year and a half in the fabric.
There were a few, chiefly “vagabonds,” sentenced to Kara for life;
but for such grave offenders even as parricides, fratricides, etc.,
20 years was the extreme limit of their terms. The convicts are able
to shorten their time, to some extent, by good conduct, and are set
free to live as colonists, or, as they are then technically called,
“exiles,” or “_poselenetsi_.”[4]
Not all of the forçats at Kara, as already observed, were in prison,
nor were those in close confinement placed all in one building, but
in six, distributed over a distance about 15 miles long. Thus we left
one behind at Ust-Kara, another about midway between the river and
Middle Kara. At Middle Kara were one or two prison buildings, and in
the opposite direction from the river were two more, the High Prison
and the Amurski Prison, which last was eight miles distant from the
commandant’s house. To this last the colonel proposed to drive first,
and then work back, taking the others in order; and this, after
breakfast, we proceeded to do.
It was a beautiful morning when we started, and the bright sun and
the clear air gave a very different aspect to the valley from that of
the preceding night. The dark hues of the conifers stood out well in
contrast with foliage of lighter green, a stream was visible here and
there, and immense forests bounded the horizon. We drove a pair of
splendid horses that would have attracted attention in Rotten Row; and
as we dashed along the road I perceived at its side wild currants and
strawberries, raspberries, and wild peas, the apple, and the vine. The
colonel pointed out a gold-mine as we proceeded, but I do not remember
seeing any one there at work.
When we reached the Amurski prison, it proved to be a log building,
of good pitch, and of a single storey. Most of the prisoners were
out at work, but a few were engaged in whitewashing the rooms, which
the colonel said was done at least four times a year. The wards were
large sleeping-rooms, occupied for the greater part of the year only
by night. There were no bedsteads, but a wide shelf, like that of a
guard-room, ran round three of the walls; and on this they placed their
large bags, for the making of which sacking was supplied to them, to
serve the double purpose of clothes-bag and bed.
Near the prison were the summer barracks of a company of 150 Cossacks,
a fourth of whom were replaced yearly. The barracks consisted of large
canvas booths, with rows of beds arranged in the fashion of the summer
hospitals. A school is provided in winter for the Cossacks, of whom
rather more than a half read.
We next drove back to the _Verchne_ (or upper) prison, a building much
older than the one we had left, having in the rooms an upper sleeping
shelf resembling a loft, on which the prisoners sleeping would have
the full benefit of the breathed air of their comrades below. The
commandant saw this, and pointed out that it was an old and doomed
building, and that in the new erections they were avoiding a repetition
of the evil. In this prison were two solitary punishment cells, one of
them being occupied on the morning of our visit for the first time in
the colonel’s experience.
Some prisoners, it seemed, might receive money, and some not. There was
in this prison a Jew to whom 150 roubles a year were sent by friends.
His family were living outside. They might bring him food, and were
allowed to pay him at least a weekly visit.
We went into the kitchen, and I looked attentively at the scale of
diet hung on the wall as in prisons in England.[5] The weight of the
highest allowance in Siberia, as observed before, is far in excess
(nearly double) of the highest English convicts’ allowance, though
for non-working prisoners in Siberia an abatement must be made for
fast-days. The annual cost of provisions for each prisoner at Kara is
65 roubles 72¾ kopecks, or say £6 10_s._ The soup appeared somewhat
roughly served in small wooden tubs or bowls, but I presume that the
place is too distant to allow of crockeryware being easily procured.
Every prisoner provided his own spoon. Knives, as in most prisons, were
forbidden.
We saw, lounging about this building, two or three men who seemed
to have very little to do. They were called “_starostas_,” that
is, seniors or elders. Each ward of men in prison, and each gang
of exiles on the march, chooses a starosta, who is their ruler and
representative, the middle-man between them and the authorities. He
receives the charities given them on the road, and pays and bribes the
petty officers for little favours. He is, in fact, banker, purveyor,
and general factotum to the body by whom he is elected. The authorities
recognise this arrangement, exempt the starostas from labour, and
through them deal with the prisoners rather than give their small
orders direct. On behalf of the prisoners it is the starosta’s duty to
befriend them, and see that they have the proper amount of food, and
whatever else may be their due; whilst, on behalf of the authorities,
should anything go wrong with the prisoners, the starosta is held
responsible.[6] The office, however, at Kara, notwithstanding its
privileges and exemptions, is by no means coveted; and the men, rather
than be unoccupied, though it be to rule, prefer to work and to serve.
In the prison at Middle Kara was a considerable number of Tatars. Why
they were unoccupied I know not, unless it happened to be a bath-day,
which is a holiday, and recurs twice a month; or, again, it may have
been one of the Mohammedan festivals, some of the greater of which they
are allowed to observe, though not the Friday in every week. Nor are
the Jewish prisoners allowed to rest on their Sabbath, nor Christians
on the Sunday. It might possibly be argued, in justification of this,
that Sunday is not usually observed at any of the Siberian gold-mines;
but, however that may be, I thought this robbing the hard-labour
prisoners of their day of rest the most cruel and unjust thing in their
lot. A greater than a Russian Tsar gave to man the Sabbath, and to take
it away from him is, to my mind, nothing less than a sin and a shame.[7]
Near the prison at Middle Kara was a storehouse, to which we mounted
by a flight of outside steps. It contained a quantity of material for
prisoners’ clothing--coarse linen for shirts and summer trousers, felt
for coats, and leather for shoes and gloves; also a number of made-up
garments. A pair of summer shoes or slippers was valued at 3_s._, and
a coat of felt at 12_s._ A pair of gloves, such as the prisoners use
in the mines, was given me as a keepsake. I have added them to my
prison curiosities, collected in various parts of the world, comprising
fetters, whip, handcuffs, specimens of prison labour, and a variety of
other lugubrious objects.
There was likewise a guard-house at Middle Kara. In it I observed,
as I had done at Tobolsk, that the furniture and arrangements for
the soldiers were not at all better than for the prisoners. From
information respecting soldiers’ food received later, I make no
doubt the rations of the Cossack guards are less ample than those
provided for the labouring convicts; and I am persuaded that under
some circumstances, dear liberty excepted, the Cossacks are more to be
pitied than their prisoners. Thus, when a gang of exiles comes at night
to an étape, they can lie down and rest, whereas the Cossacks have to
mount guard.
In this building, opening out of the central room guarded by soldiers,
were a few (perhaps half-a-dozen) separate cells, through the doors of
which no one could pass without being seen by the Cossacks. These cells
were evidently inner prisons, in which were kept those whose escape was
especially to be prevented. I entered two of them. The first was not
quite so wide, but about the length and rather higher than the cell
of an English prison, measuring perhaps five feet wide by eight long
and ten high, and occupied by a Tatar gentleman, with his rosary of a
hundred beads in hand, with nothing to do.
[Illustration: TATAR GENTLEMAN EXILE IN WINTER DRESS.]
On entering the second cell, occupied by a political prisoner,
just then at work in the mines, I had at last lighted upon the
dwelling-place of one of a class about whom such harrowing stories
have been told--a genuine political prisoner of high calibre, and a
Jew to wit, undergoing the full sentence of punishment in the mines
of Siberia. This meant, in his case, that he had to labour in summer
very much like a navvy, from six in the morning till seven in the
evening, with certain hours for rest and meals; but in the winter he
frequently had nothing to do. His wife was living near, and might see
him twice a week. But his cell was that which struck me most. Compared
to the criminal wards in the other prisons, this was a little parlour.
It was clean, and in a manner garnished--not, indeed, in the fashion
of a cell at San Francisco, where I found a “boss” painter condemned
for life, and who had decorated his cell from floor to ceiling, as if
intending to remain there for the rest of his days (this would have
been out of keeping with Russian ideas); but the Kara prisoner had
certain articles of furniture and eating requisites, the placing and
arrangement of which indicated familiarity with the habits of decent
society, and showed the prisoner to be above the common herd. One of
his books I found was a treatise on political economy, which may be
noted in connection with the remark of Goryantchikoff in his “Buried
Alive,” who asserts that in his prison no book was allowed but the New
Testament. The room certainly was not large, but there was abundance
of light, the outlook from the long window being not on a prison wall
surrounded by chevaux-de-frise, but commanding a view of the Kara
valley such as a Londoner might envy; whilst just outside was the
public road, along which could be seen everything that passed. I speak
only truth when I say that, if I had the misfortune to be condemned to
prison for life, and had my choice between Millbank in London or this
political’s cell at Kara, I would certainly choose the latter.
Between the guard-house and the residence of the colonel was a
collection of buildings and store-houses, called “Middle” Kara. Among
these was the church, the priest of which was the only chaplain I
could hear of for the prisoners. He practised photography in addition
to his ecclesiastical calling, and although he probably needed every
rouble he gained thereby--and I certainly ought not to revile him,
since by his means the colonel was able to present me with some
views of the colony--yet it would have rejoiced me to hear that he
was doing something worthy of his position for the spiritual good of
the convicts. The pastoral superintendence, frequent services, and
preaching to prisoners, as carried on in English prisons, is unheard of
at Kara, and I gathered that the convicts attended church only twice a
year.[8]
[Illustration: RUSSIAN VILLAGE CHURCH.]
I may here mention that the religious scruples of Siberian exiles are
to some extent respected. Thus, for the Jewish prisoners to be obliged
to eat food prepared by Gentiles would be an abomination. In the prison
at Tiumen we were informed that 42 Jews, who had been confined there
during the previous winter, had been placed together in a ward, with a
separate cooking-place, in which they prepared their food canonically.
So, too, a similar arrangement had been observed with 71 Mohammedans;
and I have just remarked that there were many of this religion
together, in the prison at Middle Kara, who were allowed, within
certain limitations, the exercise of their religious observances. I
have already said that we met a Protestant pastor who made periodical
visits to the prisons and mines; and on the Amur I travelled with
a Roman Catholic priest, from Nikolaefsk, who was returning from a
lengthened tour along the river, which doubtless included visits to his
co-religionists in confinement.
After seeing Middle Kara our morning’s inspection was over. We had
driven 15 miles, and as there were prisons in the opposite direction,
extending over the same length of country, it will be seen that for
the colonel to pay a visit to all his Kara prisons involved a drive,
in all, of 30 miles, which I understood he accomplished at least once
a week; and he had also, I believe, another penal institution to
inspect, called Alexandreffsky Zavod, at a still greater distance. His
salary was £330 per annum, and an unpretentious house, his perquisites,
perhaps, making up his income to £400. In his yard was a good
bath-house and offices, and an enclosure with a couple of wild deer,
caught and kept for his children.
At dinner I was introduced to Madame Kononovitch, who was considerably
younger than her husband. They had married at Irkutsk, which to a
Siberian is Paris. It was not greatly to be wondered at, therefore,
if she found Kara somewhat dull. The society of the place was very
limited. There were the families of the officers and the wives of a few
gentle or noble prisoners, but these latter of course could be received
into the colonel’s house only with a certain amount of reserve. The
servants were, I suppose, all of them exiles, but the dinner was well
served. I remember nothing of the food, save that the colonel had made
a successful effort to get me a plate of wild strawberries. The season
(July 26th) was now late, and they were the last I ate in Siberia.
Madame spoke French well, and, as their children were growing up, she
and her husband were interested in their education, and made many
inquiries concerning our methods of teaching in England. The colonel
then requested me to send him some English books; and soon after dinner
we started for the hospital, the orphanage, and one of the mines.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This is permitted after the expiration of two, four, six, or eight
years (or nearly one-third of the punishment), to those who by good
behaviour attain to a certain class. They still live on the spot and
must work, and after a second period of this half-liberty, they are
sent to a better place as exiles. Whilst in the former class they may
be re-imprisoned for bad conduct, but not, I find, after they are set
free to colonize (except for fresh crimes), as I have stated in my
chapter on the exiles, vol. i., p. 35.
[2] The colonel had not quite all the statistics to hand for 1879.
Their number, therefore, at the time of my visit, was given me as
2,144, classified, according to their crimes, as follows:--
Men. Women. Total.
Murderers 668 125 793
Robbers with violence 404 5 409
Incendiaries 29 9 38
For rape 22 22
Forgers 45 1 46
Offenders against discipline, and
defaulters in public service 86 86
Vagabonds 665 12 677
Various 71 2 73
----- ----- -----
1,990 154 2,144
[3] The only place where I met any of these in confinement was in
the prison hospital at Tomsk, in which were three _Subbotniki_,--one
of them a priest, and the others descendants of priests,--who were
suffering from scorbutic disease, and who were in prison, I _think_
I understood, for trying to propagate their creed; though, as this
would seem to be contrary to what I understood were now the laws
respecting dissenters, it may be that I did not understand the whole
case. Subbotniki are so called because they believe that we ought to
keep _Subbota_, or Saturday, as the day of rest. They are said also to
consider circumcision a binding ordinance, because it was to Abraham,
the father of the faithful, that the Lord gave it, and Moses wrote, “in
your generations _for ever_.” In some other respects, perhaps, such as
purifications, they may further Judaize.
[4] The number of forçats who, after finishing their terms, were, by
special order of the Government, distributed, as exiled colonists among
the inhabitants of the provinces of Eastern Siberia, for the seven
years preceding my visit, was as follows:--
1872 1873 1874 1875 1876 1877 1878
176 193 134 167 290 472 672
--the last year thus showing a release of a third of the whole number I
found under detention.
[5] It appeared that, when a man was working in the mines, he received
daily 4 lbs. (Russian) of bread, 1 lb. of meat, ¼ lb. of buckwheat,
and a small piece of brick-tea (_kirpichny chai_; _kirpich_ meaning a
brick), amounting to a quarter of a brick per month. In winter they are
given cabbage and potatoes. When a man was not working, he received 3
lbs. of bread, ½ lb. of meat, and 1/12 lb. of buckwheat. No _kvas_ was
provided at Kara except in the hospital. These allowances are given to
the prisoners at Kara in kind, and not, as at Irkutsk, their value in
money, which would not be so suitable, as I saw no shops at Kara, nor
did I hear of any local committee to-eke out the prisoners’ money.
[6] Thus the prisoners make laws for themselves and invest their
seniors with a good deal of power. In this matter there is “honour
among thieves.” I was told, for instance, that east of Tomsk the
sentinels ask an oath of the prisoners that they will not attempt to
escape, and then give them certain liberties. My informant said that
he had sometimes met gangs of prisoners alone, their sentinels having
stayed behind to drink at a public-house. When a general promise
has been thus given, should one dare to run away, he is pursued by
the others, and when caught is thrashed, or loaded, according to M.
Andreoli, with a sack of earth tied on his back. I have even heard of a
gang of exiles sentencing one of their number to death for the breach
of some law of their own making, the sentence being carried out of
course unknown to the authorities--such cases, I presume, being very
rare.
[7] The only days at Kara on which men are supposed not to work are
three days at Christmas, New Year’s Day, three days before Lent, three
days at Easter, and certain imperial birthdays, making in all 15 days
in the year, and the first and fifteenth day of each month for the
bath. There are other days when, as a matter of fact, for various
reasons, they do not work; but I am speaking of the rule.
[8] This may be noticed in connection with a statement of the
author of “The Russians of To-day” (p. 231), who says: “Once a
week a pope--himself an exile--goes down into the mines to bear
the consolations of religion, under the form of a sermon enjoining
patience.” I suspect that the poor fellows would be only too thankful
to have the opportunity once a week of listening to a sermon upon
patience or any other subject! Moreover, the number of sermons given by
our author to his prisoners is exceedingly liberal (52 in the course of
the year), seeing that in an ordinary church in Petersburg or Moscow
the number does not usually exceed half-a-dozen. I have seen it stated
that properly there should be 12, but, in Siberia, on my asking the
grandson of a metropolitan how often his father preached, he told me
“five or six times a year,” and after many inquiries I never heard of
but one priest in the empire, though, of course, there may be others,
who preached, or rather read, a sermon every week.