During the two years of which I am now speaking many arrests were made,
both at St. Petersburg and in the provinces. Not a month passed without
our losing someone, or learning that members of this or that provincial
group had disappeared. Toward the end of 1873 the arrests became more
and more frequent. In November one of our main settlements in a suburb
of St. Petersburg was raided by the police. We lost Peróvskaya and
three other friends, and all our relations with the workers in this
suburb had to be suspended. We founded a new settlement, further away
from the town, but it had soon to be abandoned. The police became very
vigilant, and the appearance of a student in the workmen’s quarters was
noticed at once; spies circulated among the workers, who were watched
closely. Dmítri Kelnitz, Serghéi, and myself, in our sheepskins and
with our pleasant looks, passed unnoticed, and continued to visit the
haunted ground. But Dmítri and Serghéi, whose names had acquired a wide
notoriety in the workmen’s quarters, were eagerly wanted by the police;
and if they had been found accidentally during a nocturnal raid at a
friend’s lodgings they would have been arrested at once. There were
periods when Dmítri had every day to hunt for a place where he could
spend the night in relative safety. ‘Can I stay the night with you?’ he
would ask, entering some comrade’s room at ten o’clock. ‘Impossible!
my lodgings have been closely watched lately. Better go to N----.’ ‘I
have just come from him, and he says spies swarm in his neighbourhood.’
‘Then, go to M----; he is a great friend of mine, and above suspicion.
But it is far from here, and you must take a cab. Here is money.’ But,
on principle, Dmítri would not take a cab, and would walk to the other
end of the town to find a refuge, or at last go to a friend whose rooms
might be searched at any given moment.
Early in January 1874, another settlement, our main stronghold
for propaganda amongst the weavers, was lost. Some of our best
propagandists disappeared behind the gates of the mysterious Third
Section. Our circle became narrower, general meetings were increasingly
difficult, and we made strenuous efforts to form new circles of young
men who might continue our work when we should all be arrested.
Tchaykóvsky was in the south, and we forced Dmítri and Serghéi to leave
St. Petersburg--actually forced them, imperiously ordering them to
leave. Only five or six of us remained to transact all the business of
our circle. I intended, as soon as I should have delivered my report to
the Geographical Society, to go to the south-west of Russia, and there
to start a sort of land league, similar to the league which became so
powerful in Ireland at the end of the seventies.
After two months of relative quiet, we learned in the middle of March
that nearly all the circle of the engineers had been arrested, and
with them a young man named Nízovkin, an ex-student, who unfortunately
had their confidence, and, we were sure, would soon try to clear
himself by telling all he knew about us. Besides Dmítri and Serghéi he
knew Serdukóff, the founder of the circle, and myself, and he would
certainly name us as soon as he was pressed with questions. A few days
later, two weavers--most unreliable fellows, who had even embezzled
some money from their comrades, and who knew me under the name of
Borodín--were arrested. These two would surely set the police at once
upon the track of Borodín, the man, dressed as a peasant, who spoke
at the weavers’ meetings. Within a week’s time all the members of our
circle, excepting Serdukóff and myself, were arrested.
There was nothing left to us but to fly from St. Petersburg: this was
exactly what we did not want to do. All our immense organization for
printing pamphlets abroad and for smuggling them into Russia; all the
network of circles, farms, and country settlements with which we were
in correspondence in nearly forty (out of fifty) provinces of European
Russia and which had been slowly built up during the last two years;
finally, our workers’ groups at St. Petersburg and our four different
centres for propaganda amongst workers of the capital--how could we
abandon all these without having found men to maintain our relations
and correspondence? Serdukóff and I decided to admit to our circle two
new members, and to transfer the business to them. We met every evening
in different parts of the town, and as we never kept any addresses or
names in writing--the smuggling addresses alone had been deposited in
a secure place, in cipher--we had to teach our new members hundreds of
names and addresses and a dozen ciphers, repeating them over and over,
until our friends had learned them by heart. Every evening we went over
the whole map of Russia in this way, dwelling especially on its western
frontier, which was studded with men and women engaged in receiving
books from the smugglers, and the eastern provinces, where we had our
main settlements. Then, always in disguise, we had to take the new
members to our sympathizers in the town, and introduce them to those
who had not yet been arrested.
The thing to be done in such a case was to disappear from one’s
apartments, and to re-appear somewhere else under an assumed name.
Serdukóff had abandoned his lodging, but, having no passport, he
concealed himself in the houses of friends. I ought to have done the
same, but a strange circumstance prevented me. I had just finished my
report upon the glacial formations in Finland and Russia, and this
report had to be read at a meeting of the Geographical Society. The
invitations were already issued, but it happened that on the appointed
day the two geological societies of St. Petersburg had a joint meeting,
and they asked the Geographical Society to postpone the reading of my
report for a week. It was known that I was going to present certain
ideas about the extension of the ice cap as far as Middle Russia, and
our geologists, with the exception of my friend and teacher, Friedrich
Schmidt, considered this speculation of far too reaching a character,
and wanted to have it thoroughly discussed. For one week more,
consequently, I could not go away.
Strangers prowled about my house and called upon me under all sorts of
fantastical pretexts: one of them wanted to buy a forest on my Tambóv
estate, which was situated in absolutely treeless prairies. I noticed
in my street--the fashionable Morskáya--one of the two arrested weavers
whom I have mentioned, and thus learned that my house was watched. Yet
I had to act as if nothing extraordinary had happened, because I was to
appear at the meeting of the Geographical Society the following Friday
night.
The meeting came. The discussions were very animated, and one point,
at least, was won. It was recognized that all old theories concerning
the diluvial period in Russia were totally baseless, and that a new
departure must be made in the investigation of the whole question. I
had the satisfaction of hearing our leading geologist, Barbot-de-Marny,
say, ‘Ice cap or not, we must acknowledge, gentlemen, that all we
have hitherto said about the action of floating ice had no foundation
whatever in actual exploration.’ And I was proposed at that meeting to
be nominated president of the Physical Geography section, while I was
asking myself whether I should not spend that very night in the prison
of the Third Section.
It would have been best not to return at all to my apartment, but I
was broken down with fatigue after the exertions of the last few days,
and went home. There was no police raid during that night. I looked
through the heaps of my papers, destroyed everything that might be
compromising for anyone, packed all my things, and prepared to leave. I
knew that my apartment was watched, but I hoped that the police would
not pay me a visit before late in the night, and that at dusk I could
slip out of the house without being noticed. Dusk came, and, as I was
starting, one of the servant girls said to me, ‘You had better go by
the service staircase.’ I understood what she meant, and went quickly
down the staircase and out of the house. One cab only stood at the
gate; I jumped into it. The driver took me to the great Perspective of
Névsky. There was no pursuit at first, and I thought myself safe; but
presently I noticed another cab running full speed after us; our horse
was delayed somehow, and the other cab passed ours.
To my astonishment, I saw in it one of the two arrested weavers,
accompanied by someone else. He waved his hand as if he had something
to tell me. I told my cabman to stop. ‘Perhaps,’ I thought, ‘he has
been released from arrest, and has an important communication to make
to me.’ But as soon as we stopped, the man who was with the weaver--he
was a detective--shouted loudly, ‘Mr. Borodín, Prince Kropótkin, I
arrest you!’ He made a signal to the policeman, of whom there are
hosts along the main thoroughfare of St. Petersburg, and at the same
time jumped into my cab and showed me a paper which bore the stamp
of the St. Petersburg police. ‘I have an order to take you before
the Governor-General for an explanation,’ he said. Resistance was
impossible--a couple of policemen were already close by--and I told my
cabman to turn round and drive to the Governor-General’s house. The
weaver remained in his cab and followed us.
It was now evident that the police had hesitated for ten days to arrest
me, because they were not sure that Borodín and I were the same person.
My response to the weaver’s call had settled their doubts.
It so happened that just as I was leaving my house a young man came
from Moscow, bringing me a letter from a friend, Voinarálsky, and
another from Dmítri, addressed to our friend Polakóff. The former
announced the establishment of a secret printing office at Moscow,
and was full of cheerful news concerning the activity in that city. I
read it and destroyed it. As the second letter contained nothing but
innocent friendly chat, I took it with me. Now that I was arrested I
thought it would be better to destroy it, and, asking the detective
to show me his paper again, I took advantage of the time that he was
fumbling in his pocket to drop the letter on the pavement without his
noticing it. However, as we reached the Governor-General’s house the
weaver handed it to the detective, saying, ‘I saw the gentleman drop
this letter on the pavement, so I picked it up.’
Now came tedious hours of waiting for the representative of the
judicial authorities, the procureur or public prosecutor. This
functionary plays the part of a straw man, who is paraded by the State
police during their searches: he gives an aspect of legality to their
proceedings. It was many hours before that gentleman was found and
brought to perform his functions as a sham representative of justice. I
was taken back to my house, and a most thorough search of all my papers
was made: this lasted till three in the morning, but did not reveal a
scrap of paper that could tell against me or anyone else.
From my house I was taken to the Third Section, that omnipotent
institution which has ruled in Russia from the beginning of the reign
of Nicholas I. down to the present time--a true ‘state in the state.’
It began under Peter I. in the Secret Department, where the adversaries
of the founder of the Russian military empire were subjected to the
most abominable tortures, under which they expired; it was continued
in the Secret Chancelry during the reigns of the Empresses, when the
Torture Chamber of the powerful Minich inspired all Russia with terror;
and it received its present organization from the iron despot, Nicholas
I., who attached to it the corps of gendarmes--the chief of the
gendarmes becoming a person far more dreaded in the Russian Empire than
the Emperor himself.
In every province of Russia, in every populous town, nay, at every
railway station, there are gendarmes who report directly to their own
generals or colonels, who in turn correspond with the chief of the
gendarmes; and the latter, seeing the Emperor every day, reports to him
what he finds necessary to report. All functionaries of the empire are
under gendarme supervision; it is the duty of the generals and colonels
to keep an eye upon the public and private life of every subject of
the Tsar--even upon the governors of the provinces, the ministers, and
the grand dukes. The Emperor himself is under their close watch, and
as they are well informed of the petty chronicle of the palace, and
know every step that the Emperor takes outside his palace, the chief of
the gendarmes becomes, so to speak, a confidant of the most intimate
affairs of the rulers of Russia.
At this period of the reign of Alexander II. the Third Section was
absolutely all-powerful. The gendarme colonels made searches by the
thousand without troubling themselves in the least about the existence
of laws and law courts in Russia. They arrested whom they liked, kept
people imprisoned as long as they pleased, and transported hundreds
to North-east Russia or Siberia according to the fancy of general or
colonel; the signature of the Minister of the Interior was a mere
formality, because he had no control over them and no knowledge of
their doings.
It was four o’clock in the morning when my examination began. ‘You
are accused,’ I was solemnly told, ‘of having belonged to a secret
society which has for its object the overthrow of the existing form of
government, and of conspiracy against the sacred person of his Imperial
Majesty. Are you guilty of this crime?’
‘Till I am brought before a court where I can speak publicly, I will
give you no replies whatever.’
‘Write,’ the procureur dictated to a scribe: ‘“Does not acknowledge
himself guilty.” Still’ he continued, after a pause, ‘I must ask
you certain questions. Do you know a person of the name of Nikolái
Tchaykóvsky?’
‘If you persist in your questions, then write “No” to any question
whatsoever that you are pleased to ask me.’
‘But if we ask you whether you know, for instance, Mr. Polakóff, whom
you spoke about a while ago?’
‘The moment _you_ ask me such a question, don’t hesitate: write “No.”
And if you ask me whether I know my brother, or my sister, or my
stepmother, write “No.” You will not receive from me another reply:
because if I answered “Yes” with regard to any person, you would at
once plan some evil against him, making a raid or something worse, and
saying next that I named him.’
A long list of questions was read, to which I patiently replied each
time, ‘Write “No.”’ That lasted for an hour, during which I learned
that all who had been arrested, with the exception of the two weavers,
had behaved very well. The weavers knew only that I had twice met a
dozen workers, and the gendarmes knew nothing about our circle.
‘What are you doing, prince?’ a gendarme officer said, as he took me
to my cell. ‘Your refusal to answer questions will be made a terrible
weapon against you.’
‘It is my right, is it not?’
‘Yes, but--you know.... I hope you will find this room comfortable. It
has been kept warm since your arrest.’
I found it quite comfortable, and fell sound asleep. I was waked the
next morning by a gendarme, who brought me the morning tea. He was soon
followed by somebody else, who whispered to me in the most unconcerned
way, ‘Here’s a scrap of paper and a pencil: write your letter.’ It
was a sympathizer, whom I knew by name; he used to transmit our
correspondence with the prisoners of the Third Section.
From all sides I heard knocks on the walls, following in rapid
succession. It was the prisoners communicating with one another by
means of light taps; but, being a new-comer, I could make nothing out
of the noise, which seemed to come from all parts of the building at
once.
* * * * *
One thing worried me. During the search in my house, I overheard the
procureur whispering to the gendarme officer about going to make a
search at the apartment of my friend Polakóff, to whom the letter of
Dmítri was addressed. Polakóff was a young student, a very gifted
zoologist and botanist, with whom I had made my Vitím expedition in
Siberia. He was born of a poor Cossack family on the frontier of
Mongolia, and, after having surmounted all sorts of difficulties, he
had come to St. Petersburg, entered the university, where he had won
the reputation of a most promising zoologist, and was then passing his
final examinations. We had been great friends since our long journey,
and had even lived together for a time at St. Petersburg, but he took
no interest in my political activity.
I spoke of him to the procureur. ‘I give you my word of honour,’ I
said, ‘that Polakóff has never taken part in any political affair.
To-morrow he has to pass an examination, and you will spoil forever the
scientific career of a young man who has gone through great hardships,
and has struggled for years against all sorts of obstacles, to attain
his present position. I know that you do not much care for it, but
he is looked upon at the university as one of the future glories of
Russian science.’
The search was made, nevertheless, but a respite of three days was
given for the examinations. A little later I was called before the
procureur, who triumphantly showed me an envelope addressed in my
handwriting, and in it a note, also in my handwriting, which said,
‘Please take this packet to V. E., and ask that it be kept until demand
in due form is made.’ The person to whom the note was addressed was not
mentioned in the note. ‘This letter,’ the procureur said, ‘was found at
Mr. Polakóff’s; and now, prince, his fate is in your hands. If you tell
me who V. E. is, Mr. Polakóff will be released; but if you refuse to do
so, he will be kept as long as he does not make up his mind to give us
the name of that person.’
Looking at the envelope, which was addressed in black chalk, and
the letter, which was written in common lead pencil, I immediately
remembered the circumstances under which the two had been written. ‘I
am positive,’ I exclaimed at once, ‘that the note and the envelope
were not found together! It is _you_ who have put the letter in the
envelope.’
The procureur blushed. ‘Would you have me believe,’ I continued, ‘that
you, a practical man, did not notice that the two are written in quite
different pencils? And now you are trying to make people think that the
two belong to each other! Well, sir, then I tell you that the letter
was not to Polakóff.’
He hesitated for some time, but then, regaining his audacity, he said,
‘Polakóff has admitted that this letter of yours was written to him.’
Now I knew he was lying. Polakóff would have admitted everything
concerning himself; but he would have preferred to be marched to
Siberia rather than to involve another person. So, looking straight in
the face of the procureur, I replied, ‘No, sir, he has _never_ said
that, and you know perfectly well that your words are not true.’
He became furious, or pretended to be so. ‘Well, then,’ he said, ‘if
you wait here a moment, I will bring you Polakóff’s written statement
to that effect. He is in the next room under examination.’
‘Ready to wait as long as you like.’
I sat on a sofa, smoking countless cigarettes. The statement did not
come, and never came.
Of course there was no such statement. I met Polakóff in 1878 at
Geneva, whence we made a delightful excursion to the Aletsch glacier.
I need not say that his answers were what I expected them to be: he
denied having any knowledge of the letter, or of the person the letters
V. E. represented. Scores of books used to be taken from me to him,
and back to me, and the letter was found in a book, while the envelope
was discovered in the pocket of an old coat. He was kept several weeks
under arrest, and then released, owing to the intervention of his
scientific friends. V. E. was not molested, and delivered my papers in
due time.
Later on, each time I saw the procureur, I teased him with the
question: ‘And what about Polakóff’s statement?’
I was not taken back to my cell, but an hour later the procureur came
in, accompanied by a gendarme officer. ‘Our examination,’ he announced
to me, ‘is now terminated; you will be removed to another place.’
A four-wheeled cab stood at the gate. I was asked to enter it, and a
stout gendarme officer, of Caucasian origin, sat by my side. I spoke
to him, but he only snored. The cab crossed the Chain Bridge, then
passed the parade grounds and ran along the canals, as if avoiding the
more frequented thoroughfares. ‘Are we going to the Litóvsky prison?’
I asked the officer, as I knew that many of my comrades were already
there. He made no reply. The system of absolute silence which was
maintained toward me for the next two years began in this four-wheeled
cab; but when we went rolling over the Palace Bridge I understood that
I was taken to the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul.
I admired the beautiful river, knowing that I should not soon see it
again. The sun was going down. Thick grey clouds were hanging in the
west above the Gulf of Finland, while light clouds floated over my
head, showing here and there patches of blue sky. Then the carriage
turned to the left and entered a dark arched passage, the gate of the
fortress.
‘Now I shall have to remain here for a couple of years,’ I remarked to
the officer.
‘No, why so long?’ replied the Circassian who, now that we were within
the fortress, had regained the power of speech. ‘Your affair is almost
terminated, and may be brought into court in a fortnight.’
‘My affair,’ I replied, ‘is very simple; but before bringing me to a
court you will try to arrest all the socialists in Russia, and they are
many, very many; in two years you will not have done.’ I did not then
realize how prophetic my remark was.
The carriage stopped at the door of the military commander of the
fortress, and we entered his reception hall. General Korsákoff, a thin
old man, came in, with a peevish expression on his face. The officer
spoke to him in a subdued voice, and the old man answered, ‘All right,’
looking at him with a sort of scorn, and then turned his eyes toward
me. It was evident that he was not at all pleased to receive a new
inmate, and that he felt slightly ashamed of his rôle; but he seemed
to add, ‘I am a soldier, and only do my duty.’ Presently we got into
the carriage again, but soon stopped before another gate, where we were
kept a long time until a detachment of soldiers opened it from the
inside. Proceeding on foot through narrow passages, we came to a third
iron gate, opening into a dark arched passage, from which we entered a
small room where darkness and dampness prevailed.
Several non-commissioned officers of the fortress troops moved
noiselessly about in their soft felt boots, without speaking a word,
while the governor signed the Circassian’s book acknowledging the
reception of a new prisoner. I was required to take off all my clothes,
and to put on the prison dress--a green flannel dressing-gown, immense
woollen stockings of an incredible thickness, and boat-shaped yellow
slippers, so big that I could hardly keep them on my feet when I tried
to walk. I always hated dressing-gowns and slippers, and the thick
stockings inspired me with disgust. I had to take off even a silk
undergarment, which in the damp fortress it would have been especially
desirable to retain, but that could not be allowed. I naturally began
to protest and to make a noise about this, and after an hour or so it
was restored to me by order of General Korsákoff.
Then I was taken through a dark passage, where I saw armed sentries
walking about, and was put into a cell. A heavy oak door was shut
behind me, a key turned in the lock, and I was alone in a half-dark
room.