CHAPTER XVI POLITICAL PRISONERS

Dostoyevsky's Call—His Retort to a Dandy—Russia and the Revolution—The Court of Imperial Mercy—How Political Prisoners may Solicit Pardon—The Coach-driver's Letter—The People's Belief in the Emperor—A Typical Russian Appeal—Military Offenders—How they have Justified the Emperor's Clemency—Political Prisoners and the War


The name of Dostoyevsky is fortunately well known in England, so perhaps I may be allowed to relate an incident in connection with him.

He called on me one afternoon and began talking of his life in Siberia, and the wonderfully beneficial effect it had had upon him. We were interrupted by a flippant young dandy, just arrived from abroad, who chattered animatedly about his impressions of various ballets and theatres. I thought he would never stop, and felt rather angry. Dostoyevsky, however, listened attentively, his wonderful, dark velvet eyes, with the deep expression so peculiar to them, fixed kindly on the gossiper. After a while he remarked, "I am interested in what you say. There is life in you, artistic instinct and good nature. If you could spend thirteen years in a Siberian prison, as I have done, it would be most beneficial to you, and might make you a useful, energetic member of society."

{237}

Dear Dostoyevsky! How often have I remembered that strange remark, and how often also have I thought that prison life indeed sometimes makes people serious, patient and religious. Of late, unfortunately, one has often been haunted by questions connected with prisons. My late friend, W. T. Stead, expressed the pious opinion quite seriously, how useful it would be if everybody—innocent as well as guilty—were made to spend one or two months in prison.

Of all horrible wars, the most horrible, I think, is internal strife, for the suppression of which, Governments always use strong measures. Are they to be blamed for measures taken with the object of saving their country from dismemberment? I think not—though indeed, personally, I am happy not to be obliged to mete out justice on such occasions. But then, I always think that to judge one's neighbours fairly is no easy task. When Thiers had to save France from the Commune, he unhesitatingly killed several thousand Communards—some say 200,000 were punished, some say 20,000, there are also people who speak of only 2000. But who can use the word "only," when it is followed by thousands of killed?

In the year 1905, Russia had the misfortune of experiencing a revolution at home. The majority of the people, of course, understood the criminal folly of that movement, and the insurgents were mostly misguided dreamers who did not realise the rascality of their leaders, such as Gapon and others. Many of them, indeed, afterwards looked back with deep regret and even shame, on their folly. I have {238} known some of them, and it is difficult to say with what deep feeling of commiseration I listened to them, and now remember their words. If there be exaggeration and contradiction with regard to the numbers of the punished Communards, there is similar difficulty in fixing the numbers of our own culprits. Upon that point I am not going to insist. Even one death is often the cause of endless pain.

In England I have only once seen any mention of that Court of Appeal by which Russian political prisoners who repent of their ways may solicit the Imperial clemency.

The exact title of that institution is "The Court of Petitions addressed to the Emperor," or "The Court of Imperial Mercy." It was founded in the sixteenth century in the reign of John IV, under the control of Alexis Adasheff (whose life and character have so brilliantly adorned the pages of Russian history) and his friend and ally, the Rev. Father Sylverst, who was another bright star of that period. But, after their disappearance from the field of action, the institution failed to be marked by the same zeal and success as previously. Once more was it shown that, in every human effort, personal character plays a greater part than the written law. For, however perfect may be the law, its application must be varied by circumstances, and is thus greatly dependent upon the personal character of its administrators.

Fortunately, however, Peter the Great, with his masterly genius, recognised the importance of such a Court in an autocratic country where the power of doing generous work is in the hands of a ruler who {239} stands above conventional formalities, or obsolete customs, of parties or of newspapers. Nor did Peter the Great fail to realise that an exact knowledge of real facts was of vital importance to the proper exercise of such power. To secure this, therefore, he introduced new and very drastic regulations and reforms.

He made it a rule that the head of the Court was to be bound by a solemn and patriotic oath of fidelity to his charge. At the same time he was to be allowed a larger initiative, by which his personal power was increased. He became entitled to delegate powers to other administrative offices and courts, by which the work of the institution became more decentralised.

But although it was thus understood that appeals to the Emperor personally were to be allowed only in special cases, yet little by little these personal appeals became more and more numerous, and were with difficulty controlled by the head of the Court.

When the Empress Catherine the Great ascended the throne, that wonderful monarch resolved that she would personally receive all appeals to mercy. But it soon became evident that such a task was beyond the powers of even her exceptional energy. Catherine herself relates that on one occasion she found it impossible to reach church, owing to the crowds of petitioners who knelt before her with petitions in their hands.

Such a condition of affairs, of course, could not possibly continue. In the following year the Empress appointed three high officials, called State Secretaries, to whom she gave detailed instructions which {240} show the great pity she felt for such petitioners. The secretaries were to communicate personally with the petitioners "kindly, patiently, indulgently," and to extract from them all necessary details and explanations. For this purpose reference had sometimes to be made to the separate tribunals before whom special cases had to go. But sealed letters addressed privately and confidentially "in His Majesty's own Hands" (as the Russian expression goes), still reach the Emperor without any intervention. And this happens even now.

Not long ago I heard of a boy, a poor little coach-driver, who addressed a pitiful letter of this kind to the Emperor Alexander III when he was in the Crimea, and not only was the letter received, but the request generously granted.

To return to old times, the Emperor Paul, while young and in good health, tried to imitate the great Empress Catherine, and endeavoured to come into contact with people who appealed to his mercy. To facilitate this a large, yellow iron box was attached to one of the ground-floor windows of the Winter Palace (Petrograd) in which petitions were to be deposited. This box had to be periodically opened by the State Secretaries, and the contents submitted to the Emperor for orders. Some, when too absurd, were partially torn and returned through the Post Office. Others were published in the Petersburg Gazette, with the reason for their refusal. In 1799 the same Emperor Paul issued a rather strange ukase, forbidding the presentation of unreasonable requests. No doubt the question of what was and what was not reasonable was not an {241} easy one, and the unfortunate box could hardly hold the burden of its strange correspondence. It obviously became necessary to dispense with this original method of communication.

In the time of Alexander I, thanks to the great Speransky's efforts, a "Commission of Appeals" was established, and in the time of the Emperor Nicholas I the "Court of Petitions" was reformed more or less on the basis upon which it now exists. The members are appointed by the Emperor himself. To their former duties have been added others relating to orphans and lunatics. Certain rules have to be observed by petitioners, and they must have lived in the realm not less than one year.

By the wish of His Majesty the reasons for refusals to grant favours are sometimes given, but this law cannot always be observed.

The Emperor has recently given orders to enlarge the Court's sphere of work by accepting appeals to Imperial mercy for criminal charges, and administrative misdemeanours.

Finally, I will note the fact that in the year 1908 there were 65,357 petitions through this Court, out of which 64,174 were fortunate enough to obtain the Imperial order for immediate attention. As a rule there are about 65,000 petitions presented yearly. Imperial benevolence (mercy) shown to children amounts to 10,000 cases in famine years.

During the war His Majesty ordered from the coffers of the "Court of Petition" no less a sum than 178,000 roubles for the wounded soldiers.

"If anyone were to tell the Russian people that the Emperor had not the power to help them, they {242} would never believe such an assertion," observed Baron Budberg (the late head of the Petition Department), "and may that belief in His Majesty's power always remain with the Russians." The Emperor's remark on this statement was that Baron Budberg was right.

"Let those who require my mercy come to me with their sorrows in confidence."

And many, many are the thousands who have been made happy—thanks to that Court of Appeal.

People in England often talk about red tape. It is not for me to judge whether their complaints are well founded—but naturally, when one comes in contact with official pedantry, one is inclined to grumble and lose one's temper, though this as a rule does not mend matters. But to get the better of red tape—ah! that is useful and pleasant. There are occasions even when it may become a great blessing, as in the following, which I hope I may be allowed to relate:

In Russia, the Court of Appeal to Mercy allows everybody to appeal to the mercy of the Emperor. It is not difficult to understand that there are great differences in the nature of such appeals, and, in Russia, as likewise in England, prisoners are not allowed to publish their grievances, and still less their appeals to the head of the State. However, by a very happy mistake, such an appeal from the political prisoners slipped, at the end of last year, into one of our best Petrograd papers. The following is a translation of this appeal which may be of interest to English readers:

"Your Imperial Majesty, most merciful Tsar. In {243} this tragic hour of our beloved Russia's destiny, we, the prisoners in the Petrograd prison of solitary confinement, approach the footstool of your Majesty's throne, our hearts full of love and boundless devotion, our suffering souls burning with prayers for the victory of our heroic Russian troops.

"Within the walls of this prison, we are paying the penalty of our sins. We are far from our homes, far from the heart of the Russian people, doomed to confinement and exile; the only light in our darkness is our faith in the mercy of God and the Tsar.

"It is not for us to judge of the sorrow we have caused our beloved country—but in the moment of her great trial our Russian hearts beat with but one care: that of her well-being. We have, indeed, no personal cares.

"We have read with tears of deep emotion these words of the Imperial call: 'In this hour of trial let all internal disagreements be forgotten,' and we pray that God may move the heart of the Emperor and the heart of the people, to forget also our past sins, to return to us the privilege of taking our places in the ranks of those who arise and go forth in all the fullness of their youth and strength to defend the honour and glory of our country.

"It is not a lack of courage to suffer our punishment which prompts us to make this appeal for mercy; we were condemned at various times, and have never before dared to voice any such prayer—but these tragic days, in which countless numbers of our physically weaker brothers are laying down their lives on the battlefield, fill our souls with one {244} profound desire. Most merciful sovereign, call us into the ranks of your loyal army, and, having paid for our sins with our sufferings, we will join our brothers, inspired with an unshakable faith in your Imperial goodness and mercy.

"The dawn of this national war has awakened our souls, has renewed in us the sense of our duty and our right to defend Russia, side by side with all Russians.

"May the war renew our lives for the benefit of the Russian people, or accept them as an offering to our Russian soil. In the silence of our solitary cells, we pray that God may save and keep your Imperial Majesty, and all the August Imperial family."

This appeal, thank God, was not overlooked by His Majesty. I myself know of two cases where former prisoners were allowed to go to the war, where they acquitted themselves splendidly—so much so, that one of them, whose case is known to me, now wears the Cross of St. George for bravery.

A decree of His Majesty has already been applied to another section of prisoners, the military offenders. This special decree gave to the commanders of the various military districts the right to take into active service for the duration of the war such of the military prisoners in their jurisdiction whom they consider deserving of the right to win, by bravery in the field, the possibility of future pardon.

This right has been widely utilised, with the result that of 4786 military prisoners, 4091 had, by January 1st, 1915, been taken into active service. Of these, 1203 have remained under their particular {245} district commanders, most of them working in munition factories, and the remaining 2888 have been distributed among various regiments at the front, and in the reserve; the actual number of military prisoners still confined is 393.

There are, of course, criminals and criminals, and among them are many who represent a real danger to society, and who, in other countries, would be sentenced to death immediately after their trial. Our legislation, however, remembers the saying of Catherine the Great, "Better pardon ten who are guilty, than kill one who is innocent." We also think that every culprit should have time to repent, and thus to be able to meet death with greater calm, and confidence in God's pardon.

After the outbreak of the Great European War many political prisoners in Russia made appeal to the Tsar to be allowed to fight for their country against the Germans. Many people in Russia would have welcomed a general amnesty to political prisoners for this purpose. There are among these men many who deeply regret their political mistakes and past illusions.

They have offended against her laws, but still love and wish to stand by her in the hour of trial. The country would gain much by such an amnesty. New forces would doubtless rise to the surface, with new feelings of gratitude for the opportunity thus afforded them of helping Russia, and of sacrificing their lives for the national cause.

Some ten years ago, in the days of our revolution, almost half of Russia was acting, as many of us thought, mistakenly and foolishly, and making even {246} serious sacrifices for this folly. Fortunately, such a regrettable state of affairs did not last long, and I was soon able to dream of founding a society for the reclamation and return to Russia of those who had outlived their ideas of revolution and who, after all, loved Russia, right or wrong. Unfortunately, this scheme met with numerous obstacles. Such a society would have required not only many members, but also a cautious committee, one not liable to fall into traps—and I failed to procure them.

Since the beginning of the war this question has again been constantly in my mind, and I have spent many hours in discussing it with my friend, Helen Voronoff, and she was entirely of my opinion in the matter.

We read together a most touching petition signed by 110 political prisoners, confined in a Petrograd prison. It was composed by one of themselves, and handed round among the prisoners for signature.

It seems to me that such petitions should not remain unheard.