CHAPTER XV

POLITICAL CONDITION OF RUSSIA AND THE REVOLUTIONARY PARTY—OUR LITTLE SOCIETY—FêTE DAYS—PROHIBITED VISITS-A LECTURE ON MANNERS

At the time of which I am writing the reactionary policy of the new Tsar was already clearly indicated. Four years had passed since the accession of Alexander III., and signs of his domestic policy were visible in frequent death-sentences, favouring of Anti-Semitism (which had sprung up in various towns in south-west Russia), the appointment of the universally detested Count Dmitri Tolstoi as Minister of the Interior, the institution of new regulations at the Universities, not only for students, but for professors, and so on. In spite of all this there were still some incurable optimists who hoped this might prove but a brief transition period, soon to be followed by radical reforms; they even anticipated the granting of a Constitution to the country. I remember well how various educated people-lawyers, physicians, etc.—would, when conversing with us, make hopeful prophecies: “You’ll see, in five years we shall have the Constitution.”

Undoubtedly many of the younger revolutionists shared these hopes; if not all, at any rate the majority believed that sooner or later the Terrorists would “remove” Alexander III., as they had his father, and that then, as a matter of course, “the Constitution must come.” Some were so firmly convinced of this that when I ventured to express a doubt, bets were often offered me as to how few years would elapse before the great event 131came to pass. “Before we have reached our place of exile Alexander III. will be gone,” declared many young people.

This self-deception had one advantage in helping them to bear their fate and keep up their courage; but these castles in the air were doomed to a speedy destruction. As I have said already, the Naròdnaia Vòlya was nearing its collapse, and the Terrorists were now scarcely any real menace to the Government. The original trusted leaders of the society were either dead or languishing in prison, and their successors showed none of the capacity needed to carry on a conspiracy of that sort; while, on the other hand, the police had learnt much, knew better how to spread their nets, and left the young conspirators no time to develop their powers. The untried and unskilfully managed societies were run to earth before they could undertake anything definite, and the unity and interdependence that characterised the original band of members disappeared.

In 1884 various fractions of the society came to life again. There was the Young Naròdnaia Vòlya, whose members carried on a sort of minor terrorism; that is to say, they directed their daggers and bombs against the lesser officials, governors of gaols, agrarian and industrial employers, etc., holding that there should be an immediate forcible answer made to every act of tyranny by constituted authorities against the workers. There were the “Bombists,” who swore by dynamite as the sole and only remedy; the “Militarists,” who thought a conspiracy within the army the best hope. Finally a group entirely new to Russia made its appearance—the Social Democrats, among whom I was numbered.

In our prison at Moscow all these different views had their adherents, and naturally the liveliest discussions took place, though their course was always fairly peaceful. Notwithstanding all our differences of opinion, we formed together a sort of big family, in which there was absolutely 132no distinction of high or low, rich or poor. All were equal, all shared alike.

The prison food was beneath criticism; even the most robust at their hungriest could scarcely swallow a spoonful of the repulsive malodorous broth in wooden bowls brought to our cells at midday. This is explained by the fact that the sum originally provided by Government for our maintenance was extremely small; and on its way through to us a great part of it found its way into the bottomless pockets of officials great and small, among whom there is an organised system of general peculation. The big cauldrons used for cooking the food of several thousand prisoners were filled up with the worst materials that were procurable; and we “politicals,” after a very few specimens of it, decided to feed at our own expense. So we founded a commissariat union, and elected as chief, to whose care our domestic economy should be entrusted, Làzarev, the peasant-lawyer, whom Tolstoi had visited. All the money that we had at command—either what had been given in keeping to the prison authorities on our arrival or what was sent us by friends and relations—was handed over to our chief of commissariat, and he had to arrange our dietary so that all should share alike. In the morning we had tea, milk, and bread ad libitum. For dinner at midday we had a meal—generally of two courses—prepared from the provisions in our larder by one of the ordinary criminals hired by us as cook. In the evening there was tea and bread again. Nobody could say that our table was exactly luxurious; but then our means were extremely limited. Our poor housekeeper had often to rack his brains over the problem of making both ends meet; and he at last hit on the expedient of buying horse-flesh for us. Beef was cheap enough—ten kopecks (about 2?d.) a pound, if I remember rightly; but horseflesh came to only about half that price, and we agreed to try it. It proved quite eatable, if somewhat tough and 133tasteless; but two or three among us were dainty, and declared that the meat gave them indigestion, and they could not stand it. As the rest of us believed this to be pure imagination, and simply the result of prejudice, our “chief” determined to use a little art. He suggested that he might buy beef for these “invalids”; but he really just had some of the horse-flesh cooked up a little differently from the rest, and set it before them. The result was excellent; our epicures much relished their “beefsteak,” and declared it made them feel sick to see us eating horse; while we had some trouble in keeping our faces straight! This lasted the whole time of our stay in Moscow, and not one of our gourmands ever once complained of indigestion again! When afterwards we let out that for months they had eaten and enjoyed horse-flesh, of course they were furious, and asserted—to the common amusement of the others—that they had always thought the meat had a queer taste.

Besides our own friends there were many people personally unknown to us who cared for our material needs, I mean the members of the “Red Cross of the Revolution,” of which mention has been made in an earlier chapter as the “old clothes society.” These were chiefly women, who undertook with much zeal the small but very charitable and indispensable task of providing for the political prisoners and exiles. Many a one, left deserted in the world, had reason to value the unselfish activity of these good Samaritans. Often enough have I seen the grateful emotion of some lonely soul, when the strange hand of a kind woman—one of the society’s members—bestowed on him cheerfully some useful and hardly spared article. Our little company in the prison of Moscow seems to have come off particularly well in this way. Long before the commencement of the journey to Siberia our benefactresses warned us to let them have a list of what we should be needing for our travels. When it is 134remembered that we were over fifty persons, and that before many of us lay a journey of more than half a year, it is evident how much opportunity there was for the thoughtful and minute care of these noble women. There were hundreds of little things wanted that gave them not only time and trouble, but personal inconvenience to procure; and their self-sacrificing exertions to lighten the lot of the captives were infinitely touching.

Easter and Christmas are special feast days in Russia. The Russian revolutionists have definitely renounced all religious creeds, and there are many among them who in any case would have nothing to do with the Orthodox Russian Church—Jews, Germans, Poles, etc. Nevertheless, those in prison or in places of banishment always take part whenever possible in the common festivals of the people; and these days of rejoicing are doubly welcomed when they come to break the dreary routine of prison-life. Relations, friends, and the Red Cross ladies send food and even dainties to the prisons, and the inmates hold high revel. In the Moscow prison we had a specially merry time on Easter Eve. We had petitioned the Governor of Moscow for leave to pass the night before Easter together, according to Russian custom. This was conceded; and we all, including the women, assembled in the quarters of the “administratives,” where the rooms are large, because the prisoners are there grouped together, not confined in single cells. All manner of good things had been sent us—Easter cakes, eggs, hams, poultry, and all that is customary, including some bottles of light wine and beer—so that our Easter table was a magnificent sight.[54] Under the superintendence of the old governor and his staff we spent the evening and half the night in a merry fashion not often witnessed in a prison. Songs 135were sung, there were jokes and laughter; finally a harmonica appeared, and the young people began to dance. Yet, despite so much hearty and unfeigned cheerfulness, not one of us could forget our real condition; indeed, the very sight of gaiety brought to the minds of many of us remembrance of home, where our dear ones were at this moment celebrating the feast-day, though with many sad thoughts of the absent.

For us hard-labour men this was the first chance we had had of getting to know our women fellow-prisoners. The “administratives” met them not only in visiting hours, but in the courtyard, although the latter was supposed to be against rules. Those condemned to hard labour, on the contrary, were not admitted to the visitors’ room. After this Easter festival, however, even we “deprived of all rights” managed to break through the regulations. Under the pretext that we had some business in the office we had ourselves conducted across the big yard, and the warder left us at the door, supposing we should go straight on down the corridor. Instead of that we raced across the courtyard to the door of the women’s quarters. The flustered warder came tearing after us, calling us back; but we had reached our goal, our ladies were at their door, and we could exchange a few friendly words with them. Of course, this was only a defiant frolic; we took pleasure in trampling on the hated prison rules, and the authorities saw nothing very wicked in it. The prohibition of meeting had no sense in it whatever, as in a few weeks’ time all the “politicals” were to travel in company together to Siberia. In this, as in many other cases, we were unnecessarily thwarted, simply because in paragraph so-and-so of the regulations this or that is forbidden.

These regulations are not nearly so strictly kept as regards the ordinary criminals, who are often allowed to wander all about a Russian prison without supervision, and manage to get admitted even to the women’s quarters. Moreover, it not infrequently happens that a criminal who 136has money at his disposal is allowed by the warders and overseers to be out all night in the town, where he amuses himself or goes about his own business. So far as the treatment of prisoners goes, we “politicals” are only too glad to be put on the footing of “common criminals”; which but seldom happens to us, however. Yet in one respect the “politicals” have an advantage—I mean in the demeanour of the prison staff towards them. Every official, high or low, knows well that he cannot go beyond a certain point with them, and that he must behave with courtesy. This unwritten law arose from the fact that for generations the “politicals” belonged exclusively to the educated and privileged classes, and also from their proud conviction that they have only acted according to the dictates of reason and conscience, which upholds them in the firm feeling of innocence, and makes them fiercely jealous for the preservation of both their own self-respect and their dignity in the eyes of others. If any official ventures to ignore this sentiment he may count on energetic protest, and in such cases the prison is often the scene of a bitter conflict that may lead to tragic results. As a slight example I may relate the following incident.

A certain great personage had come from Petersburg—Galkin Vrassky, the head of the controlling department for all Russian prisons. His position demanded the deepest awe and subservience from all minor officials, and he himself was fully conscious of his power and bore himself accordingly. He was a Privy Counsellor and extremely pompous. Before his promised visit to our prison we had heard that it was this gentleman’s custom not to uncover his head when entering the cells, but to keep his hat on all the time. We instantly agreed together that if he behaved so here, the first of us whose cell he visited should teach him a lesson in manners.

Galkin Vrassky came, attended by an imposing suite, and accompanied by—among others—Prince Galitzin, the Vice-Governor of Moscow. He began his rounds with 137our Pugatchev Tower, and went first to the cell of Peter Dashkièvitch. Dashkièvitch had been a theological student; he was a man of very calm but unyielding temperament, and permeated to an uncommon degree with the instinct of justice and fairness. It was now incumbent on him to beard this haughty official, who had scarcely begun the stereotyped question—“Have you any complaints to make?”—when Dashkièvitch interrupted him, saying quietly: “It is very impolite of you, sir, to enter my apartment without removing your hat.”

Galkin Vrassky reddened to the roots of his hair, turned on his heel and left the cell, the whole company following him in silence.

“In what case was he condemned?” we heard him ask, as he stood on the landing.

“In the Ki?v trial,” someone answered.

“Aha, one of those fellows who made trouble in the prison over there!” he said in a satisfied tone.

He visited the rest of us, holding his hat in his hand most politely, but he did not forget to revenge himself on Dashkièvitch after his own fashion.

Dashkièvitch’s sentence had been “banishment to the less distant provinces of Siberia,” a fairly mild punishment; but Vrassky now ordered his transportation to the furthest wilds of the country, and he was sent to Tunka, on the borders of Mongolia.