CHAPTER XVII

IN TIUMEN—PARTING—ON THE SIBERIAN RIVERS—A STARTLING PROPOSAL

The town of Tiumen was at that time noted for the disputes that were continually arising between the political exiles and the authorities. We dreaded lest our party might be obliged to sustain a battle of this sort, the causes of which were known to us of old from the letters of various comrades; so we had intended to arrange together betimes how we should behave under given circumstances, what we must insist on, and in what manner we should conduct our dealings with the powers above us. But it was so difficult to get any orderly discussion during the journey, that after all we reached Tiumen without having made any definite plan of action.

Tiumen was then the place whence exiles took their several ways according to their ultimate destination. Our party was to separate here, some going south-west, others north-east. Among the latter were the hard-labour prisoners, the judicially banished exiles, and some of the “administratives.” Except us convicts none knew to what town or village they were bound; they did not even know whether they were to go north or south from Tiumen. Now, the difference in climate which this might mean, even if between places in the same province of Siberia could be greater than between Norway and Italy. The anxiety of the “administratives” in awaiting a decision can be imagined, as so much depended for them on the direction in which they were to be taken.

149At the very gates of the prison we were within an ace of a squabble with the officials; they wanted to take our ladies to a female prison far away from ours. We opposed this, because such a separation would have upset all our feeding arrangements, besides being otherwise very unwelcome to us all, and the officials finally yielded to our representations.

We were only to remain for a few days in Tiumen, so our chief subject for anxiety was soon settled; most of the “administratives” were bound for the Steppes Government, and would be sent to the southern part of the province of Tobolsk—a relatively pleasant neighbourhood. But we were informed at the same time that they would travel by way of the etàppuy, or convoy-stations, which would be by no means pleasant. To be taken by that route, i.e. by land, means a journey of some weeks under most uncomfortable conditions, and with all manner of hardships that can perfectly well be avoided by the adoption of the route by water, on either barge or steamboat. The choice of this wearisome route has been a frequent source of trouble with the parties of “politicals.” The officials, therefore, were quite accustomed to protests on the subject; but either on grounds of convenience, or for some other reason not vouchsafed to us, they stuck to their proposed arrangement. Our friends who were to go southward resolved to keep up all possible opposition, and we all agreed to support what we considered their perfectly reasonable attitude. We held heated consultations, and ultimately it was decided to send a telegram to the governor of the province, petitioning him that the journey of the “administratives” should be made by boat.

The appointed day of departure arrived, and the “administratives” were sent for to go singly into the office, but we others would not allow them to leave the prison. If the staff had resorted to force there would undoubtedly have been a serious struggle, but all passed off quietly, as they gave in for the time being; only, however, to lay 150a trap for us later. Instead of answering our telegram by another, the governor appeared in person (of course, he may merely have come over by chance from Tobolsk) and examined into the affair. He then declared himself quite willing that our comrades should travel by boat, according to our request; and this promise, given by the highest available authority, was sufficient for us, our minds were forthwith at rest. But unfortunately, as will appear hereafter, the highest authority had simply lied to us.

Soon after this the parting came; those of us going northward from Tobolsk and those bound for Eastern Siberia received orders to make ready for the start. There was a good deal to do, as a journey of some months was in question; also our common housekeeping had to be wound up, the money and provisions divided among the different parties according to their respective needs and the distance they had to travel. Besides this, small sums were set apart for any “administratives” or other exiles who were unprovided with means, for use in emergency on their first arrival at their destinations.

The parting was no light matter to us. During the next few days small groups and isolated couples would be seen wandering up and down the prison yard, deep in endless and engrossing talk. Most of us had first become acquainted in the Moscow prison or during the journey; but apart from the more intimate friendships that had been formed among us, we had all been drawn very near to each other in the course of our half-year’s sojourn under the same roof. Of course, in view of the separation many resolutions were made of keeping up friendships, and of never forgetting one another, whatever happened. Sad, sad, that external circumstances should too often prove stronger than the firmest resolutions, and even than the heart’s desire! After two or three years, with thousands of miles between, and every possible hindrance put in the way of correspondence, friends are gradually lost sight of, and the thought of them even passes from the mind. 151With how many of those comrades did I share the hope of one day meeting again! Eighteen years have passed since then, and I have only seen one of them again.

As to the subsequent lot of our “administratives,” we learned later that, the party being a large one, the officials had declared themselves unable to carry out the arrangement expressly promised by the governor; and as our comrades refused to go voluntarily by the land route, they were dragged forcibly by soldiers from the prison and packed into the carriages. Much rough usage ensued, but without any really serious result. We had been quieted by lies, because so long as we were all together the authorities had not dared to try conclusions with us by force.

The detachment to which I belonged, which was to travel north-eastwards, consisted of five-and-twenty persons: four condemned to penal servitude—Tchuikòv, Spandoni, Maria Kalyùshnaya, and myself; four judicially exiled—Vasìliev, Dashkièvitch, and two ladies (Tchemodànova and Shtchulèpnikòva); the rest all banished by administrative order—some to the north of Tobolsk Government, some to Eastern Siberia—among these latter being Malyòvany, Rubìnok, and our chief of commissariat, Làzarev, who still fulfilled his old functions, our “housekeeping” arrangements continuing as before.

From Tiumen we had to go by boat to Tomsk, our route being as follows: down the Tura, on whose banks Tiumen is situated, to its junction with the Tobol; by the latter as far as the Irtisch, by which to the Obi; and then up stream to the Tomi, on which Tomsk stands. This made a voyage of about 3,000 versts (about 2,000 miles), lasting at least fifteen days. As on the Volga, we were installed in the two cabins of a prisoners’ barge, and a steamboat took our floating gaol in tow. This journey afforded little of interest. Although we were in mid-June there were as yet no signs of spring. Sometimes we passed masses of drifting ice; the nights were extremely cold, 152and the sunshine gave no great heat by day. The rivers were in flood, and everything looked dead and deserted; for miles round we could often discover no trace of human existence. The deathly stillness, the absence of any sign of growth at this awakening season of the year, the piercing cold, ever increasing as we got further north—all this had an uncanny and depressing effect. “Men and women live in these primeval forests and swamps (tundra),” I thought, with a shiver, and I pictured to myself how, after many years of prison had robbed me of strength and vitality, I should be given the “right” of residing in a similar, or perhaps a drearier locality; even then not enjoying the liberty possessed by the unfortunate natives—Samoyedes and Ostiaks—who wander about these eternal woods and steppes.

Our boat occasionally came to anchor, either to get wood for fuel, or at the two or three halting-stations provided. The Ostiaks would then come on board, paddling up in their wretched boats (yaliks) made of bark, and would offer fish for barter. They hardly seemed to understand the use of money, for when asked the price of a fish, they would only answer with the one word “roup,” meaning “rouble,” and would then gratefully accept a copper coin though a piece of bread or a little tobacco would elicit much more joy. These people had a most pitiable appearance, and were treated with the utmost contempt by our boatmen and the soldiers, who usually addressed them all as “Vanka” (Johnny), which they accepted quite calmly. Sometimes we saw their huts in the distance, cone-shaped structures, the framework made of branches, the walls of birch-bark or reindeer skins.

Except the capital town of Tobolsk, situated at the junction of the Tobol with the great Irtisch, throughout the length of some thousand versts we only passed two inhabited places dignified with the name of towns—Surgut and Narim. Here, and at Berèsov, on the northern coast of the continent, some of our “administratives” were to 153take up their abode. We parted from them at Tobolsk. The conditions of life in some of these places of exile may be guessed at from our glimpses of them. A “town” of this sort consists of some dozen wooden huts, the inhabitants of which are usually a mixed race, Russian and native. These people make out a livelihood with difficulty, subsisting almost exclusively on fish. An educated man must find existence in such a place unspeakably miserable; yet the Russian Government sends even minors here. I know a young girl who at the age of seventeen was exiled to Berèsov, and had to languish there for twelve years. Fortunately, none of the women in our company were destined for these waste places of the earth.

When we began to go up the Obi there was scarcely any change of scene, but ever the same hopeless wastes. Our little company had much diminished; our choir was disbanded; and life on the barge was quiet and monotonous as we slowly glided on to Tomsk.

This town, which counts as one of the liveliest in Siberia, only harboured at this time a very small number of political exiles. When we arrived, two of them came at once on to our barge, burning with curiosity to see who we were, and to have news from home; and they unexpectedly found acquaintances among our party. One young lady I had known six years before; she stared at me now, and would scarcely believe that the shorn convict was the same man she had known under such different circumstances. “You are so changed, so changed!” she kept saying thoughtfully.

The local prison authorities took us into their custody on the barge, when our identity had been established by a careful comparison of our appearance with the photographs in our record-books. We were then marched through the town to the prison. On the way two young girls, scarcely over school-age, suddenly broke through our escort of soldiers, and rushed upon us. The surprised soldiers tried to catch hold of the intruders and send them off, but that 154was not so easy. The girls ran like squirrels through our midst, announced themselves as the two sisters P., gave each of us a hasty kiss, and paid no attention to the calls of the officers and soldiers. Not till they had attained their end did they quit our ranks, and then they walked beside the procession, keeping us company to the prison gates.

We stayed a week in Tomsk, and during that time made acquaintance with all the exiles there, as they were allowed to visit us in the prison. This prison in which we were lodged was composed of a few wooden buildings and some barracks. Every room was filled to overflowing, for there were about a thousand prisoners of all classes, but mostly criminals—young and old together. Like ourselves (for we were left fairly free here), they spent the whole day in the spacious yard. Until now we “politicals” had been entirely separate from the ordinary criminals, but henceforward the convoy was composed of both classes, and I now learned to know the criminal world from personal observation.

One day as I strolled about the yard one of these men spoke to me. He was a powerful-looking fellow of about thirty, red-haired, and with well-marked features. He was evidently a dandy among the convicts. Beneath the long grey coat, which he wore thrown loosely over his shoulders, could be seen a white linen shirt adorned at the throat with a gay tie; round his waist was wound a brightly coloured scarf, and to this his chains were cunningly attached, so that they made no noise whatever in walking. The leather protections beneath the ankle-rings were artistically fastened to look like the tops of his boots. A round cap pushed carelessly back on the side of his head was the crowning touch to his elegance, which the moustache, curling upward, finally completed. Everything denoted an aristocrat of criminal society.

“How many years have you got?” he asked after a polite greeting. And on my reply he continued, “And you mean to stay it out?”

155“I can hardly do otherwise,” I said.

“That depends. If you like, we can arrange a ‘swop.’”[59]

I understood what he meant. In 1879 some political exiles—Vladimir Debagòrio-Makrièvitch, Paul Orlov, and V. Isbitsky—exchanged identities with three ordinary criminals, and got away. When this had become known, however, the authorities had at once taken stringent precautions against a repetition of the affair. The papers of political prisoners were most carefully made out and photographs attached; they were sent by special convoy if moved from one place to another; and besides this, each one was confided to the personal charge of one of the soldiers. But when I set all this before the man he was not in the least abashed.

“Nonsense! We can do it in spite of all their paraphernalia!”

I knew already from books and from the tales of comrades that a peculiar organisation exists among the convicted criminals in Siberia, the principle of which is in a manner oligarchic. A small band of the more strong-willed and energetic gaol-birds governs the rest. They are called the “Ivans”; they decide all matters relating to their “party,” both in prison and en route, and institute their own rules quite independently of the recognised 156authorities. The rank and file yield them slavish obedience, however unjust and terrible their orders may be. I saw at once that I had one of these tyrants before me.

“I don’t see how it could be done,” said I; and indeed, the difficulties appeared to me quite insurmountable.

“Do you see that brook?” said the “Ivan.” “Well, in the course of every year one or two corpses are found in that brook. We arrange a ‘swop’; one of us changes with you, and the chief person concerned disappears down there. Do you understand?”

I could not quite see what he meant, and was horror-struck when he explained his plan, which was as follows:—I was to make the exchange before the warders got to know us “politicals” individually, and the man with whom I exchanged must be as like me as possible. Of course, when the “politicals” were to be sent on, their identity would first be inquired into; but then it would only appear that Deutsch was missing. To accomplish this the “Ivan” would simply murder his companion who had taken my place, and throw his corpse into the stream. I should not be found; or if my unfortunate substitute’s body eventually came to light, it would be taken for granted that it was mine, and that I had committed suicide or been murdered. I myself, in the meantime, should be sent to the dead man’s destination as an ordinary criminal, and could afterwards escape thence—not a difficult matter for that class of prisoner. For perpetrating this villainy the man only asked a mere trifle—twenty or thirty roubles—which blood-money he would have had to share with quite a number of accomplices. He assured me that such enterprises were by no means uncommon, and always succeeded.

I listened to him with the fascination of horror and astonishment. He treated the subject with perfect calm and indifference, as if discussing the simplest piece of business in the world, and seemed to find my rejection of his proposal most incomprehensible. Afterwards, when 157I had come to know the country better, I realised that this was a typical example of the manners and customs of the ordinary criminals, and nothing out of the common. As I have said, henceforward we were to have these gentry for travelling companions, and it may be imagined what that meant.

Another batch of our comrades took leave of us at Tomsk, and we were now only fourteen in number, including Maria Kalyùshnaya, Barbara Shtchulèpnikòva, and Liubov Tchemodànova. We learned that the authorities proposed to separate these ladies from us here, and send them on for the remainder of their journey with a party of married convicts of the ordinary class. As, however, we heard from those who knew that in such a party, surrounded by the unruly band of criminals, they would have endless disagreeables and hardships to put up with, we sent a petition to Petersburg, with the consent of the governor, and obtained permission for our women comrades to remain in our detachment.