CHAPTER XIX

THE FOREST—UNSUCCESSFUL ATTEMPTS AT ESCAPE—THE PEOPLE WE MET—THE CRIMINAL WORLD—THE CONVOY OFFICERS

Our journey was for the most part accomplished during the Siberian summer. The forest, through which the highway runs for thousands of versts, is then in fullest beauty; and from the many different species of trees is wafted an indescribably delicious perfume. Countless birds flit among the branches, and fill the air with song. Life seems everywhere the more ebullient for its long winter sleep, and throughout all nature the tide of energy is at its highest. A riot of joy was visible everywhere, and we alone seemed to strike a discordant note, as we wandered on towards the prison that awaited us. Yet even we felt born anew; our open-air life worked wonders, following on our long imprisonment. Many who had left Moscow weak and ill became robust in health during the journey.

The Moscow high-road is, as I have said, the only means of transit, nevertheless it is kept in an incredibly bad condition. It has never been properly made, and during the damp weather of early spring, or after a downpour in summer, vehicles are often axle-deep in mud. Along the road, at intervals of fifteen to twenty versts, there are villages, or sometimes small towns. To the north and south no traces of human dwellings are to be found; the eternal forest extends for thousands of versts, and only a 170few nomad tribes of half-savage hunters or herdsmen roam through its depths. Whilst our party rested, or even during the march, we “politicals” would often leave the road, and accompanied by a guard would dive into the woods to gather flowers and berries. A strange feeling would steal over one. A dozen steps into the thicket, and one is absolutely alone, not a soul to be seen. One dreams of being free and one’s own master; but the rattle of fetters, or the glitter of a bayonet brings back grim reality, and soon we are recalled by the soldiers, for the party must not be kept waiting.

The officers make no difficulty about these little excursions, although they are forbidden by the regulations. At first this surprised me; but I soon saw it was simply because everyone was convinced that escape was quite impracticable. For although at first sight it may appear an easy thing to hide in the undergrowth and get away, as a matter of fact very few “politicals” have ever even attempted it, and only one—Dzvonkyèvitch—when actually on the march. He had been condemned to penal servitude for life, and ran away from his escort into the forest; but the soldiers caught and frightfully maltreated him. If the officers had not come up he would have been murdered out of hand. He was taken half dead to the hospital in Krasnoyarsk, where—thanks to his strong constitution—he recovered from his severe wounds, though he will bear traces of them for the rest of his life. This had taken place just a year before our arrival at Krasnoyarsk.

Several attempts have also been made to escape from the halting-stations, but with no greater success. It must be remembered that Siberia is so sparsely populated that every traveller on the road is an object of universal attention, and the authorities are therefore soon made aware of the whereabouts of a runaway, if he be a “political” whom they are anxious to capture. Besides, the fugitives are often forced to come in of themselves. They do not know the paths through the forest, so 171familiar to the ordinary criminals, but wander helplessly about, and are thankful at last if they chance to hit the high-road once more, and—half famished—seek the nearest village. In such cases the peasants are eager to assist the authorities and thereby earn a reward; and as soon as they discover a political runaway they unfailingly deliver him up to the police.

AN ATTEMPT AT ESCAPE

To face page 170

Up to the present time the Russian Government has been amply justified in regarding Siberia as one vast prison, whose natural conditions offer more insuperable obstacles to escape than do iron bars, high walls, or any number of guards. But this is only to the “politicals,” to whom the forest ways are strange. The criminals, as I have said, are quite at home in the wild woods; and it is easily conceivable that to many of us the thought has occurred of making common cause with these people, and escaping in their company. Such attempts, however, have more than once had a fatal ending. The rascals are always ready to murder for the sake of gain; a “political’s” money, and even his clothes, are quite sufficient bait. In this manner it is supposed that Ladislas Isbitsky came by his death in the year 1880. He had successfully negotiated a “swop,” had escaped as an ordinary criminal—and then disappeared for ever, probably murdered by the tramps to whose guidance he had entrusted himself.

Another instance of this kind was related to me by a political exile, who, when himself a fugitive in company with some convict-tramps, chanced to overhear them planning to murder him in his sleep. For weeks he was obliged to feign sleep at night while really remaining awake—a terrible task, as may readily be imagined.

These criminals do not, indeed, even trust one another when on the road; and it is said that when two of them have to enter a narrow path, there will be a sharp dispute as to who is to go first, the one in front never feeling safe from an attack in the rear by the companion of his march.

172Other dangers also lie in wait for the wanderer. Our comrade Vlastòpoulo, sentenced to penal servitude for life, narrowly escaped being devoured by a bear, during his flight in company with Kòziriov (another revolutionist condemned to penal servitude). He described to me how the bear came so suddenly upon them that they had no time to fly, and could only back against a tree, supposing their last hour had come. Bruin, however, must have had a full meal, for he trotted quietly by, apparently without noticing them! These two fugitives suffered terribly from hunger and thirst during their wanderings through the woods.

Although we had had no personal experience of these various dangers, most of us were so well aware of them that no plan of escape during the journey entered into our calculations; but two of our comrades could not resist the temptation to weave schemes of the kind. These were Maria Kalyùshnaya and the student Yordan—the former condemned to twenty years’ penal servitude, and the latter “administratively” exiled to Eastern Siberia for five years. They were both young, barely twenty, and their longing for freedom was overpowering. None of their projects of flight were practicable, however, and they did not attempt to carry them into execution. Both these young creatures died in prison; Maria Kalyùshnaya’s story, which I shall have to relate further on, being a specially sad one.

We had many opportunities, during our long march, of becoming acquainted with the people whose dwellings are beside the great highway. A certain air of comfort and well-being was often visible about them, and some of the larger settlements had the pleasant appearance of a Russian provincial town. Roomy, well-built houses, occasionally of more than one story, decorated with carving and provided with tidy hedges and gates, lined the road sometimes for several versts. Curtains and flower-pots showed in the windows; the rooms were often carpeted and furnished comfortably, sometimes even exhibiting 173the luxury of Austrian bentwood furniture. The cattle, so far as we could see, were finer and better kept than is usual among the Russian peasantry.

This well-to-do appearance was only in part to be ascribed to the productiveness of the husbandry in these regions. Trade and the conduct of traffic were the principal resources of the inhabitants; for this road was the only means of communication by land between Europe and the northern parts of Asia. Caravans in lengthy processions, sometimes in such numbers that the road was practically blocked, travelled along the great highway; and the country people found employment in the transport of both goods and passengers. The regular posting-stations were often unequal to the demands made upon them, and travellers—merchants especially—were obliged to hire private vehicles and pay dearly for them. Besides these legitimate industries, the inhabitants had another extremely lucrative source of gain. Many villages had won for themselves an evil name in this connection, and were known as “thieves’ towns,” because no caravan ever passed through them without paying toll of its wares; sometimes a chest of tea would be stolen, sometimes a horse, and so on. It was asserted that in some of these places the inhabitants made raids on travellers by night, and lived by highway robbery. It is characteristic of the country that this reputation lowered no man in public estimation. Anyone was received in “good society” if he were rich, no matter whether he were well known to have robberies by the score upon his conscience; he might, indeed, even be asked to fill the most honourable offices—such as churchwarden, mayor, or head of the commune. Later, when I was living in a Siberian town as an exile released from prison under police surveillance, I was frequently told by trustworthy persons, with every detail, how such and such a citizen, universally respected and esteemed, had made his fortune by cheating and robbery, or even by downright murder. There were numbers of people whose past 174could not bear inspection; and many of them, even after becoming possessed of wealth in superfluity, could not quite give up their old practices. It so fell out, for example, at the end of the eighties, that General Barabash the military governor of Tchita (the capital of the Transbaikalian Government), gave a banquet, to which all the notabilities of the place were invited, and that the highly respectable merchant and mayor Alexèiev broke off in the middle of the feasting and went straight from table to waylay the passing night-mail. This worthy citizen, with one of his friends, galloped after the mail-coach, murdered the driver, seriously wounded the guard, seized the bag containing the registered letters, and made off. The guard, however, whom they had left for dead, was rescued; and as an unusually energetic magistrate took the matter in hand, the whole story came out, and could not be hushed up in the customary manner. The case was brought before a court-martial, and the highway robbers were condemned to death.

These colonies by the great road had had very diverse origins, and were sharply differentiated from each other in character. There were more or less pure Russian villages, neighboured by barbaric Buriat settlements; and there were also villages inhabited exclusively by members of various sects, exiled from Russia and forcibly established there as a punishment for their daring to fall away from the Orthodox State religion. Those that I found specially interesting were the villages of the so-called Subòtniki (Sabbatarians). The members of this sect are Russian by nationality, yet their religion is the Mosaic in its strictest form.

It was curious in the extreme to find these typical representatives of the Slav race considering themselves Jews by virtue of their religion, and still stranger to hear them boasting of the prerogatives of their Israelitish faith. In their manner of life and occupations they differ in no way from ordinary Russian peasants; although in 175decency and prosperity their villages are far above those of their Christian neighbours.

Those of our criminal contingent who had travelled this way more than once already were well acquainted with the manners and customs of the Siberian people; many of them were veritable mines of information, and could relate tales of uncommon interest. In their narrations the Siberians usually figured in an unfavourable light; for the criminals hate them from the bottom of their hearts, and ascribe all kinds of evil qualities to them, being, one and all, firmly persuaded that although their own standard of conduct is by no means exalted, they are infinitely higher in the moral scale than the Siberians.

“Heaven knows we are rascals through and through, good-for-nothings, and all that; but that lot are far and away worse,” was their dictum. They showered on the Siberians all sorts of contemptuous names, which were quite incomprehensible to us, but seemed to provoke their recipients terribly. This mutual antipathy probably arose from the fact of the parties knowing one another only too well, and from the injuries inflicted by each on the other during past generations.

We came into such close contact with the world of crime during our travels that we could soon recognise what Lombroso calls “the criminal type.” On the whole, the criminals made a more favourable impression on me than I had expected. Certainly there was much about them unpleasant, and even repulsive; but this was, I think, less due to their character as a class than to the special influence of the “Ivans”—a quite peculiar type, who imparted their tone more or less to all the others. With the exception of these leaders, and of a small number of the worst criminals, who had not succeeded in “swopping,” the majority consisted of very average men of the working class, with the good and bad qualities of their order. Their leading characteristics were dumb acquiescence in their lot and a shy dread of anyone who would attempt to better it.

176They were for the most part just as good-natured and ready to help one another as is commonly the case with workers of the lower classes. Among the ordinary prisoners, too, were to be found many individuals who could in no sense be ranked as criminals. Russian village communes have the power of rejecting from their midst members whom they consider undesirable; and these outcasts can then be sent to settle in Siberia, without any judicial sentence, but simply by the desire of a majority in their commune. Moreover, this verdict of the commune is often delivered without any real majority being convinced as to the unfitness of the offending member; the clerk to the commune and two or three of the richer peasants and usurers (Kulaki) can easily manage to get rid of a poor wretch who does not happen to please them. It would be impossible to calculate how many crying injustices are thus perpetrated on the destitute and helpless among the peasantry. The victims of such barbarous and arbitrary proceedings who were among our party, had many sad stories to tell, which only corroborated what I myself had seen going on in country districts. With one or two exceptions, the exiles belonging to this category were quite average specimens of the Russian peasant.

There were also included among these ordinary prisoners members of various religious sects, exiled on that account, and they were very far removed from the criminal type. These sectarians are admitted, by all who know Siberia best, to form the steadiest and the most industrious element of the population. The sectarians in our party of ordinary prisoners always avoided any participation in the fights, quarrels, and rowdyism of the others, and tried not to fall out either with the leaders of the convict band, on the one hand, nor with the authorities on the other. It was their custom to accept humbly all insults and injuries inflicted on them as trials sent them by God.

Those prisoners who had minor punishments to undergo, and who had least on their conscience, were for the 177most part timid, submissive, even broken-spirited. Among them were the unfortunate wretches whom I have described as gambling away their food-money for whole weeks together. They then literally starved, or sold themselves into the hands of the “swop” organisation for a beggarly sum. They were treated with utter contempt by the other criminals, and among them went by the name of “biscuits,” a rather descriptive title for these pale, dried-up, emaciated creatures. These “biscuits” were the pariahs of their society, and all the dirtiest and most disagreeable work—cleaning out of privies, etc.—fell to their share as a matter of course. They seemed to have lost all power of will; and gambling—the source of all their sufferings—was the only thing they cared for. They were always ready to steal anything that came in their way, except from the “Ivans,” which would have had dire results for themselves if discovered, probably a murderous thrashing. I only knew one case of that kind, when a poor young fellow stole a piece of bread from one of the “Ivans,” and the artèl at once decided that he should be punished exemplarily, “because he had stolen from his own people.”

I have spoken before of this artèl, an extremely interesting institution which has existed among criminals from time immemorial. It is based on stringent and unalterable rules, the chief of which is that each individual must yield implicit obedience to the will of the whole artèl. All members are supposed to have, de jure, equal rights in the organisation; but, de facto, the confirmed criminals, the old experienced rogues and vagabonds, are the preponderating element, and it is the “Ivans” that govern the rest ruthlessly in their own proper interest. It is their will that passes for the will of the whole body. Without the sanction of the artèl no agreement between individuals has any force; only with its consent can any “swop” be carried out, and thus a portion of the price always goes into the common exchequer. Once the sanction of the artèl is given 178there is no holding back; a criminal who refused to fulfil his “swop” when he had agreed to it and received his pay would have the whole combined artèl against him. But such a case never occurs; and fear of the artèl’s vengeance is too great for any treachery by its members. The lawful authorities would have no power to shield such a traitor, and could not get him out of the clutches of the organisation; for if he were moved to another prison the artèl there would take on the feud and mete out vengeance to him, the leaders invariably finding means to communicate with each other. In one respect the solidarity of the artèl is especially strong: it is represented in all dealings with the authorities by its stàrosta or head-man, elected by the prisoners themselves from among their own ranks. This is a post of honour, and is naturally always obtained by an experienced and crafty rogue. He makes all arrangements concerning his constituents, receives their food-money, and sees to its distribution. His authority over the common herd is limitless; but he is directly dependent on the leaders—the “Ivans”—who have carried through his election, and would be powerless without their support, so that he has to keep on good terms with them. The office of stàrosta has its pecuniary advantages, and it often happens that candidates for the post pay a considerable sum for the votes of the powerful “Ivans.”

A less important, but equally profitable post is that of the storekeeper, who trades with the other prisoners in tea, sugar, tobacco, and other things of the kind, and—secretly—in spirits and playing-cards. This privilege is granted by the artèl for a fixed time to one of the candidates for the office, who pays for it a certain sum into the common chest. The chief profits accrue from the illicit sale of spirits and hiring out of playing-cards. At night, as soon as the ordinary prisoners were shut in, and often even by day, they might be seen squatting together in groups to indulge in a game of chance. They would gamble away not only their meagre food-allowance, but clothes, linen, boots, the 179property of the State; for which they were of course accountable, and for the loss of which—if discovered—they were liable to severe punishment. Half naked, save for some miserable rags, the condition of the wretched “biscuits” in bad weather was pitiable indeed; and when the cold days of autumn came on they could be seen shivering from head to foot, running instead of walking when on the march, to try and keep warm. It was hard to understand how these men could endure the hunger and cold they brought on themselves. We attempted to relieve them, but could do very little; as, firstly, our own means were very limited; and, secondly, they staked everything we gave them, at the first opportunity, despite the most solemn promises. There was always an eager crowd around any players, following the game with as much excitement as the principals themselves could manifest; and occasionally a lucky winner would share some of his gains with his starving comrades. It was the custom, too, for the storekeeper to treat the whole company when his term of office expired; that was a feast-day for the hungry, and you might hear them say: “To-day we’ll eat our fill; the storekeeper pays”!

The officers of the escort on principle never interfered with the affairs of the artèl, the prisoners themselves managing to keep order so as to avoid any occasion for such interference or coercion. It was certainly remarkable that this crowd of people, many of whom were hardened robbers and murderers, should have been so easy to rule; for the numbers of the escort were relatively small. No prisoner attempted to escape, that being strictly forbidden by their rules during the journey for fear of reprisals by the authorities against the artèl. There were squabbles and scuffles, but never anything that necessitated the interference of the soldiery; and though doubtless there was an inordinate amount of drinking (for spirits were always to be had), no drunkard was allowed to carry on any brawling under the eye of the officer. The others saw to that. 180There was a tacit understanding between the artèl and the officer; the latter knew that if the prisoners were allowed a free hand in certain matters he could count on them to keep order among themselves, and never to cause him any trouble. He therefore looked the other way when regulations were disregarded, as, for instance, in the matter of fetters, which were always merely tied together, not riveted; so that though worn on the march they could be taken off at night—which was of course against rules. Among all the different convoy officers (and there were forty stationed on the route between Tomsk and Kara—men of very varied types), not one made any exception to this rule. I have never observed any abuse of their power in regard to the prisoners, nor that they were particularly rude and rough in dealing with them; still less that they ever attempted to mulct them of their food-money or other allowances. On the other hand, it often happens that these officers are prosecuted for shortcomings of this kind in connection with their subordinates, and even for direct peculation. It must be remembered that the halting-stations are established in the wilderness, far removed from the reach of the central authorities, military and civil. It is easy, therefore, for a commanding officer to abuse his position. Most of them get but a scanty education in the lower military schools, and are then sent out into the Siberian wilds, where many are naturally led to give the rein to their worst qualities. The majority of them know no pleasure but debauchery, and when drunk commit all kinds of excesses, gamble away the excise-money, maltreat their inferiors, and so on.

There were a few officers with a taste for economy, and they were less inclined to excess, but the soldiers were scarcely better off under their rule—perhaps worse—than under that of the rakes and drunkards; for these able financiers established such a thorough control of ways and means in their department that their unfortunate men were not only mercilessly fleeced, but made to do all sorts 181of work in house and field in order to save paying for labour. However, this class was not a large one.

To us “politicals” most of the officers behaved with formal correctness, and tried to avoid any conflicts. But apart from their general attitude, there were numerous petty details—slight enough in themselves, but of great importance to us on such a long journey—that were sometimes subjects of dispute; for instance, the hour of starting in the early morning, as I have already mentioned; and we had discussions with various officers about other things, such as keeping the wooden tub in our room all night, which we declined to do, as it poisoned the air, and also on account of the ladies who had to share the room with us. If the officer were ill-tempered or obstinate, trifles like these might be the occasion of insults and bullying on his side that would lead to revolt and violence on ours; and then a court-martial with its cruel verdict loomed before us. Fortunately, things never went so far as that,—thanks partly to our having in our midst a few older and wiser heads, who exercised a calming influence over the rest, besides three men who had had considerable experience of intercourse with the authorities, as they were going to Siberia for the second time, having previously been “administratively” exiled—Malyòvany, Spandoni, and Tchuikòv. We owed much also to the exertions and tactful counsel of our head-man, Làzarev.

It happened sometimes that we came across officers who were ready to show us many small kindnesses—lending us newspapers and paying attention to our comfort in any way possible to them. On one or two occasions we had unexpected bits of good fortune. An officer, recognising a school-friend in one of our comrades—Snigiriòv, a veterinary surgeon—was much moved at the meeting, and during the two days of his accompanying us did all he could to help us. Another officer announced himself as a sympathiser with Socialism. He had mixed in revolutionary circles, and made no secret of his views, being 182in entire agreement with us. He told us he read a good deal of forbidden literature, and we discussed many political problems with him. Naturally it was a pleasant surprise to find a man of kindred opinions among the instruments of despotism.

The polite behaviour of most officers towards us may possibly have been due to an amusingly mistaken notion, of which by chance we discovered symptoms. On entering one of the halting-stations we found in the room to which we were shown a plainly dressed man with handcuffs on his wrists. He turned out to be a political exile named Stephen Agàpov,[62] a factory hand, who was now being removed from Eastern to Western Siberia as a mitigation of his punishment, in accordance with the coronation manifesto of 1883. His wife, a Siberian peasant, accompanied him. Agàpov explained to us that when our party was expected the officer had ordered him to quit that room, because a party of “politicals” was coming, composed entirely of counts and princes, and that these noble personages would never put up with having a common workman in the room with them. Agàpov and his wife thought this no reason why they should be turned out of the room intended for political prisoners like themselves, and they refused to obey, which led to a violent scene, and Agàpov was put in irons. Worse still, the irate officer had another punishment in store for him. The pair had with them all their belongings—the fruits of hard work in Eastern Siberia—making a weight of luggage beyond what was permitted by the regulations. The officer immediately ordered everything above the prescribed weight to be sold by auction to the people of the place—a pure piece of malice, as even the ordinary exiles were always allowed excess luggage, and still more those who were benefiting by the act of grace.

183This tyrannical performance incensed us highly, and our good head-man went at once to the officer with an appeal for the release of our comrade from his fetters, which was granted without much ado. The comic part of the affair was that we ourselves should figure as princes and counts! In reality there was not one among us of such rank, but the legend had probably arisen from the addresses of letters sent by members of our party to Prince Volhònsky, Count Leo Tolstoi, and other well-known people of title. The affair had further consequences for the poor Agàpovs, as the officer reported them for disobedience, violence, etc., and they were sent to one of those “towns” to the north of Tobolsk that I have previously described—a far worse locality than that from which they were being brought as an act of clemency.