CHAPTER XXIII

THE ORGANISATION OF OUR COMMON LIFE—THE “SIRIUSES”—WAGERS

On my arrival at the Kara prison I found in existence there an extremely elaborate organisation regulating the prisoners’ daily life, a system that the course of time had evolved and tested. The fundamental principle of the arrangement was equality of rights and duties; the inmates of the prison forming for all domestic purposes a commune or artèl, although the needs and wishes of individuals were taken into account as far as possible. It was free to anyone to enter this artèl or to remain outside, and whichever they did, material conditions—in the way of food, etc.—were the same for all.[83] The Government provided a certain quantity of food per day for each prisoner—about 3? lbs. of bread, nearly 6 oz. of meat, a few ounces of meal, and some salt. Friends of prisoners were permitted to furnish them with the means of obtaining extra provisions, and some of us, though, indeed, only a few, received such contributions regularly, this money as well as the governmental allowances becoming the common property of the artèl. The money was distributed as follows: part was set aside to supplement the food-rations, especially for buying more meat (this was called in our lingo “provisioning the stock-pot”); another portion was reserved for what was called common expenses—assistance to those who were leaving the prison and going to their 222appointed place of exile, subscriptions to such newspapers as we were allowed, postage, etc.; and a third part was divided equally among all for pocket-money. This last was spent according to the fancy of each individual, usually on tea, tobacco, fish, butter, and such things as were considered “secondary necessaries,” though sometimes these were sacrificed and the money saved up for months, or even for a year or more, in order to buy a book or some special luxury. Our funds were very scanty; during my whole time in Kara there was never more than three or four kopecks[84] per man per day for the “stock-pot,” and the pocket-money for each never amounted to more than a rouble[85] a month, often much less. In consequence of the primitive means of transport everything imported into Siberia cost three times as much as in Europe—a pound of sugar, for instance, cost thirty-five to forty kopecks—and the prisoners had to deny themselves many of the smallest comforts of material existence. Most of us used only brick-tea, i.e. tea of the commonest kind, and drank it without sugar; others thought even that a luxury, and drank hot water; while those who used sugar had to make one lump do for the whole day—that is, for three meals.

Actual money was never given us, everything was on paper only. All remittances were received by the commandant, who kept us informed of the amount he had in hand. Then we would order various articles, which would be given to our stàrosta to keep in the common chest, and whenever he gave anything out he made an entry in his account-book. At the end of each month the accounts were made up, each man being told whether he had overdrawn his pocket-money and so must start the next month with a minus of so many kopecks, or whether he had saved and was credited with a plus. The former would try to make good their deficit during the 223following month; but there were some who—with the best will in the world—could never make their expenditure and income balance, and were always in default, thus acquiring the nickname of “minuses,” while the thrifty were called “pluses.” No shame was attached to the being a “minus,” though it was scarcely a title of honour, and no one cared for the position. The “minuses” always aspired to get straight at any rate at Christmas or Easter, when pocket-money was generally increased by an influx of gifts, but it sometimes occurred that someone found it impossible to get his head above water, and it was then the custom that at one of our festivals—at Christmas, or on the commemoration of some revolutionary red-letter day—the stàrosta or someone should suggest the “whitewashing” of the bankrupt by wiping off his debt to the artèl. This proposal was always accepted by the majority, only the “minus” himself protesting, or refusing to consent.

Every morning the stàrosta presented himself with his order-book at the doors of the different rooms, and asked what was wanted. One would order a “sou’s” worth[86] of sugar, another a “brick” of tea, and so on. These orders were entered, to be later transferred to the account-book, and soon afterwards the stàrosta would bring the articles and give them to us through the peephole. The stàrosta also received from the steward for distribution all things that were due to us in the way of clothing, linen, and so forth, and he was our representative in all our dealings with the commandant. The election of the stàrosta was by ballot, and for a term of six months. The person elected was, of course, free to decline the post, and this occasionally happened, as, though an honourable 224office, it was one which entailed trouble and responsibility, and sometimes even a degree of unpleasantness.

Not only the stàrosta, but any member of the artèl might make proposals for changes in our arrangements, such proposals being written down, considered by the inmates of the different rooms, and then voted for or against in writing. It was the stàrosta’s business to collect the votes and to announce the results through the peepholes. Proposals of this kind were often most excitedly discussed, parties being formed to support or oppose them; and occasionally a subject would develop into a “cabinet crisis,” though the moving or rejecting of votes of confidence in the “government” (for we had a whole ministry, other officers being necessary besides the stàrosta) was not customary.

All work within the prison precincts we shared among us; but such services as made it necessary to go outside the yard (carrying wood and water, sanitary cleansing, etc.) were performed by ordinary criminals, whom we tipped, although not in any way obliged to do so. Our own duties were of two kinds: work for the community—such as cooking, cleaning the rooms, attending to the steam baths; and private work—washing clothes, mending, etc. Everyone except the weak or ill had to take his share in the former. The cooking was undertaken by groups of five men, each group serving for a week at a time. There were eight or nine such groups in all, the choice of belonging to any particular group being left free without regard to rooms. Each group had its head cook, his assistant, a cook for the invalids, and two helpers. The work was not light, and was in no way attractive; it began between six and seven in the morning, and was not usually over before five in the evening, by which hour one would be thoroughly tired out; and when the end of the week came it was delightful to think of idling for a time. On the other hand, the labour was a welcome relief to the monotony of our lives, and the kitchen was a meeting-place 225for the inhabitants of different rooms, forming a sort of clubhouse for those engaged in the cooking. Even when the work was hardest we had merry times there, discussing news, gossiping, and joking, the work itself often serving as a basis for fun and all sorts of nonsense. The head cook would give a raw hand some ridiculous job; one, for instance, would be set to pick potatoes out of the pot with a fork; another ordered to stand by a hole in the wall with a big stick and to knock on the head any blackbeetles that might make their appearance. I myself was given the task of chopping up millet-seed with a large knife, and other such absurdities would be invented.

Our cooks had to manage with very scanty materials. Vegetables frequently ran short, thus making it most difficult to vary the bill of fare. At the time of my arrival there were no potatoes to be had, and at midday, from motives of economy, only broth was provided, from which the meat had been taken to be served up separately for supper. When I sat down to dinner on my first day in Kara I was prepared for a frugal meal, having heard beforehand how poor the dietary was in this prison; but when I had spooned up the meagre soup without any accompaniment but bread and realised that this was my whole dinner, I felt somewhat downcast. I rose from table as hungry as I had sat down; and it was a long while before I could accustom myself to this sort of nourishment. Our culinary skill was chiefly displayed in the way of serving up the soup-meat at a subsequent meal. It was generally minced and heated up with some vegetables. The dish most favoured by the majority was meat cut into small pieces and mixed with groats; this was called “Everyone-likes-it,” and it was the pride of the cooks to decorate our menu with this original name at least twice a week. The greedy ones among us used to spy around the kitchen, and never failed to spread the joyful tidings: “They’re making ‘Everyone-likes-it’ to-day!” The cooks generally put their best foot forward on Saturday, when 226their week of office expired. For years it had been the custom to have an extra dish on that day, a piròg or sort of pie made of flour, rice, and mince. The cooks used to save up scraps of meat for it all through the week, and sometimes the piròg would attain such dimensions that we could not dispose of it at one sitting, and a remainder would be left over for Sunday’s breakfast. On the whole our food was insufficient, not very nutritious, and still less appetising. Bread only had we at discretion, as the rations given out by the steward were so large that some was always left over. Only those who had no stomach for a quantity of dry bread need go hungry. But we hardly ever had our fill except on great feast days, when not only was our pocket-money augmented, but an extra allowance of food was given. The cooks would then indulge us with various dainties and luxuries; roast meat would come to table, or cutlets, and white bread. Praise must not be denied to our cooks; there were among them virtuosi, whose handiwork was quite artistic—worthy, as we expressed it, “of better houses.”

Invalid diet was not provided specially; the cooks had to arrange for that as best they could, and make it as varied as was compatible with economy. During my time there was no severe illness, and special diet was only needed for those who were delicate or who suffered from some chronic ailment. The question who was to be given invalid fare was decided by Prybylyev[87]—one of our number who acted as our medical adviser, and who showed much skill in that capacity, though at home he had only been a veterinary surgeon. His fame in the art of healing became widespread, and afterwards when he was living out of prison he was consulted by many people, though there were three qualified physicians in the neighbourhood.

The helpers in the kitchen generally either knew nothing whatever of the culinary art or else preferred rough work. I fulfilled both conditions, and never made anything of actual cooking; my duties consisted in carrying water, 227chopping wood, taking water and charcoal for the samovar to the different rooms, apportioning the food in the wooden bowls out of which we ate, washing up, attending to the stoves, and cleaning the kitchen. Everybody working in the kitchen got rather larger portions of food than the others: that was an ancient custom.

Besides the head-man, who had charge of our larder, a special “bread-dispenser” was appointed, whose office it was to cut up the loaves and divide them among the different rooms; he had also to collect all scraps and crumbs that were left, and send them on to our comrades in the penal settlement,[88] where they were used to feed a horse and a couple of cows which belonged to the artèl.

The “poultry-keeper” was another of our officials. We kept in the yard a number of fowls which we cherished most carefully, and they were a great amusement to us, especially when a brood of chickens appeared or when the young cockerels showed fight.

Two other comrades were “bath-keepers”; had to see to the cleaning of the steam-bath, etc., and—like all our “officials”—were excused from kitchen work.

Finally, there was the very important post of librarian, which ranked next to that of stàrosta, and, like it, was decided by ballot, while the other dignitaries generally chose their own offices. In the course of years our library had attained quite imposing dimensions; it was composed partly of books brought by the inmates, partly of those sent to us as gifts. Nearly all branches of knowledge were represented in it, but particularly history, mathematics, and natural science; there were also books in almost every European language, including the classics. Two enormous cupboards in the corridor contained this treasure, but the greater part of it was usually in the hands of eager readers. The custodian had to look after the binding and mending 228of the books, in which he found many willing helpers. The tools and materials used were of the most primitive description; we had no pasteboard, for instance, and had to contrive some by pasting paper together. My travelling companion, Tchuikov, proved a first-rate librarian, not only invariably remembering what books each person had borrowed, but being always able to tell the whereabouts of any particular article or treatise in our files of newspapers. He was to the last always re-elected librarian.

Housework in the rooms was likewise done by strict rule; according to our turns we had to be on duty twice a day, seeing to the stoves, carrying the unsavoury wooden tubs in and out at night and in the morning, and so on. Our rooms were kept scrupulously clean and neat, and every fortnight there was a tremendous thorough cleaning; the boards were scrubbed with hot water, beds aired, tables and benches washed in the yard. We were very particular about proper ventilation, and observed all hygienic precautions most carefully; each man used the steam-bath once a week, and each washed his own clothes—not one of our easiest jobs.

Remembering that most of us were students fresh from the universities, or at any rate had hitherto had little practical acquaintance with domestic labour, and taking into account external circumstances generally and the scanty supply of materials, I think we might fairly pride ourselves on the practical and efficient organisation of our household affairs. Of course our system was liable to modification in details if necessary, but the principles on which it was based were fixed and unchangeable.

That our life must have had much in it irksome in the extreme and hard to bear is only too evident; living in such constant and close intimacy for years with the same set of people must necessarily lead to all kinds of petty rubs and differences; all the more because the forced inactivity was such a strain to the nerves of many. These were evils not in our power entirely to avert.

229In the middle of each room hung a lamp with a dark shade—lamps that we had ourselves provided. Our table was narrow and long, so that a number of persons necessarily sat where the light was very poor, insufficient for work of any kind; and this, of course, was a misfortune for everyone, as those condemned to idleness disturbed the more advantageously placed who wanted to study. Even had there not been this drawback, serious concentration of mind would have been difficult in a small room wherein were congregated sixteen men of very different temperaments and inclinations. The needful quiet could rarely be obtained, for it would have been impossible to enforce silence during the long winter evenings; on the contrary, when one sat down to work at night tongues were loosened, and there began a constant hubbub of chatter and laughter. Anyone who was really bent on earnest study had to devise a special plan: he became what we called a “Sirius.” This meant that as soon as it became dusk he went to bed till midnight, and then, while the rest were asleep, got up and worked till dawn, when Sirius rises above the horizon; after which he lay down for another two hours’ rest. It needed an overwhelming desire for learning and considerable powers of endurance to become a “Sirius”; it was difficult to rest when the comrades were chattering and making a noise all around one, and when one had at last managed to get off to sleep, it seemed immediately time to wake up again. The dividing of the night’s rest is not an easy thing to stand; in spite of my efforts I could never accustom myself to it; yet there were some among us—though not many—who were numbered among the “Siriuses” all the time I was at Kara. Yatzèvitch, and two others of whom I shall have more to say, Kalyushny and Adrian Mihailov, kept to this mode of life during that whole period.

I must mention one custom that had taken root in the prison, into which I was very soon initiated. We were 230in the middle of a lively conversation one morning, just after my arrival, when M., one of the comrades, turned to me with the question—

“What do you say, Deutsch; will the Tsar soon be made an end of?”

“Oh no,” I replied, “I don’t think he’ll be killed. The man will probably end his days peacefully in his bed.”

My answer met with violent opposition, everyone assuring me that Alexander III. must meet his father’s fate. At that time nearly all revolutionists had still a firm belief in the indestructible power of the Naròdnaia Vòlya, and saw in terrorism the only practicable means of fighting Russian absolutism. To me, on the contrary, things showed themselves in quite a different light. I had taken part in the revolutionary organisation when the terrorist idea was in its infancy, had witnessed its development until finally it reigned alone and absorbed all the fighting energy of the party, had known personally Terrorists both great and small, and I had now come to the conclusion that the Naròdnaia Vòlya had outlived its time. The tide of feeling that had fostered the growth of this party had reached its height in 1881; while after, and in consequence of, the assassination of Alexander II. it had ebbed rapidly away. As I have explained before, all the leading Terrorists were then removed from the sphere of action, and the younger ones who tried to replace them had no chance of proving and tempering their own powers. Both in Russia and abroad I had seen how the earlier enthusiasm had given way to a fatal scepticism; men had lost faith, even though many would not have allowed that it was so. It was clear to me that a reaction had set in, to last for many years.

When I now gave expression to these views, M. asked suddenly—

“Will you back that opinion?”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Well, we simply mean by that, will you take a bet 231on it? I declare that the Tsar will be killed; you maintain the contrary. I offer you a wager that the Tsar will be killed by the revolutionists within a certain time.”

“Very well, I accept.”

“Shall we say five years—till December 15th, 1890?”

“All right; what is the stake?”

This was not so easy to settle. Bets of this sort, I then learned, were quite the fashion, and were made on every kind of occasion—sometimes as the result of a serious argument, sometimes about a mere trifle; but there was rarely a controversy that did not terminate with the question, “Will you back that opinion?” If the other party tried to make excuses, there would be a chorus from the bystanders of “He shirks it!” and the reputation of a “shirker” was not a flattering one. The stake was usually some small matter, perhaps a little tea or tobacco, varying according to the importance of the subject in dispute. A “sou’s worth” of sugar was a common offer; but if the loser undertook to brew tea for the whole room that was considered a high stake, and the result was awaited with interest. Although these bets were more or less of a joke, they had also a more serious side. There are people who will dispute about every imaginable thing, and make the wildest assertions simply for the sake of arguing; and it must be confessed that after such heedless talkers had lost a few wagers they were more inclined to hold their tongues occasionally, though neither the chance of losses nor of earning the nickname of “shirker” could quite restrain some of our number from arguing in the air.

My wager with M. was duly recorded, and it was agreed that the loser should provide cakes for all the inhabitants of the “nobles’ room.” This was a very high stake, costing several roubles, and the loser risked being without pocket-money for “secondary necessaries” during several months; but the question being one that might not be decided for a long while, the stake had to be considerable 232to sustain interest. Time proved me right. At the end of 1890 M. had lost his bet, and wished to pay his debt of honour; but I refused to allow him to do so, on the ground that circumstances had changed, and the former inmates of the “nobles’ room” would no longer be able to partake of the feast, many having by that time left the prison. M. would not hear of it at first, but ended by giving in.

PRISONERS GOLD-WASHING AT KARA