Other officials under this coöperative association were the general “dividers,” one for each room, whose duty was to parcel out with great care every atom of food, and especially the tid-bits arriving from friends, which he divided honourably and exactly. He was also the carver for the room. As has been said, the utmost generosity prevailed; no prisoner claimed to retain any gifts he received from outside; all linen, clothing, and boots were handed over to the chief, and their final possession was decided by lot, their nature being first declared, so that any one in need might put in a claim to draw for them.
Some further details of the common life at this time in the Middle Kara state prison will be found interesting. All the inmates were more or less acquainted with one another; all were comrades devoted to a common cause. Youth was a general characteristic, and its buoyancy and sanguine spirit animated every one. Light-hearted conversation, with jokes and laughter, were not unknown; free association was not forbidden; the prisoners were not locked up singly or confined to a particular room, but were at liberty to run to and fro exchanging ideas and sometimes news when it came in, which was but rarely.
Each room had its nickname, the survival of a dim and distant past. One was called the “Sanhedrin,” another the “Yakutsk,” a third the “Volost,” and a fourth the “Nobles’ room.” There was always a large contingent of clever and well educated young men among the politicals, but the popular idea of the lesser officials that they were all nobles, princes and counts was ridiculously far-fetched. Still, they profited by the civility and consideration accorded to them. Many were deeply read; many were members of the universities who were eager to improve themselves. Some of them were known as “Siriuses,” a prison name given to the ardent students, who worked in the middle of the night, taking advantage of the hours of perfect stillness broken only by the snores of the sleepers. The “Sirius” turned in early in the evening when the noisy chatter of many voices was disturbing to study, but he could sleep through it and, waking at midnight, would light the shaded lamp at his table and work till dawn. Then when Sirius, star of the morning, arose, he again took a short rest for a couple of hours.
The attainments of these students sometimes reached a high standard; they were proficient in metaphysics, abstruse mathematics, or languages, and professors in each of these branches were glad to take pupils. Marvellous skill in handicrafts was also acquired, mainly from books of technical instruction, and lessons in theory were admirably applied in practice. One clever workman constructed a pocket lathe out of a few old rusty nails, and by its help fashioned all the parts of a clock which kept good time, although he was no watchmaker. The possession of the tools required for these productions was forbidden by the rules, and they were kept out of sight when the regular searches and inspections were made. When the rules in this respect were relaxed, there was a great development in arts and crafts, a vise was set up in one of the rooms, and an amateur photographer opened a regular studio.
A mechanical genius, an original and inventive character, was prominent among the politicals at this period. He was Leo Zlatopolski, a student of the Technological Institute of St. Petersburg, who had joined the revolutionary party and through his mechanical skill had been of great assistance in the manufacture of bombs. Prison seclusion had stimulated his inventive powers. He designed a flying machine and planned a circular town, in which everything was to be run by electricity, but he did not despise working for the improvement of domestic appliances, such as new schemes for the boiling of potatoes and the making of shoes. He had advanced theories for the heating of dwellings; he invented new games of cards and aspired to regenerate and reorganise daily life. But none of his schemes were practical, and his comrades made him their butt, although he was really a very capable and learned man. The activity and productiveness of the political prisoners reminds us of the same qualities exhibited in the Omsk ostrog as described by Dostoyevski.
Other amusements were much indulged in during the more troublous times. Chess was played in the long, dismal, and monotonous hours, and by first class performers who had studied the game scientifically. There were well-contested tournaments, the result of which excited lively interest. Music was greatly cultivated, and the prison choir had a large repertory of the now widely popular Russian composers. One of the gifted handicraftsmen constructed a very passable violin which was constantly in use, and less ambitious performers were proficient with the simple hair-comb. Physical exercise was obtained within the prison enclosure during the winter on snow slides, after the fashion of the modern toboggan at fashionable winter resorts in Europe.
The relegation of political offenders to the Kara mines began in 1873, but did not become a regular practice till 1879, when the terrorists’ propaganda seriously alarmed the Russian government. It was then resolved to subject the worst cases to penal servitude under the same painful conditions as common criminals, with whom they worked side by side at the gold placers. This was no child’s play, but it was not unendurable. On the contrary, the daily egress from prison for six or eight hours into sunshine and open air was much appreciated. For some time the supreme power at Kara was wielded by the humane and rightly esteemed Colonel Kanonovich, during whose mild régime the prisoners enjoyed the privileges detailed above. But with the changed temper of the government and the increased severity decreed, Colonel Kanonovich proved restive and declined to give effect to the new orders. He had already protested against some of the penalties enforced, especially that of chaining to wheelbarrows, and although he was unable to abolish it or relieve those subjected to it without permission from St. Petersburg, he gave orders that whenever he visited the prisons all suffering that inhumane punishment should be released from the wheelbarrows for the time so that his eyes might not be offended by the sight.
This savage and abominable practice, although discontinued on the Siberian continent, is still authorised by law, and is constantly inflicted at Saghalien on convicts condemned to a life sentence. The penalty consists in making a prisoner fast to a small miner’s wheelbarrow by means of a chain attached to the middle link of the leg irons. While the chain is long enough to allow of freedom of movement, the victim cannot take any exercise, nor cross his cell without trundling his wheelbarrow in front of him. One political offender, Shchedrin, indignant at the gross misconduct of Colonel Soliviof, adjutant to the governor-general of Trans-Baikal, struck him in the face. This man was sentenced to the wheelbarrow and was sent back to Russia to be imprisoned in the Schlüsselburg. He travelled across Asia fastened to his wheelbarrow, even when in a vehicle. When jolted on the rough roads, he was so much bruised by his barrow that it was found necessary to unchain him and lash the implement behind the cart, and this strange spectacle was witnessed by many. Shchedrin became insane in the “stonebags” of Schlüsselburg, and he died eventually in an insane asylum. At night it was necessary to hoist the wheelbarrow into such a position as to allow the sleeper to lie alongside.
A high-souled, chivalrous man of the stamp of Colonel Kanonovich could not bear to witness the miseries of his charges unmoved. He was not a revolutionist, nor in sympathy with the reforming spirit, but he was willing to admit that many of the political offenders were disinterested patriots and that there were among them numbers of refined and cultivated men and women. He treated them, as I have tried to show, with kindness and consideration, and sought to lighten and brighten their grievous lot. When at last he saw that he was to be employed as an intermediary for the infliction of fresh tortures, he resolved to resign rather than be responsible for them. He wrote boldly to his superiors saying he was not a hangman, and that he would not do violence to his feelings by enforcing the cruel orders recently issued. When his resignation was accepted, and he was recalled to St. Petersburg, he was sharply taken to task by Governor-General Anuchin as he passed through Irkutsk.
“No one holding your views,” said this great official, “could expect to retain his appointment as chief of the Kara prisons and mines. I question whether any one like you can hold a post in the government service.” “Very well,” was the sturdy reply, “then I will get out of it forthwith. The government has imposed an impossible duty on me, and I cannot perform it and keep an approving conscience.”