It is not, I imagine, generally known that a political exile is divorced from wife or husband the day that the Ourals are crossed from Europe into Asia. This is voluntary on the part of the man or woman; but, as may be imagined, the law is frequently abused. “My wife is guilty of conspiring against the Government,” says the henpecked husband, or, “My husband has compromising papers in his possession: search the house,” says the wife, who is jealous or has transferred her affections, and the thing is done. There is no delay in such cases. A couple of hours settles the matter one way or another. The accused is not tried publicly, nor is he allowed to plead or call witnesses for the defence. This is called in Russia, “Exile by administrative process.” Within a week of the denunciation the victim is over the border, the marriage dissolved. Such cases are, however, rare. Russian ladies, to their honour be it said, accompany as a rule their husbands into exile, little knowing, however, the hardships and dangers before them; little dreaming of the insults which, though free, they will have to put up with en route, under the very eyes of the husband powerless to help them. As for the unmarried women (politicals) that are sent to the mines alone, their end is pretty much the same as a rule. Their two or five years of prison over, they are allowed to settle down in Tomsk or Irkoutsk. If possessed of private means (as many are), they are allowed to enjoy their income. Is it not for the benefit of Siberia? Many take to trade, become dressmakers, confectioners, milliners, &c, &c.; but the majority, if young and pretty, take up a more lucrative though less respectable profession. Some of the latter class almost vie with the “Demi-Mondaines” of Paris or Vienna in their extravagance and the splendour of their houses, carriages, and diamonds. Every liberty is allowed them, save, as I have said, the trifling inconvenience of the registry of their names every morning at eleven at the police office, and the somewhat uncomfortable feeling of not being able to drive or ride more than ten miles out of Irkoutsk, or whatever town they may be located in. I dined on one occasion with one of these ladies, and one could scarcely realize that the clever and pretty hostess who entertained us, dressed in the height of Parisian fashion, and who, after dinner, charmed us with her rendering of Beethoven and Mendelssohn, had, but six short months before, been sifting gold and washing prisoners’ clothes at the gold-mines of Nertchinsk!
One hears little of Nihilism in Irkoutsk. It is a sealed subject, and, except on rare occasions, never broached. Here, as throughout Siberia, however, we took care not to mix in any political discussions, a piece of advice I would tender to any one intending to make this journey. Russians, and especially Siberians, are quick to take offence, and on one occasion we were nearly being embroiled, though quite innocently, in a serious “Fracas.”
It was in a café on the outskirts of the town. In every public room, be it post-house, hotel, restaurant, or government office, there is a portrait of His Majesty the Czar, flanked in a corner by the “Ikona,” or Sacred Image. Ignorant of the custom of the country, Lancaster and I one evening entered one of these places without removing our hats. The room was crowded, for it was a public holiday, and all were more or less under the influence of copious libations of vodka and other drinks they had imbibed during the day. Seating ourselves at a small table in their midst, I was not a little surprised to feel, the moment after, a violent blow at the back of my head, and at the same moment to see my hat whizzing through the air to the other side of the “Salle.” We were both armed, but luckily for ourselves had the presence of mind to keep our revolvers in our pockets. Had they been produced, I doubt if either of us would have left the place alive. Fortunately the owner of the café spoke French, and apologizing for the conduct of his guests, explained that the sole cause of their annoyance was that we had omitted to doff our hats to the Czar’s picture. The affair was soon settled, for the gentleman who had assaulted us came up and profusely apologized for his conduct in not knowing that we were unacquainted with the customs of the country! There must have been fifty or sixty Siberians (all more or less drunk) in the place. Had there been a third that number, or even half, I should have felt sorely tempted to go for the swaggering bully, who was meek enough when, peace being restored, we showed him our newest patent in American “six-shooters.”
The Irkoutsk police is utterly inadequate to the size of the city. Any one creating a disturbance at night is not, as in London and other European cities, incarcerated for the night and brought before the magistrate in the morning. That worthy, in Irkoutsk, sits up all night, and disposes of cases summarily by fine or imprisonment as may be necessary. A somewhat amusing incident happened while we were there, showing the manner in which these gentlemen administer justice. Half a dozen young men, who had dined not wisely but too well, were returning homewards, when they encountered a decrepit old man, whom, by way of a joke, they fell upon, and nearly beat to death. The police patrol happening to pass at the moment, two of these spirited youths were taken into custody, the remainder managed to escape. On arrival at the police station, one of the offenders discovered an old acquaintance in the inspector, who, however, declined to allow the bond of friendship to interfere with his stern sense of duty. “I must fine you Rs. 50 each,” said the Siberian Nupkins, “but as we are old friends, you shall pay it to me, and we will drink it in champagne. How we shall get the laugh over those idiots who ran away!” History does not state whether the old man died. He was still in hospital when we left. Such is magisterial justice in Siberia!
The morality of Irkoutsk is, as I have said, at an exceedingly low ebb. Our Danish friend Madame R., was on her arrival called upon by a young and handsome woman, beautifully dressed, with whom in less than a week she had struck up a violent friendship, for both had tastes in common, and were fond of music and art. A few days afterwards, Madame R., to her great delight, found another friend, the Baroness Podorski, who had spent many months at Copenhagen. But it was somewhat disappointing, said Madame R., to find soon after, that the baroness had done five years at the mines for murdering her niece, a rich heiress, by slow poison at Moscow, and was now living on the proceeds as a queen of society at Irkoutsk. Calling to see her other friend one afternoon, Madame R. found her gone. “It is sad,” said her host, “but we have quarrelled, and she has gone to live with B————, of the Cossacks. You know we were not married.” The state of things in the country is little better. When a peasant is about to be married, he lives in a state of single blessedness with his fiancée for six months. If at the end of that period she is found to be enceinte, the wedding takes place, if not, they separate and form new liaisons. But this custom exists only in Siberia, and even there is gradually dying out in the more civilized districts.
One morning, about five days before our departure, we were seated at breakfast, when a stout and portly old gentleman was shown in. The stranger must have weighed at least sixteen stone, and was broad in proportion. After a deal of palaver, we elicited that this good gentleman desired to become our fellow-traveller as far as Tomsk, proposed in other words to use our tarantass, eat our provisions, and do the journey for exactly a third the amount it would otherwise have cost him. In vain we pointed out that our vehicle was already full, that there was no room for a third. “No matter,” he said, smiling blandly, “I will lie between you.” The prospect of arriving at Tomsk as flat as a pancake, to say nothing of being asphyxiated by the fumes of garlic and tobacco, were too much, and we therefore intimated to our visitor politely but firmly that we declined his company. He, however, as firmly declined to take a refusal or leave our room till about 5 p.m., having sat in a chair and watched our every movement for three mortal hours without uttering a syllable. We had at last to ring the bell and insist on his being shown out. “Then you will not take me?” he said with a sigh. “Ah! you are wrong. Read that. I will call again to-morrow,” and leaving a slip of paper on the table, he slowly left the room.
Translation from the Irkoutsk Gazette of July 7th, 1887:——
“The roads between Tomsk and Irkoutsk are infested with runaway convicts, so that travelling in this region, especially at night, is extremely dangerous. Lately, a whole family was murdered at the distance of a few versts from Irkoutsk, and we hear of such cases frequently enough.”
So ran the paper. I did not at first pay much heed to what I imagined was a scheme of our fat friend to make us take him as an additional protection. It was not pleasant news, though; so I took it to R————, who, good Russian scholar, would be able to enlighten us as to whether it ever had appeared in the Irkoutsk paper. The file was soon found, and somewhat to my disappointment, the paragraph in black and white, with an additional piece of advice from the Police Department not to travel on the Great Post-Road, except in urgent cases, at night.
Our fat friend called again next day, but we were obdurate. “Ah! you will be sorry for it, my friends,” he said. “This,” producing a horse pistol, apparently some centuries old, “this would have been no mean help in a skirmish. News has come to-day by telegraph that a party of merchants have been attacked by escaped convicts near Krasnoiarsk, two killed and the others severely maltreated and robbed. Well, good-day, and may you reach Tomsk alive.”