THE CATHEDRAL, KRASNOIARSK.
Having given some slight idea of the bright side of life in Krasnoiarsk, a little about the reverse of the medal will doubtless be of interest.
In a vast country like Siberia, where a great part of the population—I mean of the lower middle class and working orders—is composed of criminal exiles, it may readily be imagined that there exists a peculiar state of social opinion, which is positively amusing at times. If a man conducts himself well, and is liked, it matters not a straw that he be an exiled “gentleman criminal” doing his time, for he is received almost everywhere, and one need not be ashamed to be seen associating with him, as even the officials shake hands with him when they meet. He himself makes no secret of his misdemeanour—rather the contrary, as a rule—for most of them seem to think that “coming to reside in Siberia” absolutely whitens them again in the eyes of society. As a matter of fact, they are encouraged in this belief, for they are always spoken of as “unfortunates.” Perhaps they are called so because they were found out and sent here! On one occasion two men I knew very well met in my rooms; both were criminal exiles who had formerly occupied high positions in St. Petersburg—one, a German, having been “sent” for uttering forged bonds; the other, a Russian, for embezzlement of Government money. As they were not acquainted, I naturally introduced them to each other. It was difficult to realize that these two well-dressed and polished men, who spoke several languages fluently, were each doing a ten years’ penal sentence. After a short preamble on the usual everyday topics, the Russian asked the German if he were an inhabitant of Krasnoiarsk.
“Gott sei dank, nein,” replied he; “I was only sent for ten years, and my time is nearly up.”
“Ah! then you’re a verschickte? I thought you were. So am I. What did you come for?”
“Oh, only for so and so. And you?”
“Oh, mine” (with a certain amount of pride) “was a big affair; I managed to get over forty thousand roubles out of the Government.”
And so the conversation rattled pleasantly on, gradually drifting into (for me) more congenial subjects. There was not the least bit of shame about them—they talked of their offences, while smoking their cigarettes, as naturally as most men would relate an interesting episode in their lives, and I sat and listened—and wondered. The same unbiassed way of looking on the state of affairs exists among the lower orders; and soldiers, with gangs of criminals in prison garb and heavy clanking chains, push their way on foot through the crowd in the market-place, attracting no notice, the prisoners being, to all appearance, stolidly indifferent to their situation.
Priviligierts, or well-to-do criminals, that is to say, men of intelligence who have received a good education, either in a Government school or gymnase, and who have occupied good positions in their time, when they are only guilty of such petty offences as forgery or misappropriation, are never absolutely associated with the vulgar horde of ordinary, everyday criminals. On their way to Siberia, although they travel with the same gang, they do so apart, even in their own conveyance, if they have the means to pay for it. On arrival at the different étapes, the prisons in the villages, they are provided with a room to themselves, till the detachment is ready to start again, and on reaching their destination are turned loose, so to speak, and left to shift for themselves. I had no difficulty whatever in learning all this, for my various “criminal” acquaintances were not reticent; in fact, seemed glad to tell me all about it, as an interesting story.