The black-bearded man was Malyòvany. The other lady, with a delicate-looking but sympathetic and expressive face, was Anna Ptshèlkina, who was being sent to Western Siberia for three years. The officer was Captain Vòlkov, commanding our convoy. We exiles were naturally friends directly, and at once engaged in eager conversation. With my shaven head, clattering fetters, and convict’s dress, I contrasted oddly with the others, who looked civilised and respectable. In the faces of the two sisters, especially in that of the younger, I plainly read the most romantic interest in my fate. Probably she now for the first time beheld a Socialist, stamped outwardly as a criminal and deprived of all civil rights, going forth to a gloomy future. She begged me, if there were any special thing I would like to have, to write it down; and handed me a pencil and paper that she might keep my note as a reminder. I wrote down the titles of some mathematical text-books, and she promised to send them; but she either forgot all about it, or lost my elegant autograph—at all events, the books never arrived.
Malyòvany and Anna Ptshèlkina were then taken in a carriage to the station, while I—though also invited to drive—preferred to go on foot. So I marched with the rest of the party, rattling my chains, along the streets of my native town. When, and under what circumstances, should I see it again?
We were taken straight to the railway carriage engaged for us by the organisers of the convoy, while a compartment was reserved for the officer. We settled ourselves comfortably, and the train started. I now asked my companions the reason of their banishment, and learned from them that—as in many other instances described to me by people who had similarly been exiled to Siberia by “administrative methods”—they had simply been accused by the police of being neblàgonadyèshny, i.e. untrustworthy. This word has become classical in Russian police affairs, and has a conveniently vague signification. Literally it means “of whom nothing good can be expected.” A young man or a girl associates with So-and-so, reads such and such books; this is enough to awaken suspicion that the said young man or girl is “untrustworthy.” The police or the gendarmerie pay a domiciliary visit, find a suspicious letter or a prohibited book, and then the course of events is certain: arrest, imprisonment, Siberia. It may be scarcely credible that people languish for years in prison, without any pretence of legal procedure against them, simply by decree of an officer of gendarmerie; and that at the good pleasure of these officers—most of them fabulously ignorant men—people are banished to the wilds of Siberia. Even those familiar with Russian affairs are often shocked and staggered by some fresh case of this kind.
As we were nearing a large station the officer informed us that we should be joined here by some more political exiles; and when the train came to a standstill, two quite young girls—at the most eighteen to twenty years of age—and two youths were brought into our carriage. We three who came from Kiëv were by no means aged; but we might almost have been called old folks by these children. We received the new-comers cordially, and of course begged for their story, which was as follows.
In the district of Poltava the chief town is a small place called Romny, and in this little town there is a girls’ school. Two or three of the scholars hit upon the idea of lending one another books, and making notes on them—not books that were in any way forbidden, but that were accessible to all. Soon a few young men joined them; and thus a small reading society was formed, such as might help to pass away the long winter evenings in the dull little provincial town. As these young people had no idea that they were committing any offence, they naturally never dreamt of keeping their proceedings secret. But the eye of the law is sleepless! The officer commanding the gendarmerie in that place saw and triumphed. For years he had been vegetating in this obscure corner of the empire, and had never unearthed the least little conspiracy, nor brought to light a secret society; now was his chance. He could at last make manifest his burning zeal, his devotion to his country and his Tsar; and recognition by his superiors, perhaps an order or promotion, shone before him. One night the gendarmerie paid domiciliary visits to the dwellings of the young ladies of the school. Certainly nothing suspicious was found, but the frightened girls “confessed” that they had “held meetings,” and that they read books in a “society.” This was enough for the brave sergeant; here were grounds for the State to take action against the “secret society of Romny.” The girls and their friends were arrested and imprisoned; a report was sent to Petersburg about the discovery of a secret society, in which such and such persons had taken part, and discussed “social questions” together; the officer was of opinion that these evildoers should be sent to Siberia;—and the thing was done.
When these boys and girls told me their simple tale and explained the nature of their “crimes,” unflattering as was my opinion of legal proceedings in Russia, I could hardly believe that there was nothing more behind this. Only when I became more closely acquainted with these “conspirators of Romny” and other “criminals” of their class, was I convinced that no suggestion of fancy is too slight and unsubstantial to be formulated as a ground for prosecution and banishment of the most harmless people by the gendarmerie, the secret police, and the other guardians of public safety in Russia.
After having been imprisoned for a considerable time, these young people were now being exiled to Siberia for three years; but as travelling on the Siberian rivers can only begin in the month of May, they were to pass the winter with us in the Moscow Central Prison for exiles; in other words, they must remain for another six or eight months under lock and key.
“Doesn’t this sound like the Inquisition of the Middle Ages?” we said to one another, talking over this specimen of “administrative exile.” The officer of the convoy heard us, and there arose a lively discussion, in which, of course, he combated our views on Russian politics. A witness for the crown was soon forthcoming. During our halt at some big station (probably Tula or Oriel) Anna Ptshèlkina opened the barred window to get some air; and a young peasant of about twenty-two or twenty-three who was passing, stopped and stared at the young lady, and cried jeeringly, with a mischievous grimace, “Aha! so you’re caught, are you? Now you’ve really got something to grumble at!” We all burst out laughing. How simple was this peasant lad’s view of political difficulties! “Caught,” “grumble”—the situation was as clear as daylight to his philosophy, and left nothing to be explained. But indeed millions of people, from peasants to the highest dignitaries, make use of the same logic; witness the choice expression of the Public Prosecutor Kotliarèvsky—“Where trees are felled there must be chips.” Everything can be summed up and accounted for in this classically simple way; and our officer could add nothing more.
When a few Russians get together, however, their gloomy disquisitions on the terrible state of things prevailing in our country are always varied by enlivening interludes of jokes and harmless chatter, funny stories and witticisms. Malyòvany was in this respect inexhaustible. Like most natives of Little Russia, he had a rich vein of humour, and was a born raconteur. No wonder, then, that from the corner in which the soldiers had established us, there frequently issued sounds of irrepressible mirth.
The journey from Kiëv to Moscow took forty-eight hours, but at last we arrived at our goal. I again chose to walk to the prison; Anna Ptshèlkina, Malyòvany, and the Romny youths followed my example, while the girl-conspirators elected to drive. One of them, named Serbinova, was rather delicate; and the other, Melnikova, clung to her friend with such tender affection that she would not be separated from her for a moment.