From Tiumen we had to go by boat to Tomsk, our route being as follows: down the Tura, on whose banks Tiumen is situated, to its junction with the Tobol; by the latter as far as the Irtisch, by which to the Obi; and then up stream to the Tomi, on which Tomsk stands. This made a voyage of about 3,000 versts (about 2,000 miles), lasting at least fifteen days. As on the Volga, we were installed in the two cabins of a prisoners’ barge, and a steamboat took our floating gaol in tow. This journey afforded little of interest. Although we were in mid-June there were as yet no signs of spring. Sometimes we passed masses of drifting ice; the nights were extremely cold, and the sunshine gave no great heat by day. The rivers were in flood, and everything looked dead and deserted; for miles round we could often discover no trace of human existence. The deathly stillness, the absence of any sign of growth at this awakening season of the year, the piercing cold, ever increasing as we got further north—all this had an uncanny and depressing effect. “Men and women live in these primeval forests and swamps (tundra),” I thought, with a shiver, and I pictured to myself how, after many years of prison had robbed me of strength and vitality, I should be given the “right” of residing in a similar, or perhaps a drearier locality; even then not enjoying the liberty possessed by the unfortunate natives—Samoyedes and Ostiaks—who wander about these eternal woods and steppes.
Our boat occasionally came to anchor, either to get wood for fuel, or at the two or three halting-stations provided. The Ostiaks would then come on board, paddling up in their wretched boats (yaliks) made of bark, and would offer fish for barter. They hardly seemed to understand the use of money, for when asked the price of a fish, they would only answer with the one word “roup,” meaning “rouble,” and would then gratefully accept a copper coin though a piece of bread or a little tobacco would elicit much more joy. These people had a most pitiable appearance, and were treated with the utmost contempt by our boatmen and the soldiers, who usually addressed them all as “Vanka” (Johnny), which they accepted quite calmly. Sometimes we saw their huts in the distance, cone-shaped structures, the framework made of branches, the walls of birch-bark or reindeer skins.
Except the capital town of Tobolsk, situated at the junction of the Tobol with the great Irtisch, throughout the length of some thousand versts we only passed two inhabited places dignified with the name of towns—Surgut and Narim. Here, and at Berèsov, on the northern coast of the continent, some of our “administratives” were to take up their abode. We parted from them at Tobolsk. The conditions of life in some of these places of exile may be guessed at from our glimpses of them. A “town” of this sort consists of some dozen wooden huts, the inhabitants of which are usually a mixed race, Russian and native. These people make out a livelihood with difficulty, subsisting almost exclusively on fish. An educated man must find existence in such a place unspeakably miserable; yet the Russian Government sends even minors here. I know a young girl who at the age of seventeen was exiled to Berèsov, and had to languish there for twelve years. Fortunately, none of the women in our company were destined for these waste places of the earth.
When we began to go up the Obi there was scarcely any change of scene, but ever the same hopeless wastes. Our little company had much diminished; our choir was disbanded; and life on the barge was quiet and monotonous as we slowly glided on to Tomsk.
This town, which counts as one of the liveliest in Siberia, only harboured at this time a very small number of political exiles. When we arrived, two of them came at once on to our barge, burning with curiosity to see who we were, and to have news from home; and they unexpectedly found acquaintances among our party. One young lady I had known six years before; she stared at me now, and would scarcely believe that the shorn convict was the same man she had known under such different circumstances. “You are so changed, so changed!” she kept saying thoughtfully.
The local prison authorities took us into their custody on the barge, when our identity had been established by a careful comparison of our appearance with the photographs in our record-books. We were then marched through the town to the prison. On the way two young girls, scarcely over school-age, suddenly broke through our escort of soldiers, and rushed upon us. The surprised soldiers tried to catch hold of the intruders and send them off, but that was not so easy. The girls ran like squirrels through our midst, announced themselves as the two sisters P., gave each of us a hasty kiss, and paid no attention to the calls of the officers and soldiers. Not till they had attained their end did they quit our ranks, and then they walked beside the procession, keeping us company to the prison gates.
We stayed a week in Tomsk, and during that time made acquaintance with all the exiles there, as they were allowed to visit us in the prison. This prison in which we were lodged was composed of a few wooden buildings and some barracks. Every room was filled to overflowing, for there were about a thousand prisoners of all classes, but mostly criminals—young and old together. Like ourselves (for we were left fairly free here), they spent the whole day in the spacious yard. Until now we “politicals” had been entirely separate from the ordinary criminals, but henceforward the convoy was composed of both classes, and I now learned to know the criminal world from personal observation.
One day as I strolled about the yard one of these men spoke to me. He was a powerful-looking fellow of about thirty, red-haired, and with well-marked features. He was evidently a dandy among the convicts. Beneath the long grey coat, which he wore thrown loosely over his shoulders, could be seen a white linen shirt adorned at the throat with a gay tie; round his waist was wound a brightly coloured scarf, and to this his chains were cunningly attached, so that they made no noise whatever in walking. The leather protections beneath the ankle-rings were artistically fastened to look like the tops of his boots. A round cap pushed carelessly back on the side of his head was the crowning touch to his elegance, which the moustache, curling upward, finally completed. Everything denoted an aristocrat of criminal society.
“How many years have you got?” he asked after a polite greeting. And on my reply he continued, “And you mean to stay it out?”
“I can hardly do otherwise,” I said.