Our journey now proceeded much as heretofore, only in course of time the regulations were less and less strictly observed. We left off our fetters altogether, without any comment being made, and were never bothered about head-shaving.
I looked forward with impatience to arriving at Irkutsk prison, where I hoped to meet a friend of early days—Maria Kovalèvskaya. We had become acquainted in 1875, belonged to the same section of the Buntari, and—as was then customary among all the revolutionists—said “thee” and “thou” to one another. Maria Kovalèvskaya[[64]] was one of the most remarkable women in the movement; she was the daughter of a man of property named Vorontsov, and had married Kovalèvsky, a tutor in a military gymnasium. In the early sixties she joined the revolutionary movement, left her husband and little daughter, and devoted herself to the work of the party. She was small of stature and had something of the gipsy in her looks; was lively and energetic in manner, keen of wit, ready and logical in speech. She distinguished herself at all theoretical discussions, always penetrating to the kernel of the question in hand, and bringing life and point into the debate, without ever becoming personal or hurting anyone’s feelings. She was esteemed very highly; and people who were quite opposed to the Socialists fully appreciated her exceptional gifts. In any other country she would have played a distinguished part; in Russia she was condemned to fourteen years and ten months’ penal servitude, because she was found in a house where some revolutionists made armed resistance to the gendarmerie.[[65]] By her courageous bearing during trial and in prison, as also later in Kara, Maria Kovalèvskaya became one of the best-known characters in revolutionary circles. In the prison, where she was witness of the shameless unfairness and bad faith of officials at every turn, her irrepressible energy found vent in upholding and defending the prisoners. Whether the matter were really serious, or a comparative trifle, whether the offence was committed by a functionary of high position or by the meanest underling, her determination knew no compromise; she made her protest regardless of consequence to herself, would not rest till she had gained her end, and would rather have died than have given in. She always stood firmly for the tactics of the Buntari, i.e. to use the strongest and most radical measures for enforcing a protest against official oppression. If there were any discussion on this head her advice was always to annoy the staff actively, to break windows, furniture, etc. It was only her strong sense of comradeship that could induce her to bow to the will of the majority and adopt more passive means, such as hunger-strikes or boycotting officials. She had fought out a whole series of such conflicts, and one of them—a dispute at Kara—had led to her being removed, with three female comrades, to Irkutsk. No sooner, however, were they there than a contest arose with the head of the police; and the four women in consequence refused food, fasting so long (ten or eleven days, I believe,) that the prison doctor became apprehensive of the result, and the pressure of public opinion being brought to bear on the governor of the district, he granted the requests of the women “politicals.”
At last, towards the middle of September, we arrived at Irkutsk, the capital of Siberia, and were taken to the local prison—celebrated like that of Kiëv for many escapes of political prisoners.[[66]]
We men were given a room in common, and the ladies were shown to another. The moment we were shut in I flew to the window, climbed up, and called the name of Maria Kovalèvskaya, for we had soon found out that her cell was over ours. She answered at once, and we talked together far into the night. In our walks we had subsequently many opportunities of meeting during our eight days’ stay here. The long years of separation had in no way impaired our intimacy. On the contrary, from the first moment of meeting, our mutual sympathy found expression without the need of many words, and we understood each other as old friends do. The sufferings she had undergone moved me to the deepest compassion. The hunger-strike of which I have spoken had taken place only a short time before our advent, and she bore terrible traces of its effect, looking as if but newly risen from the grave, though her spirit was unbroken. It was still the same enthusiastic, untameable, combative nature I had known so well. Even the officials could not withstand the fascination of her personality, but yielded respect to her strong sense of right and her inflexibility of purpose, as I soon observed. We had each, naturally, much to relate; and I marvelled that she could have retained such elasticity of mind, that the range of her quick intellect should have in no wise contracted, that despite all she had gone through she could laugh and jest as ever. Everything that was going on in the distant lands of freedom interested her keenly; she never wearied of questioning me about the state of public life in Western Europe and in Russia, and she soon managed to find out in what each of us could best instruct her. I, for instance, spent two or three evenings in describing to her the working-men’s organisations in Western Europe, and giving her my own impressions of life abroad. It was characteristic of her that she was able to appreciate the peculiar social conditions of other countries, although there was so much that was unsympathetic to her as a Russian. She was especially indignant about my treatment in German prisons.
In her own views she still adhered to the policy of the Buntari, and this could hardly have been otherwise. Her past life entirely belonged to the period when their views and those of the Naròdniki governed the whole revolutionary movement, and there could be no question of criticism. The simple programme of “stirring up the people to uprisings and rebellions against the existing régime, in accordance with varying local circumstances,” was in consonance with her fiery temperament, impatient of all restraint.
Her three friends were also interesting characters, and I soon had opportunities of talking to them and hearing the story of their connection with the movement. First came the young Sophia Bogomòletz;[[67]] her maiden name had been Prìsyetskaya, and she was the daughter of a rich landed proprietor in the government of Poltava. She had attended a higher grade school for girls, and later the medical course in Petersburg; had married a physician, and then—like Maria Kovalèvskaya—had left her husband and child to devote herself entirely to revolutionary work. In 1880 she was arrested as a member of the South Russian Workmen’s Union and sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude. She attempted to escape,[[68]] but was recaptured, and was then given five years more, which was again increased by a year in consequence of a dispute with an official. Besides this she was placed in the category of “on probation” prisoners, which means, as I shall explain later,[[69]] that the term of actual confinement in prison is lengthened. She, too, was by nature an advocate of revolt, and throughout her imprisonment kept up a constant feud with the officials. She went even farther than her friend Kovalèvskaya, for while the latter only fought against injustice and tyranny, Sophia Bogomòletz looked on all prison officials as her natural enemies, and held even the smallest compromises, such as most prisoners are obliged more or less to give in to, as unprincipled and inadmissible; for example, she looked upon the medical examination of prisoners as a personal insult. She was influenced by no considerations of health, and was always prepared to risk her own life, if she judged there was any reason for doing so. The staff simply trembled before her, for they knew that their only means of extorting submission—the fear of punishment—was here of no avail.
The story of the third member of this little band was as follows. In the spring of 1879 the sum of 1,500,000 roubles was stolen from the offices of the Finance Department in Kherson, the depredators having broken in through the wall of the adjoining house. On the same day the police arrested a woman driving through the town in a country cart with some suspicious-looking sacks. The woman was identified as Elena Ròssikova, wife of a landed proprietor in the neighbourhood, and the sacks contained a million roubles. With her another lady was also arrested; and in consequence of the latter’s confession the rest of the money was found, with the exception of some 10,000 roubles. It turned out that this wild undertaking had been organised by Elena Ròssikova, who had planned to rob the imperial purse, with the intention of applying the money to revolutionary purposes. She and some other persons implicated were tried before a court-martial, and she, as the ringleader, was sentenced to penal servitude for life. She, too, waged unceasing war against the whole staff of the prison, and was daunted by nothing when a “protest” was in question.
The fourth of these women “politicals” was Maria Kutitònskaya. She had been a pupil in a girls’ school in Odessa, and while still very young had joined the revolutionists. In 1879 she was arrested as a comrade of Lisogùb[[70]] and Tchubàrov, was condemned to four years’ penal servitude, and sent to Kara. At the expiration of her sentence she was interned in the town of Aksha in Transbaikalia; but she was soon back in prison. The authorities had ill-treated the male prisoners in Kara (as to which I shall speak later); and Kutitònskaya resolved to take vengeance on the chief offender in the matter, the governor of the province, Ilyashèvitch by name. She fired a pistol at him, but missed. The court-martial condemned her to death, but this was altered to lifelong penal servitude.
Beautiful and distinguished-looking, with fair hair, and gentle, winning manners, Maria Kutitònskaya won hearts by the score. While she was under trial for the attempted assassination of the Siberian potentate she was subjected to the most cruel and inhuman treatment; thrown into a damp, gloomy dungeon, and allowed only bread and water. Help came to her from the ordinary convicts, who had seen her in the prison, and worshipped her; they brought her food at great risk to themselves, and did her various other services. These criminals had changed her name a little to suit themselves, and always called her “Cupidonskaya”; having thus unconsciously hit on a charming pet-name for the beautiful woman. But for their assistance she might not have survived her treatment at that time; as it was, her long imprisonment undermined her health, and she became a victim of lung trouble, to which she succumbed in 1887.