“You see one of them before you,” I replied.
Volòshenko and many others in the room stared in blank astonishment. Had I announced myself a follower of the prophet Mahomet they could scarcely have been more surprised. The ideas of Karl Marx were at that time but little known in Russia. It was indeed thought one’s duty to read the first volume of Das Kapital, which had appeared in a Russian translation, and it was usual to find educated people in European Russia recognising Marx’s services to the science of political economy; but in Kara they had not progressed even so far. As to the philosophical basis of Marx’s theory of Socialism practically nothing was known; nevertheless it was rejected, partly owing to the influence of Eugene Dühring, partly to that of the Russian author N. Mihailovsky, and finally on account of a dictum of so-called “sane common sense” that Marx’s ideas were quite inapplicable to Russia. This last was Volòshenko’s contention, fortified, however, by no personal knowledge of Marx’s writings.
I was in a position to give more than verbal tidings of the new tendency. We had succeeded, despite all official scrutiny, in smuggling various prohibited writings into the prison, and among them the first publication of our group, Plehànov’s Socialism and the Political Struggle. For a long time no forbidden literature had penetrated to Kara; the excitement was great, and the new material for thought was seized on with avidity. I was very anxious to discover Sundelèvitch’s attitude towards this problem, for in the old days, when we were nearly all Terrorists, he was considered as more or less of a Social Democrat—at any rate, he had been known to approve of the German development on those lines, so far as that country was concerned. We had been acquainted in 1878, when he had in charge the transport of forbidden literature for the Zemlyà i Vòlya (Land and Liberty) group; and he had made use of his special experience in such illegal traffic to get Stefanòvitch and myself safely across the frontier after our flight from Kiëv prison. At that time we had had many hot discussions with Sundelèvitch over the methods of conducting our struggle in Russia; for I was then a decided opponent of the Social Democrats, and as a Terrorist and “Naròdnik” (i.e. member of the party whose object it was to organise revolts among the peasants) held the peaceful tactics of German Socialists to be utterly ineffectual—naturally, therefore, I would have all the more scouted the idea of introducing them into Russia. Sundelèvitch, on the contrary, did not believe in “the People,” and thought agitation among the Russian working-classes quite futile. In his opinion the first thing to do was to fight for political freedom; and then, as soon as that was obtained, to resort to the constitutional methods of the German Social-Democratic party. Consequently, he did not join the terrorist party till it began its political activity in 1878; and he was one of the first to enunciate the idea that its methods were only temporarily adopted because they offered the sole possible means in Russia of overthrowing the existing political order. He was one of the most energetic in organising terrorist conspiracies, and the party owed much to his help in carrying through their active work; he was invaluable in striking out the most effective and practical suggestions. He was arrested quite by chance in a public library in Petersburg during the autumn of 1879, and was prosecuted in the “Case of the Sixteen,” when Kviatkòvsky and Pressnyàkov were sentenced to death, and he himself to lifelong penal servitude.
I had been thinking much about our former arguments, for I had since been converted to the views Sundelèvitch then advocated, and I now hoped to find a kindred spirit in him. Even on purely personal grounds I desired it; for when a man is convinced of the rightness of his own plan of action, it must be irksome to live for years with others who, while sharing his principles, differ entirely as to the best means of carrying them out; and this is especially so when what one holds most sacred is in question, no matter how tolerant one may be. I earnestly hoped I should not be alone in my views, and I could have asked for no better friend than Sundelèvitch, who was incomparable as a comrade—one of the finest natures I have ever known, unselfish, trustworthy, judicious.
As I now lay beside him during the long evenings we talked of our common friends still in freedom and fighting for the cause, of the victims of that fight who had died the death of heroes or were languishing in Schlüsselburg; but instinctively I shrank at first from touching on theoretical subjects, dreading that we might be out of sympathy, for I soon heard that he was no longer of his old way of thinking. Like many others during their first years of imprisonment, Sundelèvitch experienced a reaction; he absolutely threw over the Marxian doctrine, and would not admit the economic teaching of Das Kapital to be sound. In time we fought many a tough battle on this head, my friend declaring that for Germans Social Democracy might do, but that such ideas would never effect anything in Russia.
With my other friend, Stefanòvitch, I had less opportunity for conversation, as we inhabited different rooms; but to him also my opinions came unexpectedly, and seemed strange and incomprehensible. When we had parted four years back we had been quite at one, and he had remained, as he was then, half Naròdnik, half Terrorist; while I, having thoroughly assimilated the new ideas, had, with some other companions, founded the Social Democratic organisation, Tchòrny Peredyèl (Redivision of the Land). He learned this now for the first time, and could not tell off-hand how he should regard it; but being unusually thoughtful and far-seeing, he appreciated the importance of the change that had come over the opinions of his comrades in the struggle. He grasped the trend of the new doctrine, and tried to comprehend it fully. It was clear to him that through our organisation a way was being laid in Russia for a perfectly new outlook on the world; he doubted whether it would find favour in our country, but was far from meeting the idea with enmity or contempt, as the shallower minds among the revolutionists did both then and later.
This common life of so many young people in the prison had led to the development of a peculiar jargon. Each room had its nickname: the first was “the Sanhedrin,” the second “the nobles’ room,” the third “Yakutsk,” and the fourth “Volost,” i.e. “the commune.” These names had their origin in the dim and distant past, and I never discovered what had given rise to them.
The inmates of the “nobles’ room,” in which I was located, were all clever, well-educated young men, full of life and vigour; each in a way represented a different type, and some had a really remarkable force of character. Among these latter I would especially class Nicholas Yatzèvitch, who was the son of a priest in Poltava. When a seventeen-year-old student in the Veterinary College at Kharkov he was arrested for attempting to rescue Alexei Medvediev[[80]] from prison, was tried, and sentenced to fifteen years’ “katorga.” He had escaped (as I have said before) from the Irkutsk prison, had been recaptured, and condemned to another fourteen years’ penal servitude. He was barely nineteen when brought to Kara, where he gained the goodwill of everyone by his admirable qualities. Modest even to bashfulness, silent and reserved, he yet exercised over his companions a quite wonderful influence. His thirst for knowledge was without limit; he studied various subjects with unflagging industry while in prison, especially natural science, philosophy, and literature, besides learning several languages. He found time, too, for manual work, at which he proved himself very quick and adroit. He was on friendly terms with every one of his comrades in prison without exception, always affectionate and ready to help. No wonder he gained the esteem of all, and was willingly looked up to as an authority, despite his youth (he was but five-and-twenty when I first went to Kara); whether the question were one of household affairs or an abstruse theoretical problem, his opinion was sure to find favour with the majority. The bent of his mind was towards metaphysics, and in philosophy as well as social science he gave himself out as an eclectic; he shared the opinions of Dühring and the Neo-Kantians, and in political economy was a follower of Carey, Bastian, and similar bourgeois theorists. Of course, therefore, he counted among the opponents of Marxism.
Of very different character were the two bosom friends Martinòvsky and Starinkyèvitch, usually called “the two Vanitchki,” though really only one of them answered to the name of Ivan. Starinkyèvitch was another favourite of our little society, invariably good-tempered and full of fun. His jokes, bon-mots, and nonsense would often send us all into fits of laughter, when his own hearty ringing laugh was sure to dominate all the others. He too was talented, but not steady and persevering like Yatzèvitch. He was one of those fortunate beings who are able to get the gist of a passage with one rapid glance; but he squandered his gifts, attempting everything, and doing nothing thoroughly. He was almost girlishly tender, clinging, and confiding by nature; but could on occasion become passionate and violent. Moscow was his birthplace, and he was sent straight from the University in 1881, when a mere boyish student, to twenty years’ imprisonment, simply because he refused to say from whom he had received a manifesto that was found in his possession. He was an enthusiastic member of the Naròdnaia Vòlya.
They say that two friends are generally of opposite temperaments, and the two Vanitchki certainly bore out that theory. While Starinkyèvitch was gay and lighthearted, Martinòvsky was grave, sedate, almost morose. He seldom smiled, and I can never remember hearing him laugh. He was a man of iron will, commanding and even despotic in character. I cannot imagine his ever being brought to yield a hair’s-breadth on any subject; on the contrary, he seemed always to contrive to bring others round to the fulfilment of his wishes. He was without doubt an extremely gifted and capable man, who might have made his mark as a leader in public affairs if he had had the chance. He was above all things practical; yet could immerse himself on occasion in theoretical problems, and was one of the first in the prison to take up the study of Marxism. He too came from Moscow, and like his friend Starinkyèvitch, had been condemned to twenty years’ imprisonment. Martinòvsky had been sentenced, in the same case as Sundelèvitch, Kviatkòvsky, and others, to fourteen years’ “katorga,” and an attempted escape brought him an addition of another six years. His having been chosen stàrosta (head-man) by his comrades proves the complete trust they placed in him, and he was in every way a model representative of our interests.