We had, however, our small joys and alleviations. The most welcome event was the arrival of the post, which in winter came every ten days, in summer every week. I can hardly depict the intense eagerness with which many of us awaited the post days, counting the hours till the mail might be expected to reach the prison. Some would stand for hours by the stockade, watching to see the commandant start on his drive to the post-office, which was some versts distant; then they would impatiently await his return, not omitting to let their comrades know the result of their observations. The post brought us letters, newspapers, books, money, and occasionally a parcel—a present, a token of affection. All this made indeed a break in the dull routine of daily existence, and not one could remain an uninterested spectator. On the arrival of money depended our common exchequer, and the amount of our private pocket-money; newspapers and reviews brought the news for which we thirsted passionately, especially the tidings of political events. They were eagerly seized on, and their reading at once furnished subjects of talk and discussion, although those years were times of thorough reaction, not only in Russia, but in Western Europe, so that what we read was nearly always disheartening, causing us to lay the paper down depressed in spirits.
Moreover, only the most conservative, uninteresting papers were permitted us, with the sole exception of the well-known review Vèstnik Evropuy (The European Messenger), which for some unknown reason was allowed to pass. Some of our newspaper readers studied the whole publication from beginning to end, and remembered every little detail. Many of us, however, were chiefly interested in the arrival of home letters, the source of so much joy and of so much sorrow. Constant anxiety about our dear ones was caused by the long interval between the despatch and the receipt of correspondence, which was often six weeks or two months on the way, and when the roads were impassable, as is often the case in Siberia for months together, the posts were even longer delayed.
All letters received by us were first read by the commandant, and subjected to a strict censure; they were also tested with a solution of chlorate of iron, to see whether any entries had been made in them with invisible chemical ink. But what was most cruel was that we were not permitted to answer on our own account; we might only send a post card in the name of the commandant, acknowledging the receipt of a letter or other communication, and giving the briefest information as to health, somewhat in this fashion: “Your son (brother, nephew) is well. The money (or whatever it was) sent to him by you has been received, and he begs you to send him the following—--” This is signed by the commandant, but as the card is written by the prisoner himself, his correspondents may be assured from his handwriting that he is alive and is in possession of their missives, nothing further. Under such conditions correspondence is often a torture to both parties, yet those who could have even this much intercourse with home were envied by the lonely ones who never expected letters at all. There was more than one such among us, and how often when the letters were distributed would one or other of them say sorrowfully, “If only someone would send me a line!” It is terrible to think of being thousands of miles from home in the solitudes of Siberia, and not to know of a single soul who may sometimes remember one’s existence; yet, as I say, some of our comrades at Kara were in this forlorn situation. How great was the rejoicing if one of these outcasts unexpectedly received a letter from some relation, or some friend of former days! The lucky one would order tea, and perhaps even cakes for the whole room to celebrate the occasion; the letter itself would become a much-talked-of treasure, and the most interesting portions would be read aloud to intimate friends.
Treating one’s room-mates was also customary if one had had any specially good news from home. The contents of such a letter would be immediately imparted to all the other rooms, and sometimes extracts containing tidings of universal interest would be circulated. Certainly the commandants, and the “tom-cat” particularly, took every means for suppressing such tidings, blotting out in our letters everything outside the narrow circle of personal matters; but we had always ways and means of obtaining intelligence of political and other events that it concerned us to know about. The inventiveness shown by some of our party in devising this was sometimes astonishing; moreover, we occasionally managed to get delivered to us through the commandant literature strictly prohibited in Russia. He, of course, was enjoined to examine most carefully every book and parcel that arrived; but we contrived to supplement the officially prescribed channels of correspondence, either by inducing some corruptible member of the prison staff to assist us, or by some other device. Intercourse with the women’s prison, which was strictly forbidden, was also effected by means of this “secret post,” and it likewise enabled us to communicate with the exiles in different parts of Siberia.
Our official postal transactions were always effected through our stàrosta, the commandant telling him what money had been received and for whom, and he informing the prisoners. The librarian had charge of all printed matter sent to us, and the order in which each new book or newspaper should be passed round was arranged most exactly beforehand. If anyone had a present—linen, boots, or anything of that kind—it was open to him to keep it for himself or to hand it over to the stàrosta. In the latter case everyone was made aware that such and such things were to be had; whoever wanted them might announce the fact, and the award was decided by lot. If the gift consisted of eatables, it was at once given to the stàrosta, who divided it among the rooms. In each room there was a “general divider”—one whose office it was to divide with scrupulous exactitude among all the inmates every portion of food and every tit-bit that fell to their share—a task which frequently called for the exhibition of much talent and artistic judgment. This post of “divider” was usually held by somebody of a mathematical turn, and he officiated as carver at meals, serving out each person’s due portion with careful impartiality.
This striving after equality in every particular developed into a passion with some of our number, till it became actually painful to them to receive any little gift that could not be shared, and they would feel obliged to apologise for it to all their comrades; very rarely did anyone who received a present wish selfishly to keep it entirely to himself. A few were so scrupulous that they did not consider it right, in asking for new books from home, to consult merely their own individual taste, but made the others draw up a list of books that they wished for; and that perfect equality might govern the transaction, the sum of money set aside for the purchase was divided among the whole number of prisoners, so that each one could choose books to the value of the amount allotted to him. In this way everybody would be catered for—the lover of belles lettres as well as the student of abstruse scientific or philosophical subjects.
Ranking next to the mails as a source of enjoyment must be reckoned the bath-house. Especially after a week of hard and dirty kitchen work, the vapour-bath and clean linen were a real luxury, and when one came from the bath-room, extended one’s tired limbs on the bed-shelf, and let one’s thoughts wander idly as one sipped hot tea, a feeling of such physical well-being would pervade one as to cause all disagreeables to be forgotten for the moment. Although the freshly donned under-linen was anything but fine, and not very artistically washed and got up, being apt to scratch a sensitive skin; although the grey prison-clothes were neither convenient nor beautiful—still one revelled in the sensation of comfort and relaxation, and if it happened also to be mail-day, delight was complete.
“Well, I hope you’re enjoying yourself, you epicurean!” someone would cry, knowing full well himself the pleasure of such an hour.
Chess was a favourite pastime, and we had some champion players among us, especially Yatzèvitch and Zoubrtchitsky, who, besides having had much practice, had studied the game scientifically. Sometimes we had chess tournaments, with all the rigour of the game, and prizes were given—of course, consisting of tea or some other of our small luxuries. On such occasions the whole prison took the liveliest interest in the combat; the final “mate” being announced in all the rooms, and the play exhaustively criticised.
Music was also cultivated. Our choir had an extensive repertory, in which the melancholy moods of Little Russia were contrasted with the dramatic Great Russian folk-songs. It included operatic choruses, and, of course, the revolutionary songs so dear to us all—the Marseillaise and many others. After Commandant Nikolin had departed, and we were less harried and thwarted, one of our geniuses constructed a violin, upon which various gifted friends practised with great assiduity: not—it must be confessed—exactly to the edification of the rest of us who had perforce to listen. Posen and one or two others tortured the ears of their comrades further by truly terrible musical performances on ordinary hair-combs.