M. Andreoli, a Russian writer, who was exiled some years ago to Siberia, is now contributing to the Revue Moderne, under the title of “Souvenirs de Sibérie,” his recollections not only of Siberian but also of Russian life. In the last number of the Revue he tells a story, the end of which belongs to the present reign, the beginning to the reign of Paul, of whose period it is strikingly characteristic. The Emperor’s favorite was at that time a young French actress, of whom he was madly jealous. One evening, at a ball, he noticed that a young man named Labanoff was paying her a great deal of attention. He did not lose his temper, but at the end of the ball gave orders that Labanoff should be arrested and thrown into the citadel. He only intended to keep him there a few days, “to make him more serious,” after which he proposed to reprimand him and to appoint him to an office which had been solicited for him. Labanoff, however, was forgotten. At the death of Nicholas, Alexander II., then full of magnanimity, liberated all the prisoners in the citadel, without exception. In a vaulted tomb, in which it was impossible to stand upright, and which was not more than two yards long, an old man was found, almost bent double, and incapable of answering when he was spoken to. This was Labanoff. The Emperor Paul had been succeeded by the Emperor Alexander I., and afterwards by the Emperor Nicholas; he had been in the dungeon more than fifty years. When he was taken out he could not bear the light, and, by a strange phenomenon, his movements had become automatic. He could hardly hold himself up, and he had become so accustomed to move about within the limits of his narrow cell that he could not take more than two steps forwards without turning round, as though he had struck against a wall, and taking two steps backwards, and so on alternately. He lived for only a week after his liberation.
We often read such facts as these, and they are sad and awful illustrations of what unlimited power may be left to do. Recently there have been horrible stories of cruelties inflicted by the agents of the Russian government, but they are not worse than have sometimes been perpetrated in the name of liberty and justice in other and more enlightened countries.
Look on the map of Asia and see that vast country of Siberia, a part of the colossal empire of Russia. The tales that are told of the exiles of Siberia have formed a large part of the sensational literature of other days. In that lone, distant, cold, inhospitable clime, is the region where for many long years this government has sent its prisoners of state, and many others who have incurred the despotic displeasure. Banished for life is to all intents and purposes death. The wife of the exile, if not allowed to go with him and share his sorrows in a wretched land, is free to be married again. His property goes to his heirs as if he were dead. He has not even his own name in Siberia, but is known by the number that he receives when he enters upon his new estate.
It is terrible to think that one imperfect man holds in his own hand such power. The mere possession of it tempts to evil. And limit it as we may, divide it among many, apply checks and balances, there will yet be abuses under all systems of human government. Even our own boasted democratic republican form has its defects. We have made ignorance and vice too mighty in our popular elections, and have come to know that no despot is more irresponsible than the many-headed monster of a corrupt and unthinking multitude.
Taking a boat on the Neva and being rowed across to the Academy of Science, we made an interesting visit to the Zoological Museum, which has some things of interest far beyond that of any other museum in the world. Here we have something more than fossils, we have the veritable meat of the mammoth and mastodon and elephant, and perhaps they may all belong to one and the same animal. But the Siberian rivers have furnished ice-tombs in which these beasts have been buried for centuries, and when they are brought to light by the change in the course of the streams, or by accidental discovery, they are certainly the most interesting of all the remains of extinct races. The great mammoth in this museum was found in 1799, on the banks of the river Lena in Siberia, and the flesh was so fresh upon it that the beasts and birds of prey were ready to devour it as soon as it was exposed.
The chief interest in this Russian collection lies in the actual skin and hair and flesh of these animals so remarkably preserved. Here is a rhinoceros, but of a species now extinct, with its head almost entirely covered with the original skin, and its feet also, the fine hair being still visible. The seals and otters, sharks and sea-horses, sword-fish and alligators, lions, tigers, bears, elks, and mooses; birds of countless kinds,—make up an assortment wonderful in its extent and variety, and the more interesting as the pursuit of science has led to the gathering of splendid specimens from the tropical regions, to be contrasted with the aboriginal growth of these Arctic climes.
It was the edge of evening as we returned from this expedition, and the declining sun was flooding the river and the eastern shore with golden glory. We were tired; the evening was cool and refreshing; the scene was beautiful, indeed exciting, as other boats and barges and steamers swept by us and ships and schooners swung listlessly in the stream.
The Winter Palace and the Hermitage, the Alexander Column, the Admiralty Buildings, and other splendid edifices were on the western bank, the fortress and arsenal and academy on the east, and the domes of the Isaac and Kazan Cathedrals hung like suns in the sky. We seemed to be far away from home, and lost in an enchanted sea. We rowed along under the stern of a vessel and read her name, “Favorite, Arbroath;” it sounded Scotchy, and hailing a sailor leaning over the ship’s side, I asked him, “where’s Arbroath?”
“Aboot twelve miles from Dundee,” he said.
“And what brings you here?”