Transcriber’s Note:

Footnotes have been collected at the end of the text, and are linked for ease of reference.

The position of each full-page illustration has been changed to fall upon a paragraph break.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s [note] at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

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Leo. Deutsch.

SIXTEEN YEARS IN SIBERIA

SOME EXPERIENCES OF A

RUSSIAN REVOLUTIONIST

SIXTEEN YEARS IN SIBERIA
SOME EXPERIENCES OF A
RUSSIAN REVOLUTIONIST

BY LEO DEUTSCH

TRANSLATED BY HELEN CHISHOLM

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

THIRD IMPRESSION

NEW YORK

E. P. DUTTON & CO.

1904

Printed in Great Britain

TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE

The author of the following narrative is a leader in the Russian revolutionary movement. The German transliteration of his name is given here as being the form he himself uses in Western Europe; but he is called “Deuc” in the English version of Stepniak’s Underground Russia, which was translated from the Italian, retaining the Italian transliteration of names. A more exact rendering of the Russian would be Deitch, the “ei” pronounced somewhat as in the English word “rein.”

George Kennan’s valuable work, Siberia and the Exile System, the fruit of investigations carried on under circumstances of much difficulty and even danger, has made its many English and American readers acquainted with the true conditions of life among Russian political prisoners and exiles. The story given in the present volume of the painful and tragic events that took place in the political prisons at Kara after Mr. Kennan had left the Russian Empire was written to him by, among others, a friend resident in Kara at the time, whose letter he published in his book. In it are also to be found additional particulars concerning the earlier or later history of many persons whose names occur in the following pages; and it thus throws an interesting light on Mr. Deutsch’s story, which is told so quietly, with such an absence of sensationalism, that it is sometimes necessary to read between the lines in order to grasp fully the terrible realities of the situation.

It may, perhaps, be useful to readers unfamiliar with the history of the Russian revolutionary movement if I give here a rough sketch of its development, and of its position at the present time.

From the first consolidation of the Empire under the Tsars in the latter half of the sixteenth century, Russian despotism has consistently regarded with apprehension and disfavour all manifestation of independent thought among its subjects. There has never been a time when those bold enough to indulge in it, even in what English people would consider a very mild form, were not liable to persecution, and this traditional attitude of repression and coercion had the inevitable result. Even early in the eighteenth century secret societies had come into being, but these were mostly of the various religious sects or of the Freemasons. When they began to assume a political character they were at first confined entirely to the upper classes, and took the form of revolts organised among the military, the last and most important being that of the Decabrists (or Decembrists), who attempted to overthrow the monarchy on the occasion of Nicholas I.’s accession in 1825.

Liberal views were to a certain extent fostered by Alexander I. (1801-1825), who at one time openly talked of granting a Constitution. Russians who visited Western Europe, officers in the Napoleonic campaigns, and others, had “brought France into Russia,” had made the French language fashionable, and thus had opened a way for the importation of new philosophical, scientific, and political literature, eagerly appreciated by the developing acuteness of the Russian mind. Literary influence, even the purely romantic, has throughout ranged itself on the side of liberty, Pushkin heading the poets and Gogol the novelists. Indeed, one may safely say that up to the present day nearly every Russian author of any note has been implicated—some to a greater, some to a less degree--in the revolutionary movement, and has suffered for the cause.

Alexander I. in his later years, and his successor Nicholas I., fell back on a reactionary policy. Even Freemasonry was prohibited, mere literary societies of the early forties were considered seditious, and their members were punished with imprisonment and death. There now sprang up political secret societies, whose dream was of a federal republic, or at least of a constitutional monarchy.

The accession of Alexander II. in 1855 strengthened the hopes of the reformers. The study of political and social questions became the fashion; while professors, students, and the “intellectuals” of the upper and middle classes warmly engaged in the “underground” movement. With this period are associated such names as those of Herzen, Bakounin, and Tchernishevsky, whose writings were the inspiration of the party, and even influenced for a time the Tsar himself. But the emancipation of the serfs, on February 19th, 1861, bitterly disappointed those who had hoped great things of the new monarch, and who saw from the way in which this and other liberal measures were emasculated by officials, to whom the drafting of them was entrusted by the Tsar, how futile it was to expect any effective reform as a grace from an autocrat. The reform movement, now definitely socialistic, speedily took on a revolutionary character, and culminated in the active sympathy and support given to the Polish revolt of 1863.

Alexander II. resorted to the old coercive methods; all attempts to voice the aspirations and needs of the people, or even the academic discussion of political questions, were met with the savage punishments of martial law, imprisonment, exile, death. In face of a new enactment, which had professed to give fair trial to all accused persons, special courts were set up to try political offenders; and the practice of banishment by “administrative methods” (i.e. without any trial at all) was instituted.

A time of enforced quiet followed, when the leaders of the movement were either dead, imprisoned, or had fled into voluntary exile abroad; but it served as a time of self-education and study for the younger generation, at home or in foreign Universities, and in the early seventies the revival came. Our author here takes up the story with his account of the Propagandist movement, which was peaceful, except in so far as it aimed at stirring up the peasants to demand reform; for, in the absence of any constitutional methods for expressing their desires, this could only be effected by organised uprisings. He describes how this movement developed into terrorism under the system of “white terror” exercised by the Government, and how, after the assassination of Alexander II., the strong hand of despotism succeeded in checking, until a few years ago, the passionate struggle for liberty.

A new monarch and a new century have altered little the essential features of the situation, so far as relations between government and governed are concerned. Every day we have examples of the time-honoured policy, in the dragooning of Russia proper; the attempted Russification of Finland; and the deliberate fostering by the Government of anti-Semitism, with the covert design of counteracting the revolutionary activity of Jewish Socialists, discrediting their labour movement in the eyes of the Russian proletariat, and also distracting the latter from organisation on their own account.

But a significant change is at work to-day among the people. The peasants and working-classes in town and country, formerly the despair of those who strove to arouse in them political consciousness, are being awakened by the inevitable development of industry to a sense of their duties and their rights. A genuine labour movement has arisen, which, in face of the intolerance of the authorities, has naturally taken on a political character, and affiliated itself to the successors of the older revolutionary societies.

The words “anarchist” and “nihilist,” so commonly associated with the Russian revolutionists, are complete misnomers to-day (as, indeed, they always have been, except in the case of a few isolated individuals). The movement is now carried on chiefly by two organisations: the “Revolutionary Socialists,” and the party to which our author belongs, and helped to found, the “Social Democratic” Labour Party; associated with the latter being the powerfully organised social-democratic “General Jewish Labour Union of Lithuania, Poland, and Russia,” usually known as the “Bund.” Of these the Revolutionary Socialists alone still adhere to the practice of terrorism in a modified form, and even they have always proclaimed their intention of abandoning it directly “constitutional” methods are allowed to them. The aim of the revolutionists is to replace the present autocratic government by a social republic, under which the various races now grouped within the empire shall each have scope to develop its national individuality. Groups are actively at work in widely distant localities, even Siberia furnishing her contingent, while Poland and Finland have various revolutionary organisations of their own.

The Government’s policy at present is to exile to Siberia without trial, or intern in some place distant from home, all persons known or even suspected to be interesting themselves in the movement. This is effected principally through the instrumentality of the gendarmerie, which was instituted by Nicholas I. as a sort of spy system, primarily intended to unearth official abuses and report upon them directly to the Tsar. It soon, however, became imbued with the prevailing spirit of the bureaucracy; its members shut their eyes to the official corruption everywhere prevalent, and they have since confined their attention to unearthing “political” delinquencies. The force has at least one representative in every town of any size, and it has a vaguely defined roving commission to watch and arrest all persons who appear to be suspicious characters; these may be kept in imprisonment for an indefinite time, or may be exiled “by administrative methods.” It has become an adjunct to the ordinary police, although quite independent of them, and is generally employed in all matters of secrecy.[^[1]] Travellers from Western Europe who observe too closely the life and conditions of the country are liable to arrest in this way. Sir Donald Mackenzie Wallace and Mr. Kennan, among others, had this experience.

The mere existence of such a force may help to explain the discomfort of even the ordinary peaceful Russian citizen under the present system of government; and he is further incommoded by the presence in every house of a police-spy. For the dvornik or concierge, though paid by the inmates of the house, is appointed subject to the approval of the police, and is responsible to them. He keeps the keys, and is bound to deliver them up to the police whenever they may take it into their heads to require a domiciliary search. As an instance of the petty tyranny that occurs I may mention that the possession of a hectograph (or any such appliance for multiplying MSS.) needs a special permission from the police.

The police have power to break up any gathering in a private house where more than seven guests are assembled; this is frequently done, even on such ordinary occasions as a wedding or funeral, if many students or such-like “untrustworthy” people are of the party. When a town or district is under martial law—an everyday state of things in Russia—the above number is still further reduced; indeed, it is quite common for the police to prohibit all gatherings.

Readings at entertainments for the poor got up by philanthropic people may only be given from books licensed by the police for the purpose (and mostly very dull); the catalogues of lending libraries may contain only such books as are definitely permitted, many being excluded that are not forbidden to private persons—though the latter, again, are by no means free to choose their reading, many authors being entirely prohibited within the empire; and whole columns of newspapers, including foreign ones that have come through the post, are blacked out by order of the censor. Private debating societies’ meetings or lectures, however innocent, are practically impossible to all who are not in the best odour with the authorities, except under the strictest precautions against discovery—such as closing of shutters, disguise of preparations, and a warning to guests not to arrive simultaneously.

It is evident what opportunity all this gives to officials “on the make” for demonstrating their zeal, and it accounts for the fact that every year hundreds of persons not accused of any definite offence are removed from their homes. Nearly everyone has friends and relations so banished, and the result of such systematic interference with private liberty is that almost everyone in Russia, outside official circles, is more or less in league against the bureaucratic government. The countenance, and even financial support, afforded to the revolutionists, not only by sympathisers in free countries, but by the general public at home, is one great source of their strength. They are willingly assisted in evading arrest and in escaping from prison or from exile; and prohibited literature (printed abroad, or secretly in Russia itself) is circulated and sold throughout the country in immense quantities—not only leaflets by the thousand, but reviews, some elaborately illustrated, and even books of a more solid character. The Russian original of the present work will presumably soon be on the “illegal” market.

The illustrations are reproductions of photographs taken from life.

H. C.

London, July, 1903.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

SIXTEEN YEARS IN SIBERIA

CHAPTER I
JOURNEY TO GERMANY—IMPRISONMENT IN FREIBURG—EPISODES FROM THE PAST OF THE REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT

In the beginning of March, 1884, I travelled from Zurich, through Basel, to Freiburg in Baden. The object of my journey was to smuggle over the frontier a quantity of Russian socialistic literature, printed in Switzerland, in order that it might then be distributed by secret channels throughout Russia, where of course it was prohibited. In Germany a special law against the Social-Democratic movement was then in force. The Sozialdemokrat was published in Zurich, and had to be smuggled over the German frontier, where the watch was very keen, rendering most difficult the despatch to Russia of Russian, Polish, and other revolutionary literature printed in Switzerland. Before the enactment of the special law in August, 1878, the procedure had been simple. At that time the publications were sent by post to some town in Germany near the Russian border, and thence, by one way or another, despatched to Russia. Later, however, it became necessary to convey them as travellers’ luggage across the German frontier, in order to get them through the custom-house, after which they could be forwarded to some German town nearer the Russian border. It was on this transport business that I was engaged.

My luggage consisted of two large boxes, half-filled with literature, and their upper parts packed with linen and other wearing apparel, that the Customs officers might not be suspicious. In one trunk I had men’s clothes, in the other women’s, supposed to belong to my (non-existent) wife; and for this reason there really was a lady present at the Customs examination in Basel,—the wife of my friend Axelrod from Zurich. She offered to take further charge of the transport, thinking she would run less risk than I if the police became suspicious. As, however, the examination of the luggage went off quite smoothly, I declined the offer, hardly thinking any further trouble probable.

Besides Frau Axelrod a Basel Socialist was with me at the station. He had advised me how to carry out my perilous mission, for he was experienced in such business, having managed many transports of forbidden literature. Only a few days before, accompanied by a Polish acquaintance of mine, Yablonski, he had been to Freiburg, whence they had despatched some Polish literature. He now recommended to me a cheap hotel in Freiburg, close to the station; and in good spirits I climbed into a third-class carriage. It was a Sunday, and the carriage was filled with people in gay holiday mood. Songs were sung, and unrestrained chatter filled the air. The guard was pompous and overbearing, as often happened then on German lines; I do not know if it is so still. When he saw that I was smoking, he told me very rudely, with a great show of official zeal, that this was not a smoking carriage. I answered politely that I had not been aware of it, and at once threw away my cigarette. He insisted peremptorily, however, that I must change carriages. “A bad omen,” thought I, and still recall the sensation. I was out of temper, and felt irritated and uncomfortable. The weather, too, grew overcast, and a cold drizzle set in, which worked on my nerves.

The train moved off, and before I had got over my grumbling humour we were at Freiburg. It was between seven and eight in the evening. Landed on the platform, I looked out the porter of the Freiburger Hof, and gave him my luggage-check. He noticed at once that it showed the unusual weight of my boxes, and expressed his surprise thereat. To quiet any suspicion I told him at once unconcernedly that I was a student, and intended to study at Freiburg University, and that it was my books which made the trunks so heavy. The hotel was soon reached, and a room engaged, after which I betook myself to the restaurant for supper. As I passed by the buffet I saw the porter whispering earnestly with another man, apparently the landlord. Directly I had finished my meal the waiter brought me the visitors’ book; and as I had a Russian passport, lent me by a friend at the time of my flight from Russia, I at once signed myself in my friend’s name, “Alexander Bulìgin, of Moscow.” I then ordered writing materials and went to my room, but had barely shut the door behind me when there came a knock. At my “Come in!” there appeared, instead of a servant with writing things, as I had expected, a policeman, accompanied by a gentleman in civil dress. “I am an officer of the secret police,” said the latter; “allow me to examine your trunks.” Instantly I thought, “As Freiburg is so near the Swiss frontier, the police (to whom the porter must have announced the arrival of a young man with unusually heavy luggage), may think I have contraband goods; or they may take me for an anarchist, and suspect me of conveying dynamite.” I tried, therefore, to look as harmless as possible, although I felt that things were awkward. Busied with the unlocking of my boxes, I let fall the remark that one of them contained the belongings of my wife, whom I expected shortly. No sooner, however, had the men begun to turn over my things, than I saw that my guess as to their search for contraband was incorrect; the detective was on the look-out for neither contraband nor dynamite, but for books, and he immediately began to examine mine. I then concluded he was looking for German Social-Democratic literature; and I was astonished when, at sight of a little book bound in red, my gentleman cried triumphantly, “Ah, here we are!”

It was the Calendar of the Naròdnaia Vòlya,[^[2]] a book that had come out about a year before this, and was openly sold by German booksellers.

“I must now have you searched,” said the police agent.

Besides a notebook, a letter, and a pocket-book containing several hundred-mark notes, there were in my pockets a dozen numbers of the Zurich Sozialdemokrat, which I had brought with me to send to a Russian friend in Germany.

“Here at least is something that we can read!” said the detective in a satisfied tone; “now, I arrest you!”

“Why? What for?” asked I, much astonished.

“That you will soon find out; come along!” was the answer.

The procedure of the police agent was extraordinary in every way: no attempt was made to fulfil the legal enactments for the protection of personal safety; the domiciliary search was instituted without legal warrant; there were no witnesses. I insisted on the officer’s counting over in my presence the money in my pocket-book, which they had confiscated, though of course that was not much guarantee for the security of my property.

As I was descending the steps of the hotel, a prisoner between my two guardian angels, a young lady carrying a small travelling-bag met us. The detective asked me if this were my wife, and, notwithstanding my reply in the negative, tried to seize hold of her. She evidently thought she had to do with some Don Juan, and fled screaming into the street; whereupon the detective ordered the policeman to lead me on, and himself followed the unknown lady.

The policeman now tried to take me by the arm, and so conduct me through the streets, but I hotly resisted such treatment, declaring that I had committed no crime, and that he had no possible justification for putting me in such a position.

We arrived at last at the House of Detention. Here I was searched again, and for the first time since my arrest was questioned by an official as to my personal identity.

My detective soon appeared, bringing the lady, who, weeping bitterly, protested her absolute innocence, and indignantly demanded the explanation of such an insult. Coming on the top of all my own experiences since my arrival in Freiburg this scene put me into a state of fury.

“What is all this?” cried I to the police officer. “How can you take upon yourself to insult this lady? I repeat again that I do not know her; she is not my wife, and I have never set eyes on her in my life before.”

“Well, we shall see about that. It is my business. It is no affair of yours whom we arrest,” declared he; and I thought to myself, “This is a nice state of things! We might as well be in Russia.”

I was then told to follow a warder, who took me up to the first floor. The lock of a cell-door turned, grating, and I found myself installed in the Grand-Ducal prison of Baden.

When the warder had withdrawn with his lantern absolute silence reigned, and the chamber was perfectly dark. Lights were not allowed here either in the cells or passages. I took my bearings as well as I could, groping along the walls, and, having found a bed, I lay down fully dressed as I was. My mind was in a state of chaos; I could follow no clear train of thought, nor form any conclusions about what had occurred. The sense of fate weighed me down; my strength seemed broken. Sinister dreams left me no peace all night, and consequently I awoke from slumber in a dazed condition, not knowing where I was or what had happened to me. When at last with an effort I realised my position, despair seized on me. Extradition to Russia stared me in the face; I could not banish the fear of it. True, at that time there was no extradition treaty between Germany and Russia which applied to political refugees.[^[3]] But I had special reasons for fearing that I might be treated exceptionally; and that the significance of my position may be clear to the reader, I must now give some details of my earlier career.

In 1874, just ten years before the events described above, as a youth of nineteen I had joined the “Propagandist movement,”[^[4]] which at that time engrossed a great number of young students throughout Russia. Like most of the young Propagandists, I was led to this chiefly by sympathy with the sufferings and endurance of the people. According to our views, it was the sacred duty of every reasonable and upright human being who really loved his country to devote all his powers to the object of freeing the people from the economic oppression, the slavery, the barbarism, to which they were subjected. The young generation, always most prone to pity the misfortunes of others, could not remain indifferent to the miserable situation of the newly enfranchised serfs. An entire social revolution in Russia appeared to the Propagandists the sole means of altering the existing wretched material conditions, and of removing the heavy burden on the people; following, therefore, the teaching of the Socialists of Western Europe, they set before themselves as their ultimate object the abolition of private property and the collective ownership of the means of production. The Propagandists felt entirely convinced that the people would instantly embrace their ideas and aims and join them at the first appeal. This belief was an inspiration to them, and spurred them to unlimited self-sacrifice for the idea that possessed them. These youths and girls renounced without hesitation their previous social position and the assured future that the existing order of things offered them; without further ado they left the educational institutions where they were studying, recklessly broke all family ties, and threw their personal fate into the balance, in order to live entirely for the idea, to sacrifice themselves without stint for the idea, to make every faculty and possibility serve in the sacred cause of the people’s deliverance. Any personal sacrifice seemed to these young enthusiasts scarcely worth speaking of when the great cause was in question. The common ideal, the common aim, and the enthusiasm of each individual drew the Propagandists together into one great family, linked by all the ties of affection and mutual dependence. Fraternal relations of the most affectionate intimacy grew up among all these young people; a complete altruism governed their actions, and each was prepared for any sacrifice on behalf of another. Only in great historical moments, in the time of the early Christian martyrdoms, and the founding of religious sects, have proselytes manifested such personal devotion, such exalted feeling.[^[5]]

In this elect band, however, there were found (as has happened in every such movement) individuals not capable of this unselfish fervour; there were among them some paltry spirits, and even some who proved traitors. Certainly the number of these latter was infinitesimally small; but the history of revolutionary movements shows sufficiently that hundreds of the most able secret or public agents of a government can never do a tithe of the harm to a secret society that can be effected by a single traitor in its own ranks. In this manner did treachery become pregnant with evil results for the Propagandists, and it gave to the movement a character it might otherwise never have developed. Early in the year 1874 the young revolutionists, men and women, went out “among the people,” according to the plan they had formed; they distributed themselves among the villages, where they lived and dressed like peasants, carrying on an active Socialist propaganda. But scarcely had they begun operations when treachery made itself apparent; two or three of the initiated denounced the organisation, and delivered over hundreds of their comrades to the authorities. Searches and arrests took place without number; the police pounced on “guilty” and innocent alike, and all the prisons in Russia were soon filled to overflowing. In this one year more than a thousand persons were seized. Many of them suffered long years of imprisonment under the most horrible conditions, some committed suicide, others lost their reason, and in many cases long terms of incarceration resulted in illness and premature death. Under these circumstances the reader can conceive the bitter hatred kindled in the ranks of the Socialists against the traitors who had sacrificed so many lives. The knowledge of the victims’ terrible sufferings would naturally incite their friends to avenge them; inevitably, too, the thought would arise of punishing treachery, in order to put a stop by intimidation to the trade of the informer. But the Propagandists were in the highest degree men of peace, and it was not easy for them to harbour thoughts of violence. When such ideas were first mooted, they long remained only subjects of discussion.

Not till the summer of 1876 did the first attempt to put the terrorist theory into practice take place. The circumstances were as follows. The members of a revolutionary group well known at the time—the Kiëv Buntari[^[6]]—had assembled at Elisavetgrad. I belonged to this organisation. Many of the members were “illegals,”[^[7]] and for some time past the gendarmerie had been making captures among them, acting on the information of a traitor named Gorinòvitch. This Gorinòvitch had been imprisoned in 1874, and being in the greatest danger had saved himself by telling everything he knew about the Russian Socialists. His revelations had injured many; yet, as in numerous other cases, not a hair of this renegade’s head would have been touched, if he had kept clear of revolutionary circles. But about two years after his release from prison he tried again to insinuate himself among us, and he managed to get into the confidence of some inexperienced young people, who of course had no notion of the part he had formerly played. From them he learned that the Kiëv Society had assembled at Elisavetgrad; he came there at once, and sought to find out what the persons he had before betrayed were doing. We recognised him, however, and it soon became evident to us that he was playing the spy, and preparing some fresh treachery. So I and one other comrade resolved to put an end to his life.

Our determination could not be carried into effect in Elisavetgrad itself, or it might have resulted in giving the police a clue for the discovery of our organisation. We therefore asked Gorinòvitch if he would go with us to Odessa to find the persons he was in search of, and he agreed. There in a lonely spot we attempted to execute our mission, and left Gorinòvitch lying, as we thought, dead, with a paper fastened on his breast bearing the inscription, “So perish all traitors!” But he was only severely injured, was found by the police, and survived to give information concerning his attempted assassination. Searches and arrests followed in due course, and although at the time I succeeded in avoiding capture, in the autumn of the following year I was arrested, together with other comrades, on account of the famous Tchigirìn case.[^[8]]

I was imprisoned in Kiëv, but in the beginning of 1878 I escaped[^[9]] in company with Stefanòvitch and Bohanòvsky.

Those who were concerned in the attempt against Gorinòvitch were prosecuted for the first time in November, 1879, at a period when both the “red” and the “white” terrorism[^[10]] had blazed up. After a series of attempts against different representatives of the Government, the revolutionists had concentrated their entire strength on the endeavour to assassinate Alexander II. The Government combated the terrorist movement by means of special enactments, martial law, and death penalties, to which large numbers of people were sentenced who were perfectly innocent of complicity in the above deeds. On November 19th, some days before the beginning of the Gorinòvitch case (and after the accused had been acquainted with the facts alleged against them, for which they were only liable to comparatively light sentences), the Terrorists blew up a train on the Moscow line, believing the Tsar to be in it. In consequence of this the Government determined to revenge themselves upon the accused in the Gorinòvitch case. Of these only one had been directly implicated, and as all had been imprisoned two or three years already before the beginning of the terrorist agitation, they could under no circumstances be supposed answerable for that agitation. In spite of this it was decided to “make an example” by inflicting a heavy sentence. Three of the accused,—Drebyasghin, Malinka, and Maidansky—were condemned to death by hanging, and were executed on December 3rd; two—Kostyurin and Yankovski—were sentenced to penal servitude; and the traitors Krayev and Kuritzin were set free. If I had been in the power of these judges my fate would have been sealed. However, early in the year 1880 I effected my escape from Russia, and I had been living in Switzerland up to the time of my going to Freiburg as previously described. From all this it will be clear with what feelings I contemplated the possibility of extradition to Russia.

CHAPTER II
THE CAUSE OF MY ARREST—PROFESSOR THUN—MY DEFENCE—PLANS OF ESCAPE—MY LEGAL ADVISER

In Germany, as a constitutional state, the law requires that no one shall be imprisoned for more than four-and-twenty hours without a magistrate’s order. As a foreigner, however, this was not held to apply to me; and it was only after two days that I was brought before a magistrate.

After he had asked me the usual questions as to name, position, and antecedents, he informed me that being a foreigner whose identity could not be immediately established, I must remain in prison. He added that, of course, I could appeal against this decision, but that I should find it useless to do so. And, in fact, the appeal that I did make was rejected.

So after this examination I was as wise as ever regarding the cause of my arrest. Again, I began turning over and over my various conjectures. Uncertainty is always an unpleasant condition, and most prisoners have to endure it; but in my case uncertainty racked me with the most dreadful apprehensions. After three days that seemed endless, I was again taken before the magistrate. When the ordinary questions had been answered he asked me if I knew the reason of my arrest. On my reply in the negative he gave me the following explanation:—

Some days before my arrival from Basel two men had come from the same place, (my acquaintance, the Swiss Socialist, and the Pole Yablonski). They also had put up at the Freiburger Hof; they also had brought boxes filled with books. They had despatched those books to a man in Breslau, who had just been imprisoned under the law against Socialists; and in connection with his arrest the police had confiscated the parcel, in which were discovered Polish socialistic pamphlets prohibited in Germany. The senders having given the address of the Freiburger Hof, the pamphlets had been sent back to Freiburg, as a preliminary to the search for the persons who had despatched them. Orders were given at the hotel to inform the police if they or any other suspicious characters should arrive from Switzerland. Thus it was that the hotel porter, learning that I had books in my trunk, had, after consultation with the landlord, given information which led to the appearance of the police. The detective had found among my books the duplicate of one in the Breslau parcel—the Calendar of the Naròdnaia Vòlya; and when he also discovered copies of the Sozialdemokrat, things were suspicious enough to warrant my arrest. The charge against me, therefore, was that in conjunction with other persons I was guilty of distributing prohibited Polish literature in Germany.

On hearing this, it was easy for me to reply to the charge that there was nothing in Polish among my books, nor any single book which had been prohibited in Germany; and as to the copies of the Sozialdemokrat, their possession was no offence. The question resolved itself simply into this: Whether I was in conspiracy with certain persons, and whether I had not in any case been circulating forbidden literature. Chance alone had led to my capture.

“If you had not gone to the Freiburger Hof nobody would have thought of arresting you,” said Herr Leiblen, the magistrate.

My spirits rose on hearing this. I said to myself, “All is not lost yet. Perhaps everything will go off smoothly, and I shall soon be set free, if only the Russian Government is kept out of the game.” That was the thought which occupied me while the magistrate was writing out the protocol. He then said, pointing to a gentleman who sat at a table somewhat apart, “That is the interpreter who is assisting us in your case, a professor of our University.”

During my examination I had once or twice looked round at this gentleman. He seemed known to me, and his presence caused me involuntary uneasiness.

“You can speak Russian with the Herr Professor,” concluded Herr Leiblen, as he left the room to fetch some document.

“Do you not recognise me?” said the interpreter, turning round.

“Professor Thun!” cried I in great astonishment.

“What! am I so much altered that you didn’t know me before?“ he asked, and did not wait for my answer, but continued without pause, “How can I help you?”

“Do you know who I really am?” I asked, without replying, and a cold shudder ran through me.

“Yes; I know your true name. But there is no need for alarm. You have turned quite pale!”

His recognition had indeed given me no small fright. I had come to know Professor Thun about a year and a half before this time in Basel, whither I had then betaken myself in order that, being there at some distance from the colony of Russian refugees, I might be freer from interruptions to my studies than when surrounded by friends and acquaintances. I had matriculated in the Basel University, and was attending Professor Thun’s lectures on political economy and statistics. Karl Moor, a leader of the Basel working-men, had introduced me personally to the professor, who supposed me to be simply a Russian student, not knowing me by my real name, but under the assumed one of Nicholas Kridner. He invited me to call on him, and confided to me his plan of writing a history of the revolutionary movement in Russia. Of this plan I had already heard, and it was partly this that had attracted me to Basel. Professor Thun was a Rhinelander, had studied at Dorpat, and had then passed some years in the interior of Russia. He spoke Russian fluently, and was pretty well up in Russian affairs. When he found, in conversation with me, that I was not unacquainted with the Russian revolutionary movement, he suggested that I should help him in his work, to which of course I gladly assented; and thus it happened that we became rather intimate. In this way I learned Professor Thun’s views regarding the Terrorists and their deeds. He condemned them ruthlessly; according to his convictions, it was the duty of all European governments to refuse such persons the right of asylum, and to deliver them over as ordinary criminals to the Russian authorities. In particular I had a lively recollection of the following occurrence. Professor Thun had given a lecture in the Basel “Freisinniges Verein,” before a large audience, on “Two Episodes in the Russian Revolutionary Movement.” These two episodes were the attempted assassination of Alexander II. and the Tchigirìn case. In speaking of the latter he related how Stefanòvitch, Bohanòvsky, and I had escaped from the fortress of Kiëv;[^[11]] and he closed with the remark that these criminals were living in foreign parts, and had “unfortunately” not yet been captured. I had an opportunity afterwards of speaking to him on the subject, and gathered the impression that if he knew my real name Professor Thun would not only break off all connection with me, but under certain circumstances would even perhaps assist in my “capture.” This led me to reduce my personal relations with him to a minimum, and besides I shortly afterwards left Basel.

Now here I was standing, a prisoner, before this man, and he knew who I really was! My feelings may be imagined.

“How do you know my name?” I asked, trembling with excitement.

“Your friend, Karl Moor, told me it in confidence after you had left Basel.”

“And although you know who I am you offer me your help?” asked I in surprise.

“Yes. Only tell me how to help you, and I will do what I can.”

I could scarcely grasp it, but one look in his eyes convinced me that I might trust him; it was that intuitive confidence that, once given, is unbounded.

“Thank you,” said I. “Well, if I do not succeed in getting out of prison by lawful means, I shall try to escape. Would you stand by me then?”

“Certainly,” said he simply and earnestly.

I still could hardly believe my ears. This German professor, whom I had heard publicly express his regret that the minions of Tsarism had not yet caught me—in other words, that I was not hanging on the gallows—this same man now offered me help to fly from a German prison! He gave me, however, undeniable proof of his sincerity. As translator he was in possession of all books, letters, etc., taken from me; he now produced my notebook, and advised me to tear out and destroy pages on which he had noticed addresses entered that might prejudice my cause. Of course, I immediately acted on his suggestion.

I then proposed to him that he should go to Basel without delay, tell my friend Axelrod what had occurred, instruct him what steps he could take to obtain my release by legal means, and finally, arrange with him some way of effecting my escape should the danger of extradition to Russia arise.

This task Professor Thun fulfilled to the letter; and during my imprisonment in Freiburg he did me many kind offices, running serious risk of thereby compromising his own position. He arranged secret meetings in Freiburg Cathedral with my friends, who had come in haste on the chance of being useful to me. He was also the medium of both verbal and written communication between me and my comrades.

Having the right of free access to me, as the authorities placed full confidence in an illustrious professor, he often had me called into the translator’s office, where we could chat undisturbed. In these conversations I saw how much he had taken my affairs to heart. He went so far as to offer his house as a refuge if I were obliged to attempt an escape. Sometimes he joked about the part he was playing:—“Look at me, now,” he would say, laughing; “I, a German professor of dignity and position, have become a Russian conspirator; and this peaceful town of Freiburg is the scene of a plot!” Through his relations with the magistrate he knew how my case was going on, and of course he kept me posted up.

At the first hearing of my case I made the following statement:—I was a Russian student, and had come abroad in pursuit of my studies. I had married here, and had one child. Hitherto I had lived in Switzerland, but now I wished to remain in Freiburg, whither my wife, now in Zurich, was to follow me. I lived partly by literary work, partly on private means. In Switzerland I had attended the University as “hospitant” (an occasional student at lectures).[^[12]] As for my political opinions, when I left Russia they were still somewhat undecided; but the influence of German literature had led me to join the Social Democrats, and I had determined to assist, as far as I could, in the propagating of their views in my own country.[^[13]] When, for various reasons, I had determined to live in Germany, I had brought with me the publications found in my possession, meaning to sell them eventually to the country people. They were not prohibited in Germany, and their possession was in no possible sense an infringement of German law. “And now,” I concluded, “in a free German town, in Frei-Burg, I have been arrested with no legal justification, without any of the prescribed formalities, I am subjected to all manner of indignities, and clapped into gaol like a common malefactor. As if that were not enough, the police, with no shadow of excuse, seized upon and arrested a lady of this town as if she were a pickpocket or disturber of the peace. I may well ask, What difference is there between this constitutional state of the German Empire and the absolute despotism of Russia? No one could have been worse treated, even in Russia!”

These words seemed to make some impression on the magistrate. He walked up and down excitedly, while he dictated my statement to the clerk, assured me repeatedly of his sympathy, and asserted his keen disapproval of the way in which the police had behaved towards me and the young lady. At one point he muttered, “Still, as Othello says, ‘The handkerchief, the handkerchief!’” Herr Leiblen appeared to be quite on my side, and Professor Thun told me later that he had declared the matter seemed to him harmless enough; in his opinion here was a perfectly innocent person being kept shut up in prison, and he hoped I should soon be set free. I had therefore a well-grounded hope of obtaining my release in due course; nevertheless doubts continued to arise, and thoughts of escape still haunted me. With some slight help from outside it would probably have been by no means difficult during these first days of my imprisonment.

One day, while I was still in this state of suspense betwixt hope and fear, I was called into the visitors' room. I expected to find Professor Thun there, and was surprised at being confronted by a man perfectly unknown to me. He introduced himself by name (I cannot recollect it now), and informed me that he was a lawyer, who had been engaged by my friends to undertake my defence. He announced himself as a comrade, a member of the Social-Democratic party, and invited me to be quite open with him, as my friends had already told him everything concerning my past career. “You think of attempting to escape?” he asked in a whisper; and when I assented he continued quickly, “That would be a most fatal mistake. I have just seen the minutes of your case; the affair is going splendidly for you. I have no doubt you will soon be set at liberty. Why should you risk the dangers of a flight? If the attempt were to fail you would be in an infinitely worse position than now. I have been talking to the magistrate; he is convinced there is nothing of any significance against you. As soon as inquiries in Switzerland have elicited a satisfactory reply regarding your identity you will be released.”

“But,” I interposed, “supposing a simultaneous inquiry is set on foot in Russia?”

“There is no ground whatever for such a proceeding,” replied the lawyer, “and if it were contemplated we should get to know it somehow. Germany is not Russia. With us legal proceedings are not secret. On the contrary, the law provides that your trial shall be held in public, and all documents relative to the case are without delay submitted to me as your counsel. In such documents mention would be made if an understanding with the Russian authorities were suggested. In our conduct of such cases it is absolutely out of the question that such a weighty complication should be kept private.”

“Yes,” I interrupted, “but how can you be sure that the police executive will not put the political and administrative authorities in communication with Russia?”

“The Government and the police would never combine in an affair of law without some announcement. You were arrested because there were grounds for supposing you in relation with persons who had made themselves liable to prosecution by German law. If you are set free—as neither I nor the magistrate have the slightest doubt that you will be—you will be discharged unconditionally. There is nothing now to wait for but the establishment of your identity in Switzerland. You may rely on this. As a German lawyer I know all our legal methods; you, on the other hand, judge from Russian conditions, which are altogether different.”

An inner voice said to me that the consistency of German law was not so entirely to be trusted; but I had no rational ground for demur, as German affairs of the kind were perfectly strange to me. And an attempt to escape, although it might have been easily managed in the first instance, became more risky as time went on. Though not quite abandoning the idea, these considerations led me to set it aside for the moment, till we had some proof of collaboration between the Russian and German Governments. Apparently such a step could not be hidden from me; and I had the well-known and influential Professor Thun on my side, who was on the best of terms with the authorities both of town and state. News must reach me through him if anything fresh were planned.

CHAPTER III
UNCERTAINTY—PRISON LIFE—THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR—A CHANGE OF CELLS

For some time longer I had to remain in the prison of Freiburg, vacillating between the expectation of speedy release and the dread of extradition. Every day I changed my mood a dozen, nay, a hundred times; and this everlasting alternation had a most depressing effect. The days dragged on, and seemed endless, although I tried to occupy myself by every possible device. I was well supplied with books—my comrades and Professor Thun saw to that—and I was accommodated with writing materials. So I read much, and tried to put on paper my thoughts, impressions, and recollections.

But it was not only uncertainty as to my own fate that worked on my spirits: anxiety about my friends, and about the further development of our “League for the Emancipation of Labour” troubled me. Our organisation was only in its infancy; we were but a small band, and our means scanty. In coming to Germany for the despatch of our first output over the Russian border, I had planned at the same time to arrange for future transport. On this account I had many duties to discharge, regarding not only money matters, but organisation. I had also left behind me in Switzerland much business that called for my return as soon as possible. All my comrades had their hands full; time was precious to them all. And now not only was I sitting here in prison, condemned to inaction, but all the other members of our League were occupied with my affairs, and waiting about to see how they could help me. The consciousness of this check to our work, and of being its involuntary cause, oppressed me, and raised my impatience to the highest pitch.

My state can easily be pictured if one imagines a man who has an important and urgent affair to manage, and who suddenly breaks his leg, so that instead of pressing on to the goal he must lie inert on a sick-bed. But in that pitiable state he would be preoccupied with his physical suffering; and I, being free from pain, was given over entirely to worry and distress of mind.

The conditions of prison life left much to be desired. At first, particularly, I found them hard to bear, till by degrees I accustomed myself to German regulations. As I have already said, the cells were not lighted at night, and there was nothing for a prisoner to do but to sleep away the long hours of darkness, if he could. I afterwards learned that light was denied for fear of fire, and on the same ground smoking was forbidden. What there was to burn I could not imagine; for, except the doors, the window-frames, and the floors, there was no wood, the building being of massive stone.[^[14]]

The irksomeness of the long evenings without light, and the prohibition of smoking, must for many people be not only a discomfort, but a hard penance. Yet there should have been no question of punishment in this prison, as only accused persons awaiting trial were detained there.

The behaviour of the prison officials towards the prisoners was anything but tender. For instance, this is what took place on one of my first days. Exercise in the prison yard was taken by all the inmates of one corridor at the same time. We were trotted round in a continual goose-step, always a certain number of paces distant each one from the other. One felt like a horse being led round the riding-school by a rope. I found that many prisoners regarded it as a humiliation, and preferred to forego the chance of fresh air. One day during this walk the military guard was being changed in the prison yard. The formalities of German drill were new to me, and involuntarily I stopped a moment to look, thus upsetting our beautiful order by not keeping at the correct distance between my preceder and follower; besides, perhaps I also dropped out of line an inch or so. Suddenly I felt someone seize me by the shoulder, abusing me violently. I scarcely knew what was happening till I found myself being raged at by the warder in my cell, whither he had whisked me off. The man was like one possessed, and threatened to deprive me of exercise if I behaved as I had done. At first I could not understand what frightful misdemeanour I had committed. When it dawned on me that all this was because of my momentary pause, it was my turn to show temper. I asked the man how he dared treat me so, informed him that prisoner though I was I would not permit anyone to knock me about or abuse me, and said that if such a harmless infringement of discipline was looked on as an offence against German prison rules, it was his plain duty to have warned me of the fact, and so on. This had its effect; the man’s bearing instantly became milder, and thenceforward our intercourse was on the most peaceful footing.

The prison rations were quite insufficient; there was never enough to satisfy a full-grown man. If I remember rightly, they consisted of a pound and a half of rye bread daily, and twice in the day a little soup or gruel. Meat was only allowed twice a week in the first month, and that in microscopic portions. Even the gaolers admitted that unless a prisoner had means for providing himself with extra food, he would never get enough to eat.

The cells on the first floor, one of which I first inhabited, were roomy, bright, and clean. For furniture they were provided with a table, a stool, and a bed, the latter having a mattress, straw pillow, and woollen covering. In one corner of the room stood the stove, heated from the corridor and surrounded by an iron grating intended to prevent escape by the chimney. On the wall hung a copy of the regulations, whereby prisoners were informed of the various penalties for the slightest departure from the rules. All these rules were framed to spare the staff trouble, and to make the business of looking after the inmates as simple as possible. The interest of the inmates was not considered; they were not treated like people unconvicted of crime, but rather as malefactors deserving punishment, which the prison staff on their own responsibility had to see carried out in their own way. I will give an instance.

One day I was conducted from my cell to a corridor on the ground-floor, where a number of prisoners were already ranged along the wall, evidently awaiting something. I was directed to a place. I wanted to know what was happening; and after I had asked several times in vain, the gaoler told me that the Catholic priest had come, and wished to speak to all the prisoners, who would be taken to him one by one in order. I said that I was a Socialist and had nothing to do with Catholic or any other priests. I therefore begged to be taken back to my cell. This seemed to strike the man as irresistibly comic, and he burst into an ironic laugh.

“What you want or don’t want is all the same to us. He wants to see you, and so you will be taken to him.”

The warders who stood by were immensely tickled. They joked about the Russian barbarian who came to a German prison and expected to have his own opinions taken into account. So before the priest I went, but our conversation was of the shortest. To his question about my religion I answered that I was a Social Democrat, and belonged to no Church. Whereupon he looked at me compassionately and dismissed me.

Another disagreeable feature of life in this prison was the system of espionage. Often, when I was buried in my book or writing, a warder would suddenly appear. He would creep along on tiptoe to open the door noiselessly and spy round, probably designing to catch me if I were looking out of the window—a diversion strictly forbidden by the rules. Not only here, but in other German prisons that I have seen, the extravagant care with which the prisoners and their things were inspected was perfectly ridiculous. For instance, a dozen oranges sent me by my friends aroused the suspicions of the warders, and they conscientiously cut up every single orange into quarters to see if there were anything inside! So far as I know, even Russian gendarmes have never given one credit for contriving a hiding-place in an uncut orange or apple. The good people, however, do not achieve their purpose, in spite of all their cleverness. The “kassiber,”[^[15]] or written message to or from prisoners, passes under their very noses. Nor had I ever any difficulty in getting forbidden articles conveyed into any German prison.

As I have said, the numerous petty formalities made me very impatient at first, but I accustomed myself at last more or less to German prison methods, and the officials dropped their over-zealous harshness towards me, and became more confidential. The fact that I was a foreigner, a Russian, rather interested them, as probably they had never even seen one before. And then, however incorruptible a German official may be, the possession of worldly resources cannot fail to influence him. The staff knew that I was in command of money. The chief inspector, a man named Roth, boarded me; and they knew I had everything that could mitigate the hardness of my lot, that my friends, in fact, supplied me with all sorts of little comforts and luxuries. This seemed to impress the prison staff, and I also was for ever telling them I should certainly be released very soon. I really almost believed it, and they seemed to do so, too—at any rate, for a time.

The staff consisted of three men—two warders and the chief inspector, who was also the governor of the gaol. All three often came to chat with me; they asked me questions about Russia, and on their side related much about German matters—prisons, laws, and other things in which they were interested. They all impressed me as being perfectly contented with their situations; indeed, their wages were comparatively high—up to 2,000 marks (£100) and more a year, if I am not mistaken. The warder with whom I had had the tiff recounted above paid me many visits. He, like the other two, had been a soldier, and was therefore imbued with notions of strict military discipline, which is the watchword throughout German prisons. Though in outward appearance hard and even forbidding, he was really a good-natured creature. Of his own initiative he asked me to let him have the remains of my meals, to take to a neighbouring prisoner who was poor and often went hungry through being unable to afford extra food. Of course I gladly consented. This warder was a big, powerfully-built man, aged about thirty, who had taken his present situation because he did not like his original trade—that of a joiner. Like most German workmen, he had only been to a Volksschule (public elementary school), but the instruction given there is far better than in similar schools in my own country; and in comparison with our workmen of like standing, he might be considered a highly intellectual person. We talked over all sorts of things—politics among the rest—and he told me he was a supporter of the existing Government—the National Liberals, I think. My own attainments caused him great admiration, especially my knowledge of French and German, as well as of my own mother-tongue.

The way they dealt with my money was a little odd. As I have said, the money in my pocket-book was taken possession of at the time of my arrest. Some days later the inspector presented me with an account of expenditure. It appeared that the police had been most generous on my behalf. A day’s use of the room at the hotel, which I had barely seen, was paid for, and four or five marks in addition as “compensation for disturbance.” Furthermore, as the good people had not been able to open my second box, although they had the key, they had paid a locksmith (very liberally too) to open it. Naturally I made no objection to the bill, but I felt somewhat amused at having to pay for the “disturbance” of my arrest, and the breaking open of my own trunk!

Soon after my imprisonment I was taken to a photographer’s and photographed. I did not like this at all, as I feared that my portrait might be sent to Russia and recognised; but I could not make any protest, lest my reasons should be suspected. The photograph was needed for the inquiry in Switzerland, that by means of it I might be identified as Bulìgin. The Swiss authorities certified that it did represent Bulìgin, with whose passport I always travelled; so that part of the inquiry was got through safely. Also, the proofs I adduced of my not being implicated in the doings of Yablonski and his friend were accepted, and it was agreed that I had neither circulated forbidden literature nor had had any in my possession. Weeks passed away before these formalities were accomplished, and at last, nearly two months after my arrest, the magistrate informed me that he should close the affair in a few days, and that he himself was satisfied there were no grounds for my prosecution. The decision lay with the Public Prosecutor,[^[16]] who might concur in this, and so release me at once; or he might after all think fit to take the matter into court. In the latter event, however, the judge would most probably uphold the finding of the magistrate; and even if against all expectation a prosecution should be set up and a penalty enforced, the sentence would be such as my term of imprisonment here would be held to fulfil. In any case I might be certain my release was now only a question of days. It seemed absurd to distrust this forecast, and it is but natural to expect what one ardently desires; so I began to feel easy.

Some days after I was again sent for to the visitors’ room, where I found Frau Axelrod and a grey-haired gentleman, the Public Prosecutor, Von Berg. In stern tones he informed us that we were at liberty to converse, but only in German; at the first Russian word he would separate us. This precaution, and the whole behaviour of the grim old gentleman, did not quite bear out the idea of speedy release for me; and knowing him to be acquainted with the magistrate’s views, I wondered what his reasons were, but I was not apprehensive. Frau Axelrod and I did not find much to say to each other under this supervision, and our interview was brief.

I remember the next few days very well. On the morrow the inspector, Roth, came and told me, in a most cheerful and friendly way, that I must change over into a cell on the ground-floor, as the one in which I was had to be renovated. He was quite apologetic, regretting that the other cell would not be so comfortable for me. This change did not please me at all. My plans of escape had all been based on the situation of my cell, and its being on the first floor would have been no impediment. One of my friends had hired a room in the opposite house, towards which the window of my cell looked, so that at a pinch we could communicate by prearranged signals. Besides these reasons of business, so to speak, on other grounds I was sorry to quit my now familiar quarters. My associations with these four walls were not all unpleasant, and looking out of the window had been my greatest distraction. On market days many lively scenes were enacted between buyers and sellers—peasants of the district. Sometimes military exercises took place in the square, and the unfamiliar drill interested me. But above all I loved to climb up to the window in the evenings to watch the children, who, when twilight came on, always romped about the square, playing all sorts of games. Their merry laughter and shouting took me back to my home in South Russia and my own childish days.

All this came to an end with my change of lodging. My new cell was dark, less roomy, and the window looked into the yard. This latter circumstance made escape well-nigh impossible. I comforted myself with the thought that the idea of flight was needless, and tried to reckon how many days were likely to elapse before my release. I argued that my transfer to another cell was probably in view of my departure, or else a mere chance, necessary for the reason given me by the warder. But my friends took it quite otherwise when they saw me no more at the window, and thought I must be already on my way to Russia!

CHAPTER IV
THE VISIT OF “MY WIFE”—MORE PLANS OF ESCAPE—THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR SHOWS HIS HAND—PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY

On one of the following days I was told there was someone to see me. No sooner had I crossed the threshold of the visitors’ room than a young lady threw herself, laughing and weeping, into my arms. It was Frau Bulìgin. As I was in prison under her husband’s name, she had now come to play the part of my wife; and so well did she play it as even to soften the heart of the Public Prosecutor, who witnessed this moving scene of meeting between such a young and loving pair. He left us alone for a moment, and only when the first emotional greetings were over did he warn us that we must speak German; but his tone was less stern and dry than at my first encounter with him, when Frau Axelrod was there. Frau Bulìgin had at once whispered to me that I must somehow contrive that we should speak Russian, as she had important things to talk about. I therefore begged Herr von Berg to let us speak in our own language.

“I cannot,” he said shortly; “you both seem able to speak German quite well enough to understand one another.”

“You must allow,” said I, “that however well a man speaks a foreign tongue, when he meets his wife after weeks of imprisonment and in circumstances like mine, he wants to speak freely. We cannot talk of family affairs in German. But,” I continued, “if you insist about this, though I cannot understand by what law nor for what reason, could you not let Professor Thun be present as he would understand all we said in Russian?”

After some further demur he at last relented so far as to say that though he would not request Professor Thun’s attendance himself, not being in any way bound to do so, yet if the professor chose to do us such a favour, we might then be permitted to speak Russian. Of course I would not betray my relations with Professor Thun, so I carefully inquired his address, that my wife might take him a message.

“Your wife shall be given it in my office,” said Herr von Berg. So he and Frau Bulìgin departed, and I was taken back to my cell.

After a short interval I was sent for again, and found Professor Thun with the others. I had not seen him for some time, as he had been away for his Easter holidays; besides, his official duties as translator had come to an end, and my case being now in the hands of the Public Prosecutor, he had not the same freedom of access to me. Frau Bulìgin told me that she had hurried hither because of the great anxiety felt about me by my comrades. Russian spies were closely watching all my friends and acquaintances in Geneva; showing my photograph (which of course strongly resembled that sent from Freiburg by the police), and asking where I was. From this my friends concluded that the Russian Government was already on my track; they feared that if my imprisonment lasted much longer my real identity would certainly be discovered, and they therefore begged me to try and effect my escape. We talked over every chance, and tried to work out a plan, Professor Thun taking the warmest interest, and making many suggestions. But, as I said before, absolutely no plans were feasible from the cell I was in now; and I will not trouble to describe those we discussed, except to repeat that Professor Thun played an important part in them all, even undertaking to provide me with a key to the outer door of the prison. The personal risk he was willing to accept, or even court, was great; yet this was the man who had at one time avowed his desire of handing me over to Russian justice! After eighteen years it is scarcely comprehensible to me, spite of my lively recollection of his kindness and sympathy.

The Public Prosecutor, Von Berg, who remained in the room during all this confabulation, played rather a comical part. Of course, he understood not a word, as we spoke Russian; but whenever we laughed he smiled indulgently, as if amused at us. I cannot imagine what would have been the feelings of this painfully correct and stern old gentleman if he had known the chief cause of our merriment, which was simply that we had to concoct the report of our conversation with which Professor Thun was subsequently to regale his worship.

When we had finished our consultations, which lasted rather a long time, Frau Bulìgin took a very tender farewell of me. She thanked Von Berg for having allowed us to speak Russian, and asked him how soon he thought I should be released. I think he told her that he believed the case would be concluded in a few days, mentioning the date. In any case, he added, if I were set free I should be handed over to the police to be conducted over whatever frontier was convenient—the Swiss, he supposed, being the nearest.

I held fast to the hope that it really would be so, and tried to stifle the doubts that persisted in rising. It was certainly pleasanter to dream of prospective freedom, than to brood over the consequences of extradition to Russia, or even of being set over the Russian border. The sight of Frau Bulìgin had aroused keen longings for liberty; fancy painted joyful pictures, my thoughts dwelt on my friends and my work. Mentally I lived through many scenes of welcome, and saw our circle setting to work with redoubled energy at our “League for the Emancipation of Labour.” I planned out to the smallest detail how I would make up for my enforced idleness. I lived only in the future, and looked on the dreary present as if it were a long-vanished past, a disagreeable episode that I and mine could talk over as far behind us.

“To-day the order for my release will be made out.” I remember how I awoke on a certain May morning with this thought in my mind, and instantly began to conjecture in what manner the announcement would be made to me.

“You are to go to the Public Prosecutor,” said the warder, breaking in on my visions.

“It is for my formal discharge,” was my first thought; “the man is keeping his word. Strange that the judge has been so quick in pronouncing his decision; it is still quite early,” I meditated, as I went along the corridor.

In the office sat Herr von Berg at a table; beside him was a young clerk, and the table was covered with bundles of documents.

“To-day, as you are aware,” said the Public Prosecutor, turning to me, “judgment was to be given on your case. Before I inform you of the verdict, I must again have your assurance that your name is Bulìgin, and your home Moscow.”

“Certainly. I am Bulìgin, of Moscow,” I answered.

“Read the document relating to that point,” said the Public Prosecutor to the clerk. The latter read aloud in dry, business-like tones a communication, apparently emanating from some Moscow official, stating curtly that there was no person of the name of Bulìgin answering to the description given.[^[17]]

“What have you to say to this?” asked Herr von Berg coldly.

I felt that the blood had left my cheeks, and that my knees were trembling; but I pulled myself together at once, and began to defend myself, speaking rapidly, warmly, and earnestly.

I saw my critical situation, and felt the ground slipping from under my feet. My fear of communications with the Russian Government was justified, and it was now a fight for life. I had so often dreaded this eventuality, that my plan of defence was prepared.

“Listen!” I cried. “I declare to you that I am Bulìgin; but I confess that I do not come from Moscow, and that the other particulars I gave you about myself were false. This amount of deception was forced upon me, foreseeing as I did the course that might be taken by the authorities here, and knowing too well what Russian methods are. You do not know those methods, and I must explain. It often happens that people are denounced to the gendarmerie for having a prohibited book in their possession. Not only are they themselves arrested, but everyone who has consorted with them is liable to arrest, and anyone whose address is found in their rooms. Their houses are watched, and everyone who visits them is seized. Whole families are persecuted in this way, and think themselves lucky if they get off at last after untold annoyance. Quite innocent people are often in prison for months. When I came from democratic Switzerland to constitutional Germany, with no intention of contravening German law, little did I expect to meet with an experience which shows me that, at any rate as regards foreigners, there is not much to choose between Germany and Russia in some of their dealings. I find to my cost that without any legal formalities the police may arrest and imprison whom they choose; that they can make a domiciliary search without a warrant, and may treat a harmless traveller as if he were a criminal. I was kept in gaol for two days without being brought before a magistrate; I saw a young lady seized in the street and brought to the prison, just as if in Russia. What ground had I for trusting the magistrate’s assurance that there would only be an ordinary judicial inquiry? I took it for granted that the police, as with us in Russia, could override the administrators of the law, and that the police would be in correspondence with the Russian authorities. This document proves that I was right.

“Well, then, if I had given the true facts about myself, the police, as is evident, would have handed them on to their Russian confrères, who, of course, when they heard I had been arrested here because I had two boxes of books forbidden in Russia, (though not in Germany,) would have started their usual game in the town whence I really come. My people would have been subjected to annoyance; my brothers and sisters, who share my views, would perhaps have been found possessed of forbidden literature, and clapped into gaol along with many others. Russia is not a constitutional country, and therefore I was obliged to guard myself by suppressing particulars here that might have been used against my friends there.”

“You assert, then,” said the Public Prosecutor scornfully, “that you are Bulìgin, but that you do not come from Moscow; and you refuse to give the name of your native place?”

“Yes, I refuse for the reasons I have stated.”

“Read the next report,” said Herr von Berg, and the clerk read aloud:—

“The prisoner now in the State prison of Freiburg, calling himself Bulìgin, is in reality Leo Deutsch, who in May, 1876, attempted—in conjunction with Jakob Stefanòvitch—to murder Nicholas Gorinòvitch. Therefore the Government of His Majesty the Emperor of Russia, through their representative in the dominions of His Highness the Grand Duke of Baden, demand the extradition of both the aforesaid persons. And at the same time His Majesty’s Government consider themselves bound to draw the attention of the German authorities to the fact that the aforesaid Leo Deutsch has several times already broken out of prison, and should therefore be most jealously watched, both during his incarceration and while being transported to Russia.”

I have transcribed this document almost literally, for though nearly two decades have passed since that moment, it seems present to me this day. “It’s all up with me,“ I thought, and torturing visions rose before me.

“What reply have you to make?” I heard the dry question of the Public Prosecutor, and saw his malicious smile of triumph.

With a tremendous effort I collected myself.

“What I have just heard read,” I said as calmly as I could, “scarcely surprises me. It bears out all I have been told as to the methods of the Russian Government. Their game is clear. When they want to get hold of a harmless Russian Socialist who has been arrested in a constitutional country they will not allow that he is the person he claims to be, but give him the name of someone implicated in a serious crime. This is nothing new. For example, Rumania was induced in this way to deliver up a certain Katz, who was then immediately exiled to Siberia by ‘administrative methods,’ as is said in Russia, that is, without any judicial process. Evidently they are doing just the same in my case. The best proof of this lies in this document itself. You see there that the Government not only demands the extradition of Deutsch, but also of Stefanòvitch, although the latter was long ago arrested in Russia and sent to penal servitude in the Siberian mines, and although his complicity in the attempt against Gorinòvitch never came into question at his trial. It is plain that the extradition of Stefanòvitch is asked for in order that on the next opportunity some peaceful Socialist may be claimed as being he. What I am telling you would be confirmed by Professor Thun, who not only is acquainted with Russian ways, but has particularly studied our revolutionary movement.”

This ended the interview. When I was back in my cell, and could collect my thoughts, I felt completely crushed. My extradition seemed certain, and escape my only hope. But that this hope was futile I quickly discovered. Following the Russian Government’s warning as to my having often broken out of prison before (as a matter of fact I had done so twice),[^[18]] a special warder was now posted at my door, with instructions not to stir from the spot, and to watch my every movement. The other warders also were told to keep an eye on me, and—what had never happened before—the chief inspector, Roth, had been present at the interview described above.

Soon after midday I was again taken before the Public Prosecutor. This time he seemed more graciously inclined, and treated me with as near an approach to geniality as could be expected from such an arid man of law. He informed me that Professor Thun had endorsed my description of Russian judicial proceedings; and he then continued, “It is possible that an injustice is being done you in ascribing to you the crime spoken of in the communication of the Russian Government, and I am prepared to assist you in defending yourself. You must understand that in Germany it is no part of a Public Prosecutor’s duties to pass sentence, but he has to get at the truth, and to discharge persons who are unjustly accused. Give me any particulars that would tend to exonerate you, and I will do what I can for you.”

This change in the behaviour of the Public Prosecutor was evidently owing to Professor Thun’s influence. I knew quite well that there was not much left to hope for now, but I saw I should try to make use of Herr von Berg’s more favourable attitude to gain a little time. If my extradition could be delayed I might yet find some opportunity of escape. So I gratefully accepted the Public Prosecutor’s offer, and begged him to let me have an opportunity of consultation with my lawyer and the official translator, as I myself had no acquaintance with the forms of German law. Meanwhile, I said, I could tell him at once how I hoped to prove I was not Deutsch; I had reason to believe that he was in London, and if my friends there could find him, he would no doubt be quite willing to give his testimony in my behalf. (I was hoping, with the help of Professor Thun, to arrange that one of the Russian refugees in London should play the part of Deutsch, i.e. of myself.)

Herr von Berg informed me that the granting of this request lay with the Minister of Justice, to whom he would apply; and with this our interview terminated.

Events now took on a lively pace. Before this I had sometimes had weeks to wait between the acts of my drama, and had often longed for the next hearing, that I might at least know what was going on. Now, however, things went faster than I cared for. The next day I was again called before the Public Prosecutor. This time, with Herr von Berg, his clerk, and inspector Roth, who stood sentinel at the door, I found a man, strange to me, dressed in the uniform of a Russian officer of justice, with a glittering order in his buttonhole.

“Good morning, Deutsch! Don’t you know me?” asked the unknown in Russian, with an agreeable smile. “I am the Deputy Public Prosecutor in the Petersburg Court of Appeal. My name is Bogdanòvitch, and you must remember me, for I was Deputy Public Prosecutor in Kiëv when you were a prisoner there.”

“I have never been in prison at Kiëv; and I have not the pleasure of knowing you,” I answered quietly. And indeed I had never set eyes on the gentleman before.

“There is no doubt about it, he is Deutsch,” said Bogdanòvitch, turning to his German colleagues.

“And I declare that I am not,” said I.

“We prefer to believe Herr von Bogdanòvitch,” said Herr von Berg. “You shall go back to Russia.”

“Then this is what you are doing,” cried I, “you are giving the Russian Government another opportunity of banishing an innocent man to Siberia.”

“We never send innocent people to Siberia,” said Bogdanòvitch promptly.

“You not only send them to Siberia, but to the scaffold,” I cried. “You say that you belonged to the staff of the Kiëv law courts; then you must have heard of the judicial murder of an innocent boy, the student Rozòvsky, which took place there. Perhaps you were concerned in the case. He was hanged, in spite of the fact that the judge himself allowed his only offence to lie in the possession of a proclamation, the authors of which he refused to name.”[^[19]]

“Rozòvsky was not executed solely on that account,” said Bogdanòvitch, smiling at the Public Prosecutor, “but because he belonged to the Socialist party.”

“You see!” I cried, turning to Herr von Berg, “in Germany members of the Socialist party sit in the Reichstag, and take part in your legislation; but according to the views of a Russian law-officer, and of the Russian Government, mere suspicion of being a Socialist, let alone proof, is enough to send one to the gallows!”

The two gentlemen could not easily answer this, and on the German lawyer it seemed to make a distinct impression. I saw, however, that the self-important Herr von Berg found the presence of the Deputy Public Prosecutor from the Petersburg Appeal Courts rather imposing. From time to time his glance rested on the glittering order worn by the official; in addressing the Russian his voice took on an affability hitherto strange to it; and his painful efforts to pronounce the difficult name correctly were really comic. Apparently in order to show off his own importance and zeal to the stranger, he remarked to me severely—

“I see that you are not backward in finding excuses, and for this reason are trying to paint the Government of your country in the most lurid colours. But whatever you may think of it, it is to that Government you must be surrendered, and I am convinced you will be treated in Russia with all legal equity.”

“Oh, certainly, certainly!” Bogdanòvitch hastened to assure him.

I was led back to my cell, and what I suffered in mind during the next few days I need not describe; the reader can well imagine it. It was clear to me that all hope of release was gone; yet I could not resign myself to the thought, and my brain was always busy with plans of rescue. I counted on the time that must necessarily be absorbed in making out the terms of my extradition, and concocted a long letter of conspiracy to my friends, hoping to forward it through Professor Thun. Two or three days went by before I could get it finished; and meanwhile I was again called before the Public Prosecutor, although the day was Sunday. Evidently things were being hurried on.

“The Government have decided to deliver you up to Russia,” he began, “but on this condition: that you shall be brought before a regular tribunal, and only prosecuted on the count of the Gorinòvitch case.[^[20]] Your request for an interview with your lawyer and the interpreter is refused.”

After he had read me the decision of the Baden Government, Herr von Berg informed me that I was to start for Russia that very day. As I left him I remarked that I should certainly be sent before a special court and judged by martial law.

“That is quite impossible,” was his rejoinder; “it would be a contravention of the treaty and contrary to international law.”

Once alone in my cell, I began preparations for my journey. These were not so simple as might be supposed. Notwithstanding the excessive care with which everything sent me by my friends was inspected, I had become possessed of an English file for cutting through iron gratings, a pair of scissors to cut my hair and beard in case of need, and also money in German and Russian banknotes. I had to dispose of these things somehow. The file I decided to part with, as it was now hardly likely to be of any use, and would be hard to conceal; so I broke it in two and threw it down the waste-pipe of the closet. The other things I managed to secrete in such a manner that I should be able to avail myself of them if I had occasion on the journey. The warder at the cell-door never let me out of his sight; yet I managed to hide them in my clothes so that there was a chance of their escaping the searchers. All this was like the drowning man’s clutch at a straw. I did not deceive myself as to the strict watch to which I should be subjected, and the futility of any hope of speedy rescue. But in such circumstances even useless precautions serve at least to distract one’s thoughts, and my thoughts were not of the pleasantest. I knew what was before me, and pictured my future. Long, long years of prison! It was almost more bearable to think of death than of that living grave.

“Of what use would my life be?” I asked myself; and the answer was devoid of consolation.

CHAPTER V
THE JOURNEY TO RUSSIA—IN THE CATTLE-TRUCK—THE FRANKFORT AND BERLIN PRISONS—THE FRONTIER-STATION—THROUGH WARSAW TO PETERSBURG

When evening came I was sent off in a closed carriage, accompanied by two policemen in plain clothes, who had been enjoined to use all possible vigilance. The carriage was stopped at a branch of the railway line some distance from the station, and here my companions and I were put into an ordinary cattle-truck. As this truck was brought into the station, where it was attached to a passenger train, I observed an unusual commotion on the platform, and my guards, who noticed it too, whispered together excitedly. From chance words that I caught I gathered that an arrest was being made, and wondered if it could have anything to do with me. Years afterwards I learned that it was indeed two of my comrades who were seized on the platform at Freiburg, they having hoped to travel by my train and be at hand to assist me if I could attempt an escape. But this was another fiasco. My two friends were kept some days in prison in Freiburg, and then sent back to Switzerland.

Towards morning we arrived at Frankfurt-am-Main, where for some reason or other I was again put in prison. The governor of this gaol made a great show of kindness and consideration towards me, but had his own reasons for such tactics, as will subsequently appear. When I asked if I might write a post card to my friends in Switzerland, he assured me most obligingly that it should be forwarded at once, and furnished me with writing materials. (Later I found that he had handed over the card to my guards, who sent it to the Russian authorities; but, of course, it only contained a few words of greeting.)

The cell to which he conducted me was very comfortable, and looked out on a lively street; but he posted two policemen in the room to keep watch over me. He then provided me with an excellent luncheon—or at least it seemed very good to me, as during the last day or two excitement had kept me from eating. Seeing that the journey threatened to be tedious, I wanted to get some books, and the obliging governor offered to buy them for me at a second-hand shop, where they would be cheap. I remember choosing a few German and French classics, which he procured for me at what I thought a reasonable price. Finally, he invited me to go for a walk in the yard with him.

As soon as we were alone he began giving me a very prolix account of all his experiences, and then suddenly asked me point-blank if I were not really the famous Degàiev.[^[21]]

I could not help laughing heartily: the assiduous friendliness of this worthy, who, as a matter of fact, was always looking out for his own advancement, appeared now in quite a new light. Apart from the fact that (as I heard afterwards from the policemen in my cell) he drew a considerable profit, not only from my food, but even on the books he got me, he also had his eye on the reward he would receive if he could induce me to confess to being Degàiev. The Russian Government had put a price of 10,000 roubles on that man’s head, and his name was in every European newspaper.

I stayed in this prison until nightfall, when I was fetched away by three policemen in plain clothes. Every time that my guards were changed I was searched, but nothing was found. Before starting on our journey, the Frankfort police put chains on me, not heavy or thick, and quite inconspicuous, as they were attached under my clothes; but they hindered any quick movement, and of course made running impossible. I protested vehemently against this indignity; but they declared they had received special instructions, and had no choice in the matter, so I had to submit. Even this was not their final precaution. When we passed on to the railway platform, one man, a giant in stature, took me by the arm in a friendly way; another went a few steps in front, and the third came a little behind, so that we must have appeared to the uninitiated like a trio of boon companions. We installed ourselves in a carriage among the ordinary travellers, and it probably never dawned on any of them that they were sitting cheek by jowl with a fettered prisoner. I could not help thinking of the proverb used by our Russian peasants to describe German ingenuity:—“The Germans are too clever for anything; they’ve even invented apes!” I must say that my guardians behaved very civilly to me, although with formal strictness. So far as their orders permitted, they showed me many little kindnesses. In the Begleitschein with which I was given into their custody I was entered as “the so-called Bulìgin,” and by this name I went until I was handed over to the Russians.

There was no thinking of escape on this journey. My escort never let me out of their sight for a second, never stirred from my side, and watched my slightest movements. They did not enter into conversation with me, nor had I any inclination to gossip with them. I felt heavy at heart, enervated, and exhausted. My mind seemed dormant, nothing attracted my attention during the whole journey; I seemed to hear and see nothing that went on around me, but to lie wrapped in a dreary apathy. “What must be must be,” I said to myself, if a thought of the future arose. Reaction had set in after the painful excitement of the last days in Freiburg.

The following day we arrived in Berlin, where I was at once taken to prison. Which prison it was I do not know, but I remember what a gloomy impression it produced upon me. The dark cell, (into which no direct light could penetrate owing to the high wall opposite the window,) and the sour-faced warders, who never seemed to look one straight in the eyes, forced on me the thought that people who were compelled to inhabit this place for long were much to be pitied. I have made acquaintance with many prisons, both in Russia and Western Europe, but never felt so thoroughly despondent as in this Berlin gaol. Everything seemed intended to make one feel: “You are in Berlin, the capital of military Prussia, where inflexible rule and iron discipline are the watchwords applying to the smallest detail.”

The policemen who had brought me from Frankfort never left me alone even in my prison cell, keeping watch over me by turns. And I must say that I was glad of this. Their company was not exactly enlivening, but the presence of another human being mitigated the dreariness of the prison atmosphere. Fortunately I was not detained here long, and I was truly thankful when evening came, and I was once more on my travels, attended by the same escort. Next morning we were in Russia.

The frontier station where I was to be delivered over to the Russian authorities is called Granitza, a place where three empires meet—Germany, Austria, and Russia. As I was to be taken straight on to Petersburg, this was a very roundabout way to have come, and I suppose it must have been chosen from fear of a rescue being attempted at the frontier. This is the more likely, as shortly before the Polish Socialist, Stanislas Mendelssohn, had—aided by his friends—escaped from the Prussian police at another frontier station (Alexandrovo, I think), just as his surrender to the Russians was to be effected. He got safe through to Switzerland.

I remember my sensations well. It was a lovely May morning, and the sunshine gave me renewed strength. I had scarcely descended from the train with my German guards, when I was surrounded by a crowd of Russian gendarmes.

“Good morning, Deutsch! good morning, sir! Here you are at last! We have been expecting you for ever so long!” were their greetings. I saw round me the fresh, smiling faces of young Russian peasant lads, surmounting the hated dark blue uniform. Their free, familiar bearing made me smile back at them as if old friends were welcoming me.

“How do you know me?” I asked them, as we went towards the gendarmes’ quarters.

“Oh, of course we know you; we’ve heard such a lot about you!” cried several. “Will you come and have some tea at once, or brush the dust off first?” they asked, and vied with each other in doing the agreeable and making me at home. It was a curious contrast to the manners of my German guards. The Russians were frank and simple; there was something of even friendly confidence in their behaviour. To the German police I was a dangerous criminal, who went about under false names. They had their orders, and followed them rigidly, not troubling themselves with anything beyond that, hoping thereby to gain a reward (as I gathered from their whispered talk when they supposed me asleep). To the Russian gendarmes,[^[22]] who never have anything to do with common criminals, I was a “political offender,” a “State prisoner” (as we call it), whose name they had heard so often that they looked on me quite as an old acquaintance.[acquaintance.] I had not been in Russia for four years, and the first persons I met from whom I heard my mother tongue were gendarmes. The reader will be able to understand my mingled feelings. Any uninitiated person glancing into the room where I sat before the steaming samovar, refreshing myself with tea, and gossiping with the gendarmes standing round, might have thought we were a party of old friends enjoying a cosy chat.

“Well, what’s it like in foreign parts?—not so nice as here, eh?” asked the lads; and I related how in “foreign parts” it was ever so much nicer than at home, in many ways. But that they would not allow to be possible, and we disputed about it, till at last everyone present, ten or twelve men, were all talking at once. When this topic was exhausted I asked what was the news at home, what was happening? They then described excitedly how all Russia had just been celebrating the majority of the heir-apparent, the present Tsar.

The German police having fulfilled their commission and handed me over with bag and baggage, had departed, probably somewhat disappointed, for no reward had been given them—in Granitza, at least. After some hours an officer of the gendarmerie appeared, and commanded some of the men to be ready to escort me, as I was to go on by the next train. I saw that he gave over to one of them the money that had been taken from me by the German police. Unobserved, I immediately drew out the Russian money I had concealed about me, and then handed it to the officer, for I feared it might be discovered if I were carefully searched. He was greatly surprised, and asked if I had never been searched in Germany. He then ordered me to be searched again, which was done with every care; but all the same, the rest of my German money and the scissors were not found.

Three gendarmes accompanied me on the journey to Petersburg. In Warsaw, where we arrived during the night, a colonel of gendarmerie was awaiting me. Like most of his kind, he was very polite and ready to converse.

“You were concerned in the Tchigirìn case?” he began; and when I assented, he continued confidentially, “Ah, that was a long while ago. Wasn’t it at the time of the Polish rising? Well, then, you will have the benefit of the coronation amnesty; they won’t have much against you.”

At the time of the Polish insurrection, in 1863, I was only eight years old. This is an illustration of how much many of the officers of gendarmerie know about the political trials which are supposed to be their own special business. This friendly sympathy did not prevent him, of course, from giving my escort the strictest orders about my treatment, as I could hear when seated in the carriage. “Be sure you don’t fall asleep!” he whispered. The gendarmes, however, did not allow this to trouble their minds much, but continued to treat me in a very easy-going fashion, and did not manifest any fear of my running away.

When we arrived in Petersburg a captain of gendarmerie met us, and took me at once in a closed carriage to the Fortress of Peter and Paul.

FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL, ST. PETERSBURG

To face page 48

CHAPTER VI
THE FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL—THE PUBLIC PROSECUTOR AS COMPATRIOT—A HARD-HEARTED DOCTOR—A FLEETING ACQUAINTANCE

A strange feeling came over me when I saw that I was being conveyed to this prison, used by the Government of the Tsars for political offenders only; a place never spoken of in Russia without a shudder. I approached it with dark forebodings, but these gave place to interest. I knew well that a cruel severity ruled in this place, but I could not help being curious to experience it personally. The reality fully answered to my expectations.

I was taken at once to a room where the governor of the prison, Colonel Lesnik of the gendarmerie, ordered me to strip to the skin. A couple of gendarmes examined me carefully, and then gave me, instead of my own clothes, prison under-linen, a striped cotton gown, such as is worn in hospitals, and a pair of slippers. My own clothes and other things were taken away. I was then shut up in a cell on the ground floor.

Everything goes on here in utter silence; not a word is heard, the stillness is intense. No one could imagine that men lived here year after year; it felt like a house of the dead. Only the chimes of the clock broke upon the ear, sounding out every quarter of an hour the national hymn, “How glorious is our Lord in Zion!”

The cell was large, but dark, as the window was high up in the wall. It was cold, despite the May weather, for the sunshine never entered here, and the walls were damp. Besides the iron bedstead with its straw mattress, pillow, and thin woollen covering, there were an iron table and a stool, both chained to the wall, and the customary evil-smelling tub. Even at three o’clock in the afternoon darkness reigned, although at this season Petersburg enjoys its “bright nights,” when it never gets really dark. Reading was not to be thought of. Above everything I was sensible of the extreme cold, partly due to the situation of the cell, but chiefly to the insufficiency of my clothing. To warm myself I marched up and down from one corner to the other till I was tired; but hardly had I sat down a minute than I began to freeze again all over. Even in bed I felt the same penetrating cold, for the blanket was very thin.

My rations consisted of about two pounds of black bread, and for dinner at midday two dishes, which were not bad, but insufficient in quantity—always half cold, moreover, as all the food had to be brought a long way. As an unconvicted prisoner I could have provided myself with better accommodation at my own expense; but that was impossible at first, because the gendarmes who brought me had given over my luggage and my money to the officer of gendarmerie, and he had delivered it to the Central Department of the State Police. The worst of this was that it meant the loss of my spectacles, and therefore I could not read, another privilege to which I had a right, as an unconvicted prisoner. This made the days, and the nights too, seem interminable. I did everything I could think of to occupy myself. I tried arithmetical problems, of course in my head, for writing materials were not allowed; I related my own history as an exercise of memory; and at last I hit on the plan of “publishing” a newspaper. When I had got through washing and dressing in the morning, I ate a piece of bread, and then “read my paper.” First came a leading article on some question of the day, then the summary of news, gossip of the town, notes, etc. After some days, of course, my “copy” began to run short, and the contents of my journal became very uninteresting. The reading of it could not occupy the whole day, and I was often, too, kept awake at night by the cold; so I filled in my time by running up and down, up and down, like a beast in its cage.

Outdoor exercise brought little relief from the eternal solitude; it was only taken every other day, and lasted a very short while. The time allowed was but a quarter of an hour, including dressing and undressing, my own clothes being brought to me for these occasions. My walks took place in a yard enclosed with high walls, where no one was to be seen but gendarmes and sentries. The slightest attempt to converse with them was forbidden, or even that they should answer the simplest question. If one asked anything they stared straight in one’s face and were dumb.

After some days, however, an occupation provided itself; I became aware of a gentle knocking, perceptible at a slight distance from the wall. When I was in prison before I had learned to use this means of communication with my fellow-captives, and the alphabetical code at once came back to me.[^[23]]

It is difficult to describe my joy when I heard the familiar sounds, and supposed they must be addressed to myself, but I was soon undeceived. I began to knock back, but found out at once that the signals were not meant for me; two friends were having conversation, and they would not answer my attempts to introduce myself. This knocking was strictly forbidden, and they hesitated to admit an unknown person to their company, fearing to be entrapped, and deprived of further intercourse. I was obliged to content myself with making out what these two said to each other in their short conversations, but it was only stereotyped, often-recurring phrases: “Good morning,” “How have you slept?” “What are you doing?” and the answers: “Well,” “Drinking tea,” etc. I envied them the exchange of such insignificant speeches. I never discovered whether they were two men or two women, or a man and a woman.

I do not know how long it was before I underwent my first examination, it must have been about eight or ten days. Until then, from the first moment I arrived in Russia, I had not officially been even asked my name. Like a box or parcel coming from abroad, I had been passed on from hand to hand with my official form of consignment, no one caring to learn who I was. The gendarmes appeared to know that I had taken the name of Bulìgin, being in reality Deutsch; but they had no idea with what I was charged, and did not seem interested to find out. Besides, in the Fortress of Peter and Paul names were not necessary—were even useless—for one was never spoken to, intercourse was carried on by gestures only.

One morning my clothes were brought me, as I supposed for the customary walk, but I was led into a room where at a table covered with a blue cloth sat three men dressed like functionaries of the law. I was given a chair, and one of them informed me he was the examining magistrate “in specially grave cases” at the Petersburg law courts. His own name was Olshàninov, and he introduced one of his companions as the Public Prosecutor, Mouraviev;[^[24]] the name of the third he did not tell me.

Then began the hearing of the case. To the usual questions concerning name, etc., I answered the truth. I knew I had nothing now either to lose or to gain. I told the whole story of the assault on Gorinòvitch, of course not giving the name of any other person concerned, and not attempting to excuse myself in the least. I knew I could injure no one now by telling the whole affair, for all who were in any way connected with it had been sentenced five years back; and as to myself, it could make no difference, for by the terms of the extradition treaty between Russia and Baden the conditions of my prosecution were strictly laid down. In the interests of historical accuracy I considered it right that this episode in our movement should be correctly described.

During the hearing, which was conducted by the magistrate, the official whose name had not been mentioned addressed several questions to me. I did not recognise him at first, but later it appeared that I had known him at Kiëv, where—in 1877—he took part in my trial. His name was Kotliarèvsky; he was then Deputy Public Prosecutor in Kiëv, and now filled the same post at the Petersburg Appeal Courts, where he had to conduct the political cases in particular. It will thus be seen that this was the real owner of the position which Bogdanòvitch had falsely claimed when pretending to identify me at Freiburg. Although Kotliarèvsky was in very bad odour with the revolutionists, and had been shot at by Ossìnsky in 1878, I was in a way glad to meet him in this gloomy place, for, at any rate, his face was a familiar one. And he behaved in a very friendly way to me. We were soon deep in conversation, recounting our respective experiences since we had last met. That we might not disturb the magistrate, who was making out the protocol, we sat a little apart, and chatted quite comfortably. Kotliarèvsky remarked that I had altered very much; “and not only in outward appearance, I mean,” he said, “your whole character seems to me changed.” That might well be. Kotliarèvsky was noted for keen observation, and this faculty was very useful to him in his peculiar sphere.

“Do you remember what a hot-headed young fellow you were? How you once nearly threw an ink-bottle at my head?”

I remembered the incident perfectly, and saw why he referred to it. When I was at Kiëv I was in a high state of nervous excitability, and in consequence was often hasty and irritable. Partly because of this, and partly because I was a member of the “Buntari,” in whose programme was included a continual warfare against all recognised authorities, Kotliarèvsky and I once came to loggerheads. The point of dispute was the signing of a protocol, which I absolutely refused to do. In a towering passion I seized the ink-bottle, and was quite ready to hurl it at him had he persisted in trying to force me; but he saw my intention, and keeping quite composed, called the warder and whispered something to him. Seeing the man hasten away, I thought he had gone for the guard to put me in confinement. Great was my surprise and joy, therefore, when after a few minutes the door opened, and my friend Stefanòvitch[^[25]] appeared on the threshold. It was a delight to us both, for although in the same prison, we had not hitherto been allowed to meet.

“Will you kindly pacify your comrade?” said Kotliarèvsky, turning to Stefanòvitch. “His nerves seem a little overstrained.”

I learned thus to appreciate the adroitness of this man, and thanked him now for his considerate treatment of me on that occasion, which seemed to gratify him.

In the course of our conversation I expressed my surprise that although I had been surrendered by Germany as an ordinary criminal, only to be proceeded against as such, they had brought me to the Fortress of Peter and Paul, which everyone knows is reserved for “politicals.” “Neither do I understand,” I added, “why I have been brought to Petersburg, when the deed for which I am to answer was committed in Odessa, and according to law the trial should take place there.”

Kotliarèvsky gave me no answer on this point, but he promised to see about my being allowed to provide myself with more comforts from my own purse, and said he would speak to Plehve,[^[26]] the chief of the Central Department of the State Police.

Shortly after this Colonel Lesnik gave me a more comfortable cell on the first floor, and henceforward he treated me somewhat better. Two days later he told me that my money and luggage had arrived from the police department, so I could now purchase food and tobacco. I congratulated myself even more on getting my spectacles again; but it seemed that for this I must have an order from the prison doctor, and he was sent to see me. He was an elderly man of between sixty and seventy, and had the rank of a general officer. He was well known to be of a very harsh and unpleasant disposition, and soon gave me a proof of his quality. He turned up my eyelids, fixed me with a forbidding glare, and declared off-hand that my eyes were perfectly normal and that I did not need glasses. In reality qualified oculists have diagnosed a rather unusual abnormality in my vision, and since my eighteenth year I have been obliged to use spectacles for reading.

This dictum of the prison doctor upset me cruelly; I felt so desperate that I could scarcely control myself, but was ready to weep and to curse.

“I beg you to consider again,” I cried. “You are quite mistaken; I really cannot read without glasses. Think what you are doing; you are condemning me to a hideous torture, in robbing me of the only distraction allowed here.”

Nothing was of any avail; the man remained immovable, repeating obstinately, “You do not need glasses,” and therewith took his departure. I clenched my fists, a prey to impotent wrath, and nearly broke down altogether. But what was I to do? I had to bear it; and it is hard to say what a man cannot put up with. But to this moment I cannot think of that doctor without my blood boiling. The only consolation left me was my cigarette, and it became a friend and comforter in my loneliness. To a captive smoking not merely gives pleasure, but takes from him the sense of utter desolation.

The days passed on in miserable inactivity. Then one morning a sound fell upon my ears, someone was knocking again, and in my immediate neighbourhood, as it seemed. Was it for me? I replied at once with the familiar signal. It was for me; what joy! Now I should know what comrades lay here, and should be able to exchange thoughts with a human being.

“Who are you?” “In what case are you concerned?” were the questions I deciphered. I seized my comb, the only hard movable object to be found in my prison cell, and tapped the answer. My interlocutor expressed his surprise and asked, “How did you come here?” To my question, “Who are you?” the answer was “Kobiliànsky.” I was no less surprised to “meet” him here (if so one may express it). We had not previously known one another personally, but I knew that in 1880 he had been condemned to penal servitude for life, on account of his participation in various terrorist affairs, and had long ago been deported to the Siberian mines on the Kara. How came he, then, to be in the Fortress of Peter and Paul? I burned with impatience to learn his adventures, but he was just as anxious to hear mine, and I had to give way to him. Scarcely, however, had I told him as shortly as possible how I had been arrested in Germany and given up to Russia, when I was interrupted by a voice, “So you are knocking?”

I sprang up and looked round. Before me stood Colonel Lesnik, accompanied by some gendarmes. The door had been noiselessly opened; I had been observed, and caught in the act; there was no getting out of it.

“I give you fair warning, if you attempt such a thing again, you will be put back on the ground-floor, and deprived of tobacco and of exercise.” Thereupon he departed, and I felt like a naughty schoolboy, found out and disgraced. Moreover, I had to give up hope of learning why Kobiliànsky had been brought back from Siberia.[^[27]]

Shortly after this event, one day my clothes were brought to me at an unusual hour. I supposed there was going to be another hearing of my case; but no, apparently I was to be taken right away. My luggage was brought, and the captain of the gendarmerie appeared, the same who had escorted me hither from the station.

“Where are we going—to Odessa?” The officer gave me no answer.

“Evidently we are going to the station,” I thought, when the captain and I were seated in a droschky. It was just the transition hour on a “bright night,” when one hardly knows whether it is evening twilight or dawn. The weather was perfect, and I felt my spirits rise at the prospect of the journey to Odessa. But alas! the carriage took another turning, it was not going to the station, and we were soon in the courtyard of a huge stone prison. It was the House of Detention for prisoners under examination.

CHAPTER VII
CHANGED CONDITIONS—A FRUSTRATED PLAN—THE MINISTER’S VISIT—A SECRET OF STATE—MY LITERARY NEIGHBOUR

When the officer of gendarmerie handed me over to the governor of the gaol, he pointed with his finger to a sentence in my charge-sheet, whereupon the governor looked at me sharply. It was clear his attention was being drawn to the warning of my former escapes, and the need for strict surveillance.

I saw from the first that prison rules were less strict here. My belongings, after examination, were brought into my cell. As soon as I could look them over, I sought for the hidden money and scissors, and behold, there they were! The careful scrutiny, both at the fortress and here, had been no more successful in detecting them than had previous examinations. The scissors I again concealed; but I wanted to change the German notes, so as to have at any rate part of my money available, and that was not a very simple matter. I began to observe the warders carefully; there were three of them on my corridor. The man who had searched my luggage seemed to me the most promising, and I determined to bribe him. When he came on duty I took the money out of its hiding-place, and called him into my cell.

“What do you want?” he asked, coming in and shutting the door behind him.

“Did you search my luggage properly when I arrived here?”

“Yes, of course; is anything wrong?” he asked, quite alarmed.

“Oh, nothing much!” I said soothingly. “Only, I had better tell you that you don’t know how to search. Look here! you never found these!” and I held the bank-notes under his nose.

“Impossible!” he cried; “where were they hidden?”

“Well, that is my secret,” said I. “But listen! It is German money, and if changed would come to about fifty roubles.[^[28]] Take it, and when you are off duty go to a money-changer—there are several on the Nevsky Prospekt—and get it changed for Russian money. Half shall be yours, and half mine. Is that agreed?”

“All right. I’ll see to it,” he said, and went off with the money.

“He bites,” I thought to myself; and at once began building castles in the air. I knew from experience that the great thing was to establish communication with the outer world, and this we revolutionists had often effected by bribing warders to take letters into and out of prison. In Kiëv and the south we called such warders “carrier-pigeons.” When I saw how easily this one fell in with my proposal, I immediately began to plan out further steps.

“After a few days,” I said to myself, “we will try him with a letter for the post; and next I shall send him to someone I know with a commission. When once things are in train, who knows? something may come of it.”

It was in the morning that I had given the warder my money, and I was in great excitement all day. Several times he looked through the peephole in my door, smiled and nodded at me, and of course I replied in similar fashion. Towards evening he came into my cell again, and laid my notes down on the table. “Take them back,” he said; “I am afraid of getting into trouble. See here; a little while ago one of the others had two watches given him, and they were found on him, and he was dismissed. You see, I’ve a good place here, and get twenty-five roubles[^[29]] a month. I shouldn’t get so much again in a hurry. No, I’m afraid; take it back!”

Of course I did not press him, for I knew that without courage he would never make a “carrier-pigeon.” I saw no chance now of changing the notes secretly, so I told him to take them to the governor, that they might be added to the rest of my money.

“Tell him you found them in searching my luggage.”

“No, no, that won’t do. There would be no end of a fuss because I hadn’t given them up directly. I’d rather tell the truth, and say you had just given them to me.”

Thus did my visions end in smoke. The money was taken charge of, and no further inquiry made.

Soon after this my books were brought to me, and I could also use the prison library. After being for so long prevented from reading, this was a great boon; and as writing materials were also allowed me, I was altogether far better off here than in the Fortress of Peter and Paul. Still, the little cell with its stone floor became a perfect oven in the heat of summer, most unpleasantly stuffy and dusty; and the food was inferior both in quantity and quality. But the walks were what was most disagreeable. Imagine a huge circle, divided into sections by partitions running from centre to circumference. In these cattle-pens we were allowed to disport ourselves singly, carefully watched all the while by warders stationed on a raised platform at the centre of the circle, commanding all the “cattle-pens”; so that the prisoners had no chance of communicating with each other. One could see nothing but the wooden partitions, the back of the prison buildings, and a narrow strip of sky; but every day we had to breathe the air here for three-quarters of an hour, which seemed an endless time for such “recreation.”

In comparison with the uncanny stillness of the fortress, things here seemed full of life and bustle. The windows of the corridor looked into the street, and its noises could be heard in the cells—the rumbling of carriages, the cries of street-hawkers, or the dulcet music of an organ-grinder. One felt so near freedom that the burden of prison life was the heavier.

One day I heard unusually lively sounds in the corridor—scrubbing, sweeping, and a general tidying-up. Some important visit seemed to be expected, and I soon learned that the Minister of Justice, Nabòkov, was coming to inspect the prison. Shortly after, he appeared in my cell, accompanied by a numerous suite; and when my name was pronounced, he greeted me and said—

“I have read your deposition, and was much pleased with its frankness. I hope you will speak out in the same way before the court.”

I replied that, as I have already said, it was my object to state the exact historical truth.

He went, but came back again, and put one or two unimportant questions to me, looking, however, as though there were something else he would have liked to say. He bent forward a little in speaking, and held his hand to his ear. His whole bearing was simple and unaffected.

Kotliarèvsky was among the suite. He remained behind a moment, and told me he wanted to speak to me when the minister had gone. Some time after I was taken to him in a room that served as the prison schoolroom.

“I am not here on business,” said he, “but I should like to have a chat with you about old times.”

So we sat down on a school-form and talked. Following a remark of mine, Kotliarèvsky touched on the question I had raised before as to the reason for my confinement in the Fortress of Peter and Paul.

“Why, you see, there were very important interests of State to consider,” he said. “It was like this: if you were brought before an ordinary tribunal and only prosecuted on the Gorinòvitch count, you might be merely condemned to seven or eight years in Siberia; and that would not be agreeable in high quarters.” He accented the last words.

“But they cannot try me otherwise,” I cried. “Germany only extradited me on that stipulation.”

“Well, that remains to be seen,” said he. “We are at present on very good terms with Bismarck, and he would not mind at all giving us this little proof of his friendship. Or, if necessary, it could easily be made out that you had committed some offence after your extradition. Which reminds me—the Germans have sent us on all the notes that you made in Freiburg gaol.”

I was utterly astonished. I remembered that from sheer ennui I had now and then written down odds and ends of notes, plans, etc., while I was at Freiburg, but I could not conceive how those scraps could have come into the hands of the Russian Government, for I had destroyed all my manuscripts before leaving. I could only suppose that when I was out of my cell for exercise some single sheets might have been abstracted. Even then it seemed impossible that they could afford any foundation for a fresh accusation sufficient to set aside the extradition treaty with Germany. But Kotliarèvsky reassured me on that head.

“Oh, never fear! they would soon manage that. Nothing would be easier than to get Germany’s consent, and then they would sentence you according to your deserts. People who have had far less against them than you—Malìnka, Drebyàsgin, Maidànsky—have long ago been executed. And you—you broke out of prison just when you were at last to be brought up for judgment in the Gorinòvitch case. Then for quite eight years you were engaged in conspiracies; and then you were the instigator, along with Stefanòvitch, of the Tchigirìn affair, and so on, and so on. That all this should only let you in for a few years’ hard labour did not at all suit the views of Government. So when you were extradited a special council was held in high circles. Of course, I was not there. I am not numbered among the elect; but this is what I have been told. At first they were all unanimous in declaring that a modification of the extradition treaty must be arranged, so that you might be brought before a special tribunal. Then, as you can easily imagine, they would have made short work with you! But one of these great personages had a qualm, and he urged, ‘Germany might fall in with our views. Well and good! But is that really a good precedent? They have caught Deutsch for us now. To-morrow a still more important capture might be made in some other country, and then it might be hard for us to get an extradition. The Press would make a hubbub; they would say, Russia never respects treaties, and would point to the case of Deutsch as an example.’ This consideration influenced the majority, and it was consequently resolved to proceed against you in the Gorinòvitch case only. This is why you were put into the Fortress of Peter and Paul until a decision was arrived at.”

It is quite possible that Kotliarèvsky betrayed this secret of state to me with the object of loosening my tongue; but perhaps he really had no afterthought, and told tales out of school just for the joke of it.

In the further course of our conversation he touched on many subjects, among others on political prosecutions in Russia. I remarked to him how often perfectly harmless persons were condemned to fearful punishments.

“What would you have?” he replied. “When trees are felled there must be chips. As the ancient Romans said: ‘Summum jus, summa injuria.’ Personally I do not approve of capital punishment at all. I say to myself that in a great state political offences are inevitable. With a population of many millions there must always be a few thousand malcontents, and, of course, examples must be made of any disturbers of the peace. But a strong Government ought to be able to render them innocuous without resorting to the death penalty.”

In pursuance of this theme, he then asked me, to all appearance casually, how many Terrorists in my opinion there might be in Russia. I answered that I knew nothing at all about it, for I myself did not now belong to the Terrorists, but to the Social-Democratic party.

“Oh yes,” he said, “but as a ‘friendly power’ you must be able to judge as to the strength of the terrorist organisation. I think myself their numbers must be very small now.”

In point of fact there were indeed very few active Terrorists left in Russia. I did not, however, wish to strengthen Kotliarèvsky’s opinion about the “friendly powers,” so told him that according to my estimate there could be only a few thousand, not more.

“How can you make that out?” he asked. “It is quite impossible; I reckon at most some hundreds. They have been imprisoned in crowds just lately.”

I persisted in my opinion, and therewith we separated.

At this time, i.e. in the summer of 1881, there were in this House of Detention a number of prisoners accused of different political offences. One of these so-called offences, on account of which numberless persons had been sent to prison in Petersburg, Moscow, and many smaller towns, or even in Siberia, was what Kotliarèvsky called “the old clothes case.” He gave me the following account of this highly important affair of state. In some domiciliary visit the police had found a note containing the names of persons who were assisting the political prisoners by providing them with clothes and other necessaries. Thereupon a number of these persons were arrested; and he told me that an imposing case was being trumped up against this “secret society,” under the name of the “Red Cross League of the Naròdnaia Vòlya.” (Of course, Kotliarèvsky did not mind giving a sly hit at the gendarmerie, with whom the police officials have many little tiffs, each often putting a spoke in the other’s wheel.)

A pretty conspiracy indeed—for providing prisoners with old clothes! I shall hereafter always allude to this case as the “old clothes affair,” and hope to show by it some of the little peculiarities of “administrative methods” in Russia. These “administrative methods” are sometimes extremely unpleasant for those treated by them. The gendarmerie can imprison people, and exile them to Siberia or the outlying provinces without trial, all by “administrative methods.”

Besides those implicated in the “old clothes affair,” there were at this time in the gaol many prisoners involved in other cases, among them several well-known literary men—Protopòpov, Krivènko, Stanyukòvitch, and Erthel. The first-named was my neighbour, and we were soon knocking to one another, though not without some misunderstanding at the outset. Directly I told him my name he left off replying to my taps, I could not imagine why. Several days passed. I could hear him going up and down in his cell, could catch his voice when he spoke to the warder, but he left all my signals unanswered; so concluding that he was afraid of being caught (though the officials of this prison did not seem to make much fuss over the knocking), I left off in despair. After a little, however, he began again. “Why do you hide your name from me?” he asked. I replied that I had told him my name at the very beginning, and repeated it; upon which he hastened to apologise: “I took you for a spy; for I could not make out what you said, and thought you seemed to be knocking confusedly on purpose, so that I might not decipher the name.”

We now conversed together freely. Our names were well known to each other, and we had many common friends. Of course, we were very anxious to know one another by sight, and we accomplished this in the following manner. From the windows of our cells, which were on the fifth floor, we could see into the “cattle-pens”; and though we were all supposed to take our exercise at the same time, we arranged together that each should manage to get out of it on different days, and that he who remained in his cell should recognise the other by a preconcerted signal. The next thing was to know one another’s voice, and this also we succeeded in effecting. We knew that in this prison, “politicals,” in the “Case of the 193,” not only spoke together, but even conveyed small objects to one another, by means of the water-closet pipes. The sanitary system here was so arranged that on all the six storeys each pair of cells was in communication, not only with one another, but also with those immediately above and below. Thus twelve prisoners could arrange together that they should simultaneously let the water run, so making a space in the pipes that acted as a speaking-tube; and if one spoke into the opening the voice could be heard perfectly in the connected cells, while the running water prevented any inconvenient odour. In this fashion we instituted a club of twelve members.

CHAPTER VIII
FRESH FEARS—THE COLONEL OF GENDARMERIE—INQUIRY INTO THE CASE OF GENERAL MEZENTZEV’S MURDER—MEETING WITH BOGDANOVITCH—DEPARTURE

During my imprisonment in the Petersburg House of Detention my spirits were altogether more cheerful than they had been since my first arrest. At Freiburg I had been in a chronic state of excitement and unrest, longing for the freedom that seemed so near. In the Fortress of Peter and Paul I had been downcast and despairing. Now I had reached a condition of equanimity and indifference.

“Hard labour in the Siberian mines,” I thought to myself. “What does it matter whether it be for ten years or fifteen? It is much the same to me.” My future was done for, my life gone. It is hard for a man to reconcile himself to such a thought, particularly when he feels physically sound and healthy, but one does somehow get accustomed to it. At times there will arise sudden hopes, dreams of unexpected luck, of happiness in a distant future; and then wild visions chase one another in dazzling pictures through one’s brain. But I had lived through too many bitter self-deceptions of the kind when I was at Freiburg; and I was only annoyed with myself when I found my fancy dallying with them, and tried to extinguish them at once. “Nonsense!” I cried to myself; “if anything, the only unexpected turn Fate will do you will be some bad trick.” And I steadfastly made up my mind to the worst.

Weeks had gone by since my change of prisons, and during that time I had not been once up for examination. I did not know in the least how my affair was going. “Perhaps in ‘high circles’ they’ve taken a new departure, and invented some other means of treating me as a political criminal. Why am I not brought before the court? Why do they not send me to Odessa? Something must be happening.” I had begun to fidget in this way occasionally, when one July morning, as I came back from my walk feeling rather cheerful, the warder said to me, “Make yourself ready; they have come to fetch you!” A hired droschky awaited me at the door, and I and a gendarme got into it. From him I could learn nothing as to our destination, and although this uncertainty did not last long, it made me feel uncomfortably nervous. After about half an hour the carriage stopped in the courtyard of a large building. I was taken into a small cell with a tiny window, whose panes were of thick ribbed glass. As I was pacing up and down here I noticed an officer at the peephole in the door observing me closely.

“May I come in?” he asked, hesitatingly opening the peephole window.

“A strange question! I am at your disposal, not you at mine,” said I. The door opened, and smiling apologetically, a young man in the uniform of a colonel of gendarmerie stepped in.

“Allow me to introduce myself”—he bowed and clicked his spurs together—“Colonel Ivànov.”

“I do not understand,” said I. “Will you please tell me where I am, and why I have been brought here?”

“This is the office of the gendarmerie headquarters; you have been brought here for examination, and will soon be taken before the Public Prosecutor. I only wanted to have a chat with you, and revive some old memories. We have many common acquaintances.”

“But how do you know me?” I asked, surprised.

“Oh, excuse me,” he cried, smiling, “there is hardly an intelligent person in all Russia who does not know you by name.”

The young gentleman appeared to class himself among the “intellectuals”—that set in Russian Society which just at this time was protesting against the reactionary tendency and making its influence felt in some of the best Russian journals. In the language of that section of the Press it was customary to designate the revolutionists by the harmless title of “intellectuals.”

“Oh, we have many common acquaintances,” the colonel resumed. “I knew all your comrades—Malinka, Drebyàsghin, Maidànsky. I was formerly adjutant of gendarmerie at Odessa, and made acquaintance with them there. They were really delightful people.”

Now I understood why this man was a colonel already, notwithstanding his youth. The big political cases during the end of the seventies and beginning of the eighties had given many officers of gendarmerie and of the law grand opportunities for self-advancement. The lives and freedom of the “politicals” were the merchandise by which they founded their fortunes. This gentleman had no doubt played no insignificant part in condemning to penal servitude or to death those comrades of mine on whom he was now lavishing his compliments. Perhaps he had been the originator of the happy thought by which the traitor Kùritzin was induced to sacrifice so many victims.[^[30]]

My interview with this engaging young man was not exactly to my mind, and I was glad to be called away. I was taken to a comfortably furnished apartment, where Kotliarèvsky was seated in an armchair before a large table, looking over some papers.

“I have some documents here that concern you,” he said, and began to read aloud:—

“In the beginning of August, 1878, the widow of the murdered Baron Gèhkin, adjutant in the gendarmerie, observed in the neighbourhood of General Mèzentzev’s house two young men who were apparently watching for the General.” The document went on to state that the Baroness had recognised one of these young men to be myself; and on the following day she had seen them again on the watch, her cousin Baron Berg being with her at the time. Then followed a paper in which Baron Berg corroborated the lady’s evidence. There was a time, 1878-9, when a good many people delighted in romancing about me, and persisted in ascribing to me a prominent rôle in events taking place in the most widely separated parts of Russia. These imaginings even found their way into the press, and I was often surprised to read in the papers accounts of my varied exploits; I seemed to be a perfect Stenka Rasìn![^[31]]