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[Illustration: _Leo. Deutsch._]

                        SIXTEEN YEARS IN SIBERIA

                         SOME EXPERIENCES OF A
                         RUSSIAN REVOLUTIONIST

               FIRST EDITION            _October,  1903_
               Reprinted                _December, 1903_
               Reprinted                _February, 1904_

                        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.

Footnote 1:

  See _Russia_, by D. M. Wallace.

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

 TRANSLATOR’S PREFACE                                            _Pages_
                                                                   v-xii

                                CHAPTER I
 Journey to Germany—Imprisonment in Freiburg—Episodes from          1-11
   the past of the Revolutionary movement

                               CHAPTER II
 The cause of my arrest—Professor Thun—My defence—Plans of         12-20
   escape—My legal adviser

 Uncertainty—Prison life—The Public Prosecutor—A change of         21-29
   cells

                               CHAPTER IV
 The visit of “my wife”—More plans of escape—The Public            30-41
   Prosecutor shows his hand—reparations for a journey

                                CHAPTER V
 The journey to Russia—In the cattle-truck—The Frankfort           42-48
   and Berlin prisons—The frontier-station—Through Warsaw
   to Petersburg

                               CHAPTER VI
 The Fortress of Peter and Paul—The Public Prosecutor as           49-57
   compatriot—A hard-hearted doctor—A fleeting acquaintance

                               CHAPTER VII
 Changed conditions—A frustrated plan—The minister’s               58-66
   visit—A secret of State—My literary neighbour

                              CHAPTER VIII
 Fresh fears—The Colonel of Gendarmerie—Inquiry into the           67-72
   case of General Mezentzev’s murder—Meeting with
   Bogdanovitch—Departure

                               CHAPTER IX
 A ray of hope—An unheard-of régime—The hunger-strike—Our          73-82
   club—A secret ally

                                CHAPTER X
 A brave officer—My military service—The trial—Further             83-93
   examinations

                               CHAPTER XI
 The visit of the minister—I am turned into a convict—The         94-104
   prison at Kiëv

                               CHAPTER XII
 New acquaintances—The girl-conspirators of Romny—Arrival        105-114
   in Moscow—Companions in destiny—A liberal-minded
   governor

                              CHAPTER XIII
 The trial of the fourteen—Recollections of Vera                 115-122
   Figner—Numerous imprisonments—_Agents Provocateurs_

                               CHAPTER XIV
 A not incorruptible inspector—Broken fetters—Resistance to      123-129
   the shaving process—Visitors in the prison

                               CHAPTER XV
 Political condition of Russia and the revolutionary             130-137
   party—Our little society—Fête days—Prohibited visits—A
   lecture on manners

                               CHAPTER XVI
 Preparations for our travels—The boat journey by the Volga      138-147
   and the Kama—Ekaterinburg—On the troika—“To Europe, to
   Asia”

                              CHAPTER XVII
 In Tiumen—Parting—On the Siberian rivers—A startling            148-157
   proposal

                              CHAPTER XVIII
 By way of the convoy-stations—A clumsy officer—The              158-168
   vagabond—A man-hunt

                               CHAPTER XIX
 The forest—Unsuccessful attempts at escape—The people we        169-183
   met—The criminal world—The convoy officers

                               CHAPTER XX
 From Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk—Misunderstandings and               184-193
   disputes—The women in Irkutsk prison

                               CHAPTER XXI
 The chief of police at Irkutsk—Meeting with exiled              194-208
   comrades—From Irkutsk to Kara—Stolen fetters—A dubious
   kind of Decabrist—Another contest—Arrival at our
   journey’s end

                              CHAPTER XXII
 First days at Kara—Friends old and new                          209-220

                              CHAPTER XXIII
 The organisation of our common life—The “Siriuses”—Wagers       221-232

                              CHAPTER XXIV
 Some details of the prison’s history—The “Tom-cat”—The          233-247
   “Sanhedrin’s room“—My first Siberian spring

                               CHAPTER XXV
 Humours and pastimes of prison life—Two new                     248-265
   commandants—The “Hospital”—The participators in armed
   resistance

                              CHAPTER XXVI
 The women’s prison                                              266-274

                              CHAPTER XXVII
 The “colonists”—Further events in the women’s prison—The        275-282
   hunger-strikes—The Yakutsk massacre

                             CHAPTER XXVIII
 Our celebration of the centenary of the French                  283-290
   Revolution—Sergius Bobohov—The end of the tragedy

                              CHAPTER XXIX
 Disquieting reports—Visit of the Governor-General—Release       291-299
   from prison

                               CHAPTER XXX
 Nizhnaya-Kara—New life—Stolen gold                              300-306

                              CHAPTER XXXI
 The tour of the Heir-Apparent through Siberia—Our life in       307-315
   the penal settlement—An incensed official

                              CHAPTER XXXII
 The death of the Tsar—New manifestoes—The census                316-322

                             CHAPTER XXXIII
 A prehistoric monument—My departure from Kara—Life in           323-346
   Stretyensk—My transference to Blagovèstshensk—The
   massacres of July, 1900

                              CHAPTER XXXIV
 My flight from Siberia—The end of my journey round the          347-359
   world—My friend Axelrod again—Conclusion

 INDEX                                                               361

                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 LEO DEUTSCH, IN PRISON DRESS                        _Frontispiece_

 FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL, ST. PETERSBURG       _To face page_     48

 PRISONERS MARCHING THROUGH THE STREETS OF ODESSA        “           96

 “BUTIRKI,” THE CENTRAL PRISON AT MOSCOW                 “          110

 PORTRAITS: TCHUIKOV, SPANDONI, VERA FIGNER,             “          112
 STEFANOVITCH, MIRSKY

 SIBERIAN HALTING-STATION (ÉTAPE)                        “          146

 IN A SIBERIAN PRISON                                    “          158

 ROLL-CALL OF PRISONERS AT A HALTING-STATION             “          160

 ESCAPED CONVICT-TRAMP (BRODYAGA)                        “          164

 AN ATTEMPT AT ESCAPE                                    “          170

 PORTRAITS: MARTINOVSKY, STARINKYEVITCH,                 “          208
 SUNDELEVITCH, ZLATOPOLSKY, PRYBYLYEV, YEMELYANOV

 PRISONERS GOLD-WASHING AT KARA                          “          232

 YARD OF KARA PRISON FOR “POLITICALS”                    “          254

 DULEMBA, KOHN, RECHNYEVSKY, LURI, MANKOVSKY             “          258

 LURI, SOUHOMLIN, AND RECHNYEVSKY, IN PRISON             “          260
 DRESS

 PORTRAITS: A. KORBA, E. KOVALSKAYA, N. SIGIDA,          “          266
 M. KOVALEVSKAYA, N. SMIRNITSKAYA, S. BOGOMOLETZ

 GRAVEYARD OF POLITICAL PRISONERS AT KARA                “          290

 THE PENAL SETTLEMENT, KARA                              “          300

 COTTAGE SHARED BY “POLITICALS” IN THE KARA PENAL        “          302
 SETTLEMENT

 KARA PRISONERS AT WORK                                  “          308

 FEMALE CRIMINALS AT KARA DRAWING WATER-CART             “          310

 AGED ORDINARY PRISONERS AT KARA                         “          314

 THE COSSACK VILLAGE OF STRETYENSK                       “          324

 BLAGOVESTSHENSK                                         “          328

 ON THE AMUR NEAR BLAGOVESTSHENSK—THE SCENE OF           “          336
 THE MASSACRE

                        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.

Footnote 2:

  _Naròdnaia Vòlya_: literally, “the People’s Will,” the name of the
  chief revolutionary party in Russia at the time with which the
  narrative is now dealing, and also of its secretly printed
  newspaper.—_Trans._

“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.

Footnote 3:

  This treaty was only concluded in the autumn of 1885.

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]

Footnote 4:

  Organised by the revolutionists for teaching the principles of
  Socialism, and awakening the desire for liberty; for which purpose was
  instituted the policy of “going among the people,” _i.e._ living among
  the peasants like one of themselves,—_Trans._

Footnote 5:

  The reader who is interested in this period of the Russian revolution
  will find much information in the work of Professor Thun, _Geschichte
  der revolutionären Bewegung in Russland_, and in Stepniak’s
  _Underground Russia_.

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.

Footnote 6:

  _Bunt_ means both “uprising” and “revolt”; the name of the society
  might be translated “Agitators of Kiëv.” Its object was to stir up and
  organise risings among the peasantry.—_Trans._

Footnote 7:

  In the language of the Russian revolutionaries those are called
  “illegals” who have for any reason already become suspected by the
  authorities, and who therefore must conceal their identity under
  fictitious names.

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]

Footnote 8:

  At the time of the emancipation of the serfs the peasants in the
  Tchigirìn district of the province of Kiëv did not wish to divide into
  private property the land allotted to them, but to hold it in common,
  as was done in the north of Russia. In 1875 the Government took the
  harshest measures against them: arrests, executions, and persecutions
  of every kind; but the peasants held firm. The revolutionists, among
  others Stefanòvitch, Bohanòvsky, and myself, resolved accordingly to
  organise a rising among the Tchigirìn peasantry. Our plans failed, we
  ourselves were arrested, and the Tchigirìn trial instituted. See also
  Thun’s _Geschichte der revolutionären Bewegung in Russland_, and
  Stepniak’s _Underground Russia_.

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

Footnote 9:

  See note, p. 98.

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.

Footnote 10:

  “White” terrorism was that practised by the Government for the
  intimidation of the revolutionists—wholesale arrests, banishment,
  imprisonment, death penalties, etc. “Red” terrorism was the answer of
  the revolutionists,—war waged against the Government and its
  representatives with pistol, knife, and bomb, also with the object of
  intimidation.—_Trans._

                               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.

Footnote 11:

  See note, p. 98.

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!”

Footnote 12:

  These particulars were necessary, because they applied to Bulìgin, the
  friend from whom I had borrowed a passport for this journey, and whose
  name I always used when travelling. He really did live at Zurich with
  his wife and child, and attended the University there.

Footnote 13:

  This corresponded pretty nearly with fact. About a year previously, in
  1883, Plehànov, Vera Zassoùlitch, Axelrod, and I had founded the
  Social-Democratic organisation—“The League for the Emancipation of
  Labour”; the object of which was to spread the doctrines of Marx in
  Russia, by means of translations and original writings. Some of the
  papers in my box were of this description, the first fruits of our
  literary activity, which had just been printed by our private press
  established for the purpose.

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.

    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]

Footnote 14:

  During my stay in Siberia, later, this fear of fire in the German
  prison was often brought to my mind. Thousands of prisoners, condemned
  to exile or to penal servitude, are there confined in wooden barracks,
  serving alike as prisons and as halting-places for convoys of exiles
  on the march. These buildings are always lighted, and the prisoners
  smoke quite calmly, without anyone thinking of danger from fire.

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.

Footnote 15:

  “Kassiber,” Russian prison-slang.

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.

Footnote 16:

  This term is the nearest English equivalent to the German
  _Staatsanwalt_, a functionary attached to every court of law. A
  corresponding official exists in Russia, with a colleague, the Public
  Advocate, who undertakes the defence of any prisoner unable or
  unwilling to employ a counsel of his own.—_Trans._

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]

Footnote 17:

  This was true. The passport was forged, and my comrade who travelled
  with it bore another name in Russia.

“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.

Footnote 18:

  See pp. 86 and 98.

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]

Footnote 19:

  Rozòvsky was executed early in the year 1880.

“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.”

Footnote 20:

  The object of the treaty was to ensure the trial of the case in the
  ordinary criminal courts. The Russian Government’s practice, in
  dealing with “politicals,” was to subject them to martial law, and so
  obtain heavier sentences; _e.g._ capital punishment, which is not
  inflicted at all under the Russian civil code.—_Trans._

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]

Footnote 21:

  Degàiev, a captain of artillery, was a prominent member of the
  “Naròdnaia Vòlya.” Arrested and imprisoned in the beginning of 1880,
  he soon turned informer, and betrayed many of his former comrades. By
  this he not only gained his liberty, but also won the confidence of
  the notorious persecutor of revolutionists, Colonel Soudyèhkin,
  commander of the Petersburg _Ochrana_ (a body of secret police). Pangs
  of conscience, or fear of the vengeance of the revolutionists, caused
  him to make a full confession to them in 1883, and as amends for his
  treachery he offered to stand by them in an attempt to assassinate
  Soudyèhkin. The latter was difficult to entrap, being extraordinarily
  clever and wary; owing to which qualities he had done more harm to the
  revolutionists than anybody else. Degàiev’s proposal was accepted; and
  in the winter of 1883 he managed to decoy Soudyèhkin, under pretext of
  important business, into his house, where two revolutionists were
  lying in wait, and shot Soudyèhkin down. They were both caught,
  condemned to penal servitude for life, and imprisoned in the
  Schlüsselburg fortress. Degàiev escaped to foreign parts, and
  afterwards disappeared.

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. 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.

Footnote 22:

  See preface.—_Trans._

“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]

Footnote 23:

  The letters of the alphabet being arranged in certain groups, _e.g._:—

                               a b c d e f
                               g h i k l m
                               n o p r s t
                               u v w x y z,

  words are made up by knocking so many times on the wall for each
  letter. First the horizontal line in which the letter stands is
  counted, and then its number in the line. For example, to make the
  word “you” one would knock as follows: four taps, a short pause, five
  taps, a longer pause; three taps, a short pause, two taps, longer
  pause; four taps, short pause, one tap. The taps are not only heard in
  the neighbouring cell, but sometimes in far-distant ones if they have
  a common wall.

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.

Footnote 24:

  The present Minister of Justice (1902).

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.

Footnote 25:

  See pp. 15 and 98, note, p. 210, and portrait, p. 112.

“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.

Footnote 26:

  The present Minister of the Interior.—_Trans._

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