Through Siberia

Evil reputation of Kara.—Testimony from Siberians and exiles.—My own experience.—The Commandant.—Our evening drive.—Hospitable reception.—Statistics respecting prisoners, their crimes, sentences, and settlement as “exiles.”—The Amurski prison.—Cossack barracks.—The upper prison.—Convicts’ food.—Prisoners’ private laws.—Middle Kara prison.—Mohammedan forçats.—Sunday labour.—Convict clothing.—Guard-house.—A genuine political prisoner.—The church.—Lack of preaching.—House of the Commandant.

In the penal colony of Kara I found more than 2,000 convicts, and a few political prisoners, together with some of their wives and families, a military staff, and some peasants. The penal institutions of this place are not so old as those of Nertchinsk; but, like them, they inherit a bad reputation. Mr. Atkinson appears to have been the first author to bring the place under the notice of English readers, doing so in no favourable terms, though he does not profess to speak as an eye-witness. Before I left England I was told that, if I did not intend to go east of the Baikal, I should see nothing but what might be witnessed in the prisons of London, and that I should get no idea of the real horrors of Siberian exile. This was said by a man who had worked in the mines of Nertchinsk, and he urged me by all means to see Kara.

Again, when we reached Siberia, and were travelling on the Obi, my interpreter conversed with an officer in the prison service, whom he told that I had come to Siberia for the purpose of seeing its prisons. The officer expressed his doubts (as numbers of my English friends had done before) as to whether I should succeed in getting at the real state of the convicts in the mines and prisons; and he further mentioned three places where they had to work specially hard, namely, Alexandreffsky and Nertchinsk (about which I have spoken), and the third was Kara.

We met further east a gentleman who told me that his brother-in-law, a colonel, had given him sad accounts of the dreadful state of some of the prisons in Eastern Siberia. I was introduced to the said colonel, but a lengthy inquiry was productive of little more, on his part, than general statements, and I obtained only five lines for my note-book, the gist of them being that, when I asked for the very worst places—those in which I should find most horrors—one of the four places mentioned was Kara.

It is curious to notice that, of the four persons who spoke against Kara, not one of them (so far as I know) ever went there; and, with regard to Nertchinsk also, it is observable that the language of ear-witnesses respecting its mines is far stronger than the language of eye-witnesses, or even of those who suffered as prisoners. But I need dwell no longer upon what others have said, and may proceed to write of what I saw at Kara, where I was, if I mistake not, the first English visitor.

It was towards evening when our boat reached Ust-Kara. Pacing the river’s bank was Colonel Kononovitch, the Commandant of the colony. I had been delayed on the way, and he had been for some hours awaiting me, but a few words of explanation sufficed to make matters clear. My tongue, after an enforced silence of nearly 30 hours, was now released. We talked in French, and I soon discovered that I was addressing an officer of more than average intelligence. He took me into the police-master’s house for some light refreshment, and to leave my heavy baggage, and then suggested that we should start on a drive of eight miles, so as to reach our destination before dark.

Our way lay over a stony road, through a wild valley, which, in the shades of evening, had a weird and out-of-the-world appearance. The ridges of the hills were irregular, and partially covered with conifers, while lower were deciduous shrubs and trees, though not of considerable dimensions. Among the rank and tall herbage were some late flowers, and an orange tiger-lily, about two feet high, that was strange to me. After we had driven a few miles, we came to a détour in the route, where the colonel proposed that we should clamber up a bank, and walk down to the road on the other side. From this elevation the landscape appeared wilder than ever, and the place looked like a natural prison, from which escape was impossible. There was not a habitation to be seen, and the consciousness that we were in the neighbourhood of so many “unfortunates,” as they are called, gave me similar feelings to those with which I looked down on the forest-bound prison at Alexandreffsky.

As we drove along, and darkness crept on, there passed us labouring men returning from work, who saluted us. “Who,” said I, “are they?” “They are convicts,” said the colonel. “Convicts!” said I; “how, then, are they loose?” “Oh,” said he, “a large proportion of the condemned—perhaps half—live out of the prisons in their houses en famille.⁠[1] But they ought not to be out after dark.” I then began to inquire respecting the crimes of the prisoners, and was informed that there were in the place about 800 murderers, 400 robbers, and 700 vagrants or “brodiagi”; and having been told what proportion of these were loose, I was not surprised to hear the colonel say that he usually avoided, if possible, being out at night. I approved his caution. Being very tired, moreover, and seeing that it was now dark, and that neither of us was armed, I was heartily glad to reach Middle Kara, the end of our drive.

Where I was to be quartered I did not know. There was no hotel in the place, or even a post-house, and I doubt if they could have offered me lodgings, as at Troitskosavsk, in the police-station. The commandant, however, had arranged everything for me, and I found that I was to occupy his own study. There he had prepared a neat, clean little bed; and as I looked around at the European comforts on the table, in the shape of writing materials and ornaments, it seemed like an arrival in the library of an English gentleman rather than the private bureau of the director of a penal colony.

I wanted to get a thorough rest against the morrow, for we had a stiff programme before us. Moreover, the last bed I had occupied was nearly 600 miles away; and, with the exception of two nights, I had not taken off my clothes to sleep for exactly a month. But the colonel insisted first on giving me food, of which my prominent recollection is that it was tastefully served, and consisted of delicacies that had been out of reach for many a day, with tinned fruits, including pears that had made their way from America up the Amur. When at last I undressed, and stretched my limbs between a pair of sheets, I felt on excellent terms with my surroundings in general, and the colonel in particular. He was a fine-looking man, with intellectual tastes and an intelligent forehead, and neither smoked, drank, nor played cards,—a trio of virtues by no means always found in a Siberian official. The room was clean and sweet; quietness reigned around; and, uninterrupted by the rumbling of the tarantass or the noise of a post-house, I was left to sleep in peace.

I had been asked overnight whether next morning I should like a bath. Of course I jumped at the offer, having been able to get such a luxury but twice in Siberia. Accordingly, on waking, the colonel brought me a Turkish dressing-gown and bade me follow him. I thought, perhaps, he would lead the way to a bath-room, instead of which he opened the front door and marched me down the middle of his garden to a summer bathing-shed. Here I splashed about, then returned to my toilet and to breakfast.

Of course I asked all sorts of questions about the convicts, or, as they are called, “forçats,” or katorjniki—prisoners condemned to forced labour. Their number at Kara for four preceding years had been as follows:—

Their classification according to crime is important, as throwing some light on the number of political prisoners, for whom, I was told, Kara is a special place of deportation, and I have heard that it has become more so since my visit. The only class where they could be included was under the heading “various,” of whom there were 73; and this would suffice to include the politicals, respecting whose number I asked, and was told that it was 13 Russians and 28 Poles. I did not hear of any of the sects of dissenters in prison at Kara.⁠[3]

As regards the sentences of the convicts, they were all, I believe, condemned to hard labour, either of the fabric or the mines—one year of work in the mines counting for a year and a half in the fabric. There were a few, chiefly “vagabonds,” sentenced to Kara for life; but for such grave offenders even as parricides, fratricides, etc., 20 years was the extreme limit of their terms. The convicts are able to shorten their time, to some extent, by good conduct, and are set free to live as colonists, or, as they are then technically called, “exiles,” or “poselenetsi.”⁠[4]

Not all of the forçats at Kara, as already observed, were in prison, nor were those in close confinement placed all in one building, but in six, distributed over a distance about 15 miles long. Thus we left one behind at Ust-Kara, another about midway between the river and Middle Kara. At Middle Kara were one or two prison buildings, and in the opposite direction from the river were two more, the High Prison and the Amurski Prison, which last was eight miles distant from the commandant’s house. To this last the colonel proposed to drive first, and then work back, taking the others in order; and this, after breakfast, we proceeded to do.

It was a beautiful morning when we started, and the bright sun and the clear air gave a very different aspect to the valley from that of the preceding night. The dark hues of the conifers stood out well in contrast with foliage of lighter green, a stream was visible here and there, and immense forests bounded the horizon. We drove a pair of splendid horses that would have attracted attention in Rotten Row; and as we dashed along the road I perceived at its side wild currants and strawberries, raspberries, and wild peas, the apple, and the vine. The colonel pointed out a gold-mine as we proceeded, but I do not remember seeing any one there at work.

When we reached the Amurski prison, it proved to be a log building, of good pitch, and of a single storey. Most of the prisoners were out at work, but a few were engaged in whitewashing the rooms, which the colonel said was done at least four times a year. The wards were large sleeping-rooms, occupied for the greater part of the year only by night. There were no bedsteads, but a wide shelf, like that of a guard-room, ran round three of the walls; and on this they placed their large bags, for the making of which sacking was supplied to them, to serve the double purpose of clothes-bag and bed.

Near the prison were the summer barracks of a company of 150 Cossacks, a fourth of whom were replaced yearly. The barracks consisted of large canvas booths, with rows of beds arranged in the fashion of the summer hospitals. A school is provided in winter for the Cossacks, of whom rather more than a half read.

We next drove back to the Verchne (or upper) prison, a building much older than the one we had left, having in the rooms an upper sleeping shelf resembling a loft, on which the prisoners sleeping would have the full benefit of the breathed air of their comrades below. The commandant saw this, and pointed out that it was an old and doomed building, and that in the new erections they were avoiding a repetition of the evil. In this prison were two solitary punishment cells, one of them being occupied on the morning of our visit for the first time in the colonel’s experience.

Some prisoners, it seemed, might receive money, and some not. There was in this prison a Jew to whom 150 roubles a year were sent by friends. His family were living outside. They might bring him food, and were allowed to pay him at least a weekly visit.

We went into the kitchen, and I looked attentively at the scale of diet hung on the wall as in prisons in England.⁠[5] The weight of the highest allowance in Siberia, as observed before, is far in excess (nearly double) of the highest English convicts’ allowance, though for non-working prisoners in Siberia an abatement must be made for fast-days. The annual cost of provisions for each prisoner at Kara is 65 roubles 72¾ kopecks, or say £6 10s. The soup appeared somewhat roughly served in small wooden tubs or bowls, but I presume that the place is too distant to allow of crockeryware being easily procured. Every prisoner provided his own spoon. Knives, as in most prisons, were forbidden.

We saw, lounging about this building, two or three men who seemed to have very little to do. They were called “starostas,” that is, seniors or elders. Each ward of men in prison, and each gang of exiles on the march, chooses a starosta, who is their ruler and representative, the middle-man between them and the authorities. He receives the charities given them on the road, and pays and bribes the petty officers for little favours. He is, in fact, banker, purveyor, and general factotum to the body by whom he is elected. The authorities recognise this arrangement, exempt the starostas from labour, and through them deal with the prisoners rather than give their small orders direct. On behalf of the prisoners it is the starosta’s duty to befriend them, and see that they have the proper amount of food, and whatever else may be their due; whilst, on behalf of the authorities, should anything go wrong with the prisoners, the starosta is held responsible.⁠[6] The office, however, at Kara, notwithstanding its privileges and exemptions, is by no means coveted; and the men, rather than be unoccupied, though it be to rule, prefer to work and to serve.

In the prison at Middle Kara was a considerable number of Tatars. Why they were unoccupied I know not, unless it happened to be a bath-day, which is a holiday, and recurs twice a month; or, again, it may have been one of the Mohammedan festivals, some of the greater of which they are allowed to observe, though not the Friday in every week. Nor are the Jewish prisoners allowed to rest on their Sabbath, nor Christians on the Sunday. It might possibly be argued, in justification of this, that Sunday is not usually observed at any of the Siberian gold-mines; but, however that may be, I thought this robbing the hard-labour prisoners of their day of rest the most cruel and unjust thing in their lot. A greater than a Russian Tsar gave to man the Sabbath, and to take it away from him is, to my mind, nothing less than a sin and a shame.⁠[7]

Near the prison at Middle Kara was a storehouse, to which we mounted by a flight of outside steps. It contained a quantity of material for prisoners’ clothing—coarse linen for shirts and summer trousers, felt for coats, and leather for shoes and gloves; also a number of made-up garments. A pair of summer shoes or slippers was valued at 3s., and a coat of felt at 12s. A pair of gloves, such as the prisoners use in the mines, was given me as a keepsake. I have added them to my prison curiosities, collected in various parts of the world, comprising fetters, whip, handcuffs, specimens of prison labour, and a variety of other lugubrious objects.

There was likewise a guard-house at Middle Kara. In it I observed, as I had done at Tobolsk, that the furniture and arrangements for the soldiers were not at all better than for the prisoners. From information respecting soldiers’ food received later, I make no doubt the rations of the Cossack guards are less ample than those provided for the labouring convicts; and I am persuaded that under some circumstances, dear liberty excepted, the Cossacks are more to be pitied than their prisoners. Thus, when a gang of exiles comes at night to an étape, they can lie down and rest, whereas the Cossacks have to mount guard.

In this building, opening out of the central room guarded by soldiers, were a few (perhaps half-a-dozen) separate cells, through the doors of which no one could pass without being seen by the Cossacks. These cells were evidently inner prisons, in which were kept those whose escape was especially to be prevented. I entered two of them. The first was not quite so wide, but about the length and rather higher than the cell of an English prison, measuring perhaps five feet wide by eight long and ten high, and occupied by a Tatar gentleman, with his rosary of a hundred beads in hand, with nothing to do.

On entering the second cell, occupied by a political prisoner, just then at work in the mines, I had at last lighted upon the dwelling-place of one of a class about whom such harrowing stories have been told—a genuine political prisoner of high calibre, and a Jew to wit, undergoing the full sentence of punishment in the mines of Siberia. This meant, in his case, that he had to labour in summer very much like a navvy, from six in the morning till seven in the evening, with certain hours for rest and meals; but in the winter he frequently had nothing to do. His wife was living near, and might see him twice a week. But his cell was that which struck me most. Compared to the criminal wards in the other prisons, this was a little parlour. It was clean, and in a manner garnished—not, indeed, in the fashion of a cell at San Francisco, where I found a “boss” painter condemned for life, and who had decorated his cell from floor to ceiling, as if intending to remain there for the rest of his days (this would have been out of keeping with Russian ideas); but the Kara prisoner had certain articles of furniture and eating requisites, the placing and arrangement of which indicated familiarity with the habits of decent society, and showed the prisoner to be above the common herd. One of his books I found was a treatise on political economy, which may be noted in connection with the remark of Goryantchikoff in his “Buried Alive,” who asserts that in his prison no book was allowed but the New Testament. The room certainly was not large, but there was abundance of light, the outlook from the long window being not on a prison wall surrounded by chevaux-de-frise, but commanding a view of the Kara valley such as a Londoner might envy; whilst just outside was the public road, along which could be seen everything that passed. I speak only truth when I say that, if I had the misfortune to be condemned to prison for life, and had my choice between Millbank in London or this political’s cell at Kara, I would certainly choose the latter.

Between the guard-house and the residence of the colonel was a collection of buildings and store-houses, called “Middle” Kara. Among these was the church, the priest of which was the only chaplain I could hear of for the prisoners. He practised photography in addition to his ecclesiastical calling, and although he probably needed every rouble he gained thereby—and I certainly ought not to revile him, since by his means the colonel was able to present me with some views of the colony—yet it would have rejoiced me to hear that he was doing something worthy of his position for the spiritual good of the convicts. The pastoral superintendence, frequent services, and preaching to prisoners, as carried on in English prisons, is unheard of at Kara, and I gathered that the convicts attended church only twice a year.⁠[8]

I may here mention that the religious scruples of Siberian exiles are to some extent respected. Thus, for the Jewish prisoners to be obliged to eat food prepared by Gentiles would be an abomination. In the prison at Tiumen we were informed that 42 Jews, who had been confined there during the previous winter, had been placed together in a ward, with a separate cooking-place, in which they prepared their food canonically. So, too, a similar arrangement had been observed with 71 Mohammedans; and I have just remarked that there were many of this religion together, in the prison at Middle Kara, who were allowed, within certain limitations, the exercise of their religious observances. I have already said that we met a Protestant pastor who made periodical visits to the prisons and mines; and on the Amur I travelled with a Roman Catholic priest, from Nikolaefsk, who was returning from a lengthened tour along the river, which doubtless included visits to his co-religionists in confinement.

After seeing Middle Kara our morning’s inspection was over. We had driven 15 miles, and as there were prisons in the opposite direction, extending over the same length of country, it will be seen that for the colonel to pay a visit to all his Kara prisons involved a drive, in all, of 30 miles, which I understood he accomplished at least once a week; and he had also, I believe, another penal institution to inspect, called Alexandreffsky Zavod, at a still greater distance. His salary was £330 per annum, and an unpretentious house, his perquisites, perhaps, making up his income to £400. In his yard was a good bath-house and offices, and an enclosure with a couple of wild deer, caught and kept for his children.

At dinner I was introduced to Madame Kononovitch, who was considerably younger than her husband. They had married at Irkutsk, which to a Siberian is Paris. It was not greatly to be wondered at, therefore, if she found Kara somewhat dull. The society of the place was very limited. There were the families of the officers and the wives of a few gentle or noble prisoners, but these latter of course could be received into the colonel’s house only with a certain amount of reserve. The servants were, I suppose, all of them exiles, but the dinner was well served. I remember nothing of the food, save that the colonel had made a successful effort to get me a plate of wild strawberries. The season (July 26th) was now late, and they were the last I ate in Siberia. Madame spoke French well, and, as their children were growing up, she and her husband were interested in their education, and made many inquiries concerning our methods of teaching in England. The colonel then requested me to send him some English books; and soon after dinner we started for the hospital, the orphanage, and one of the mines.