I was naturally anxious to see something of the prison system here. On hearing of my desire, the governor of Yeniseisk, with whom I had got on very friendly terms, courteously offered not only to let me accompany him on one of his weekly inspections of the prison, but also to let me make some sketches of what I should see, if I so desired. I naturally jumped at the offer, and on the appointed day I was punctual to the appointment, and we drove together in his sledge. It was an intensely cold day; in fact, the coldest I had yet experienced, there being no less than 28 deg. of frost (Réaumur), so one simply had to bury one’s self in one’s furs, and avoid talking as much as possible.

The building, which is on the outskirts of the town, offers nothing of interest from the outside, being an ordinary two-story brick building, looking much like most prisons anywhere. It is placed in close proximity to the barracks, so that in case of need military assistance is readily available. At the gates of the courtyard, where a sentinel was stationed, we were received by the personnel of the establishment—the director of the prison, a tall, thin, military-looking man in a shabby uniform, with a long sword by his side, and a huge astrachan képi on his head—and five undersized little jailers, who were armed with cutlasses and big revolvers, which looked much too large for them. I learnt afterwards that the director was a Polish exile, who had been sent to Siberia after the last insurrection in Poland, and, at the expiration of his sentence, had elected to remain in Siberia as the director of the criminal prison of Yeniseisk. We then entered the building. Once inside the heavy iron-bound doors, the temperature was delightfully warm as compared with outside, and, as is usual in Siberia, an even heat everywhere, on the stone staircases, in the corridors, and in the rooms. So far as warmth is concerned, the prisoners certainly have nothing to complain of. After considerable unlocking of big padlocks and removing ponderous bars, we entered the portion of the prison occupied by men undergoing long sentences for felony and other offences. It was a big sort of vaulted hall, dimly lighted by a few heavily grated windows on one side. Under the windows the whole length of the room was a very wide sort of sloping shelf, which serves as a sleeping-place; and ranged against this shelf, shoulder to shoulder, stood a long line of prisoners in the usual prison garb of Siberia. On our entry, they all as with one voice called out, in a deep guttural bass tone, the word “Sdrasteté!” (Good day), to which the governor replied by a military salute. As we walked slowly up the line I had a good opportunity of a near inspection of the most awful-looking crowd of ruffians I have ever seen. Perhaps the ill-fitting garment they wore added to the effect; still, with very few exceptions, vice was written on their faces, and I was not astonished to learn that most of them were old criminals, and had been there many years. This hall led into another, and yet another, with the same long lines of unkempt ruffians. Somehow, on looking at them, I could not help thinking of the awful photographs one sees outside the Morgue in Paris. I remarked to the governor what a dreadful thing it must be for a young man for a first and perhaps trivial offence to be thrown among such a crowd of rascals, who have nothing to do all day but sleep and eat, and who are under no supervision whatever except that of an occasional visit from one of the insignificant jailers. He agreed with me that the system is a wrong one, but, said he, “Que voulez-vous? Il n’y a pas de place pour les caser tous seuls.” My astonishment was that five such little warders could keep such a crowd in order; but doubtless the knowledge of the close proximity of the barracks has a wholesome effect.

In the corner of each hall, close up by the ceiling, was the indispensable sacred picture, or ikon; looking strangely incongruous in such foul surroundings. Still, even in this dismal place there was a touch of humour. As we passed slowly through, one miserable wretch complained to the governor that his coat did not fit; to which the governor very neatly replied that he could do nothing in the matter. If people wanted their clothes to fit they should not come there!

We then visited the murderers’ department, which was in the upper story. There were no less than thirty men and women waiting their trial on this charge. Capital punishment does not exist in Russia, so the worst these prisoners can expect is hard labour at the mines for a certain number of years, after which they are free to live in Siberia, but not to return to Russia. In this portion of the prison the rooms were smaller, and only contained, at the most, a dozen men in each. All these prisoners, though as yet untried, were, without exception, in irons. Several of the most desperate characters were in solitary confinement. In one of the “solitary” cells was a tall, good-looking man, who had murdered an old woman—a foul and brutal murder, I heard, and committed for the sake of a few roubles only. He complained bitterly about being shut up all alone, as, he said, he had done “nothing.”

“How nothing?” said the governor; for the man had been taken red-handed, and, in fact, had never denied his guilt.

“It was only a woman I killed!” was the whining reply, and then he looked astonished at the expression of disgust on our faces on hearing this little speech.

There is no doubt about it that the solitary-confinement system is the one with the most terror in it. I could not help trying to imagine the feelings of the caged ruffian as he saw the door shut, and heard the heavy bars drawn and the massive padlock replaced—very different, probably, to those of the rascals in the large hall below, who doubtless, as soon as we were out of hearing, recommenced their pandemonium.

The women’s prison, which we afterwards visited, struck me as being a curious sight, and reminded me not a little of Dickens’s description of the old “Fleet” or “Marshalsea” prisons. The inmates seemed free to do what they pleased—of course, with the exception of leaving the place—and the effect on entering was most extraordinary. The room was full of steam, for it was “washing day,” I was informed, and overhead was quite a network of ropes with wet clothes on them, hung up to dry. Dirty, unkempt children crowded round us as we entered, while, through an open door leading to an adjoining department, appeared a lot of semi-clad females, who regarded us with a curiosity devoid of all modesty. There was here none of the respect which we were shown in the men’s quarters, for these sullen-looking, half-naked women evidently looked upon our visit as an unwarrantable intrusion on their privacy.

As a result of my very interesting morning, I could not help coming to the conclusion that, at any rate as far as I could judge, the criminals of Siberia have little to complain of. They pass their forced seclusion in absolute idleness, if they so wish, for the work they do, if any, is voluntary—eating and sleeping, they while away the time as best they can, like so many caged beasts.

On another occasion I had an opportunity of seeing a batch of criminal prisoners start for Krasnoiarsk, where they were being sent for trial. They were all assembled in the hall of the Palais de Justice, and a strange crowd they looked, sitting along the wall on a bench, dressed in their drab kaftans, which serve them as overcoats. Round about lolled the guard which was to escort them half-way to Krasnoiarsk, half a dozen undersized soldiers (not “Cossacks,” as they are often erroneously described), with rifles and fixed bayonets. All were well wrapped up for the journey, with huge woollen comforters round their necks, black gloves, and felt boots on. I had no difficulty in getting them to remain still while I made a sketch, for they seemed readily to understand what I wanted, even to the prisoners. As usual, when I had finished, no one evinced the slightest curiosity to see the result. A few minutes afterwards they started, under the command of a non-commissioned officer. And a curious procession it was, for none of the prisoners seemed to feel their position, and walked just as they pleased. I could not help thinking that the soldiers had the worst of it, burdened as they were with their heavy rifles, ammunition, and accoutrements, while the prisoners had absolutely nothing to carry. The soldiers from Yeniseisk only go half-way, when they meet a convoy from Krasnoiarsk, and exchange prisoners. The journey takes about a week, as they only travel about fifty versts a day, and only during the daylight.

There is no prison for “political exiles” in Yeniseisk. Most of this class of déportés who are living in the town have already served their term of punishment elsewhere, and have elected to remain in Siberia, where they probably find the life not half so bad as it is painted; or, as is often the case, were banished “for life” from Russia, and condemned to pass the remainder of their days in Yeniseisk or some other town or village.

In the case of a well-connected and educated man being sent from, say, Moscow or St. Petersburg, or some other important city in Russia, for a long period to some remote Siberian village, the punishment must be a severe one. From the little I have seen of these villages on our way up the river, I can imagine no fate more dreadful than to be shut up alone in one of them, among a lot of unsympathetic and ignorant peasants, with no books to read, and entirely out of touch and hearing of the civilized world. Better almost to be buried alive! When, however, instead of to an out-of-the-way village, he is consigned to a biggish town like Yeniseisk or Krasnoiarsk, his fate is certainly not so hard. He is allowed to live how and where he pleases; if he has money of his own he is permitted to receive it; and if he is a sociable man he will soon find that he is not treated as an outcast, even by the officials, who, at any rate at Yeniseisk, are, I hear, the very embodiment of courtesy and politeness, though I believe it to be the same all over Siberia; and he will probably soon settle down to his new life, and, as is often the case when the sentence is not a “life” one, he will eventually decide to remain in a country which, though doubtless not all couleur de rose, is certainly not all black.

Still, there are many fine fellows whose fiery spirits not even exile to Siberia can tame, and who are only biding their time to return to Russia and start a fresh struggle for freedom—with possibly (or rather, probably) the same, or a worse, result to themselves.

There are a few of this sort here. One of them, M. X., an evidently well-educated man of about forty, was sent to Siberia for five years, two out of which he passed in a village, the rest in Yeniseisk. His time is up soon, when he will be allowed to return to Russia again, but not to live in a University town. His wife accompanied him into exile. I met them out one evening at a friend’s house, and had a long and interesting talk with both of them in French, as I was anxious to learn something of his experiences. I could not help remarking to Madame that after what her husband had undergone he would, doubtless, on his return to Russia, not meddle with politics again. To my astonishment, she replied—

“Nisnaia?” (Who can tell?)

“What!” said I, “is not once sufficient to come to Siberia?”

But she shook her head, and answered, “It is very difficult to remain silent when one sees the state of things in Russia, and one knows how very different it is in other countries. If no one takes the initiative, it will never be changed.”

We were on delicate ground, so I thought it best to change the subject, as one can never tell who may be listening. Moreover, politics are not in my line. However, I managed later on to have a further chat with M. X. on the subject, and he corroborated the words of his wife, in spite of my asking him if he had not had enough of it already in Siberia, for if he were again caught tripping he would doubtless not get off so easily, but, in all probability, be sent to the mines. “Surovno!” (It is all the same to me!) was his characteristic reply. The idea that they are wasting their lives on a cause which is not yet nearly ripe for solution, and which, for the moment, only time can help, never seems to occur to these men, who plod away cheerfully into Siberia with the firm conviction that they are making martyrs of themselves in the cause of liberty, whereas, in reality, they are only helping to colonize this vast continent.