Having given some slight idea of the bright side of life in Krasnoiarsk, a little about the reverse of the medal will doubtless be of interest.

In a vast country like Siberia, where a great part of the population—I mean of the lower middle class and working orders—is composed of criminal exiles, it may readily be imagined that there exists a peculiar state of social opinion, which is positively amusing at times. If a man conducts himself well, and is liked, it matters not a straw that he be an exiled “gentleman criminal” doing his time, for he is received almost everywhere, and one need not be ashamed to be seen associating with him, as even the officials shake hands with him when they meet. He himself makes no secret of his misdemeanour—rather the contrary, as a rule—for most of them seem to think that “coming to reside in Siberia” absolutely whitens them again in the eyes of society. As a matter of fact, they are encouraged in this belief, for they are always spoken of as “unfortunates.” Perhaps they are called so because they were found out and sent here! On one occasion two men I knew very well met in my rooms; both were criminal exiles who had formerly occupied high positions in St. Petersburg—one, a German, having been “sent” for uttering forged bonds; the other, a Russian, for embezzlement of Government money. As they were not acquainted, I naturally introduced them to each other. It was difficult to realize that these two well-dressed and polished men, who spoke several languages fluently, were each doing a ten years’ penal sentence. After a short preamble on the usual everyday topics, the Russian asked the German if he were an inhabitant of Krasnoiarsk.

“Gott sei dank, nein,” replied he; “I was only sent for ten years, and my time is nearly up.”

“Ah! then you’re a verschickte? I thought you were. So am I. What did you come for?”

“Oh, only for so and so. And you?”

“Oh, mine” (with a certain amount of pride) “was a big affair; I managed to get over forty thousand roubles out of the Government.”

And so the conversation rattled pleasantly on, gradually drifting into (for me) more congenial subjects. There was not the least bit of shame about them—they talked of their offences, while smoking their cigarettes, as naturally as most men would relate an interesting episode in their lives, and I sat and listened—and wondered. The same unbiassed way of looking on the state of affairs exists among the lower orders; and soldiers, with gangs of criminals in prison garb and heavy clanking chains, push their way on foot through the crowd in the market-place, attracting no notice, the prisoners being, to all appearance, stolidly indifferent to their situation.

Priviligierts, or well-to-do criminals, that is to say, men of intelligence who have received a good education, either in a Government school or gymnase, and who have occupied good positions in their time, when they are only guilty of such petty offences as forgery or misappropriation, are never absolutely associated with the vulgar horde of ordinary, everyday criminals. On their way to Siberia, although they travel with the same gang, they do so apart, even in their own conveyance, if they have the means to pay for it. On arrival at the different étapes, the prisons in the villages, they are provided with a room to themselves, till the detachment is ready to start again, and on reaching their destination are turned loose, so to speak, and left to shift for themselves. I had no difficulty whatever in learning all this, for my various “criminal” acquaintances were not reticent; in fact, seemed glad to tell me all about it, as an interesting story.

All this naturally excited my curiosity and made me desire to witness personally, if possible, some of the proceedings, and, as good luck had it, I was soon enabled to do so. An officer with whom I had been very friendly was told off with his detachment to escort a large body of prisoners coming from Tomsk; he had to take them over from their previous escort some fifty versts back and convoy them to Krasnoiarsk; so he courteously let me know of the probable time of his arrival at a certain point on the road, so that I could drive out to meet him and make as many photos and sketches as I wished. It is needless to say I jumped at the invitation, and on the appointed day took an isvoschik and drove along the Tomsk road.

We had driven some considerable distance without seeing the slightest sign of life on the deserted highway, when suddenly on the crisp frosty air I distinguished a faint distant sound, so peculiar and weird that it immediately attracted my attention, as it was evidently approaching us. It was not unlike the noise which would be produced by hundreds of small birds singing all at once, yet I could see nothing of any sort anywhere on the vast plain, so I drew my driver’s attention to it as well as I could with my limited vocabulary of Russian. To him it was neither novel nor interesting; he knew what it was at once. “The arrestanti are coming,” he briefly told me; and shortly after, on ascending a rise in the road which had concealed them from our view, there came in sight a big body of men coming slowly along, and I then discovered that the strange noise which had so impressed me was produced by the clanking of the heavy chains they wore. But then, alas! all preconceived illusions vanished, for it was a loathsome and depressing sight, and rendered doubly so under the bright sunlight. There was absolutely nothing of the poetic about it that I had been led to expect from the descriptions I had read so often before coming to Siberia. It was simply a huge crowd of what looked like (and probably was) the very scum of the earth, for all races seemed to be represented amongst it, making as villanous and evil-looking a lot of men as one could possibly see. In front and on either side of the column were soldiers with rifles and fixed bayonets. By the way, many writers speak of these soldiers as Cossacks; as a matter of fact, Cossacks are now never under any circumstances used for this or any duty in connection with prisoners, nor have they for many years past. On the road, as well as round the prisons, only special men are employed; these are known all over Russia and Siberia as “convoy soldiers,” and form a big brigade, which is under the command of a special general and a large staff of officers. All the men must have served a certain time in the regular army before they are eligible for this branch of the service.

How any writer who has actually seen a gang of criminal exiles on the march can describe it in any way as a pathetic sight beats me, and my only astonishment is that convicts of other countries are not also spoken of in the same sentimental way, for they are probably far worse off than Siberian criminals, who, as a matter of fact, have a much better time of it, considering their crimes, than they would have anywhere else, barring, of course, the trifling discomfort of having to “foot it” the whole distance if they are able. If they are footsore or lame they are permitted to ride on one of the baggage conveyances. The more I learn about the prisoners’ life, either on the road or in the ostrogs, the more astonished I am at the humane way in which they are treated, and how little is really known of it in the outer world. I am not referring to the system as a whole, which I feel convinced is not only a wrong but a demoralizing one, but to minor details, which show a kindly feeling on the part of the authorities which is somewhat unexpected. For instance, all Jews or Mohammedans receive ten kopeks (3d.) per day, both on the road and when in prison, so that they can purchase their own food, and have it cooked according to their belief, the food and cooking being looked after by one of their own religion deputed by themselves. In a country where it is said that the Jews are so persistently persecuted by the authorities, this comes as rather an astounding revelation, in my opinion. I know nothing whatever about prison life in England, but I am anxious to know if we treat our convicts in the same way. Political prisoners never march (unless they wish to do so), but are conveyed on telegas or sledges according to the season, and always follow some distance behind the criminals, with whom they never are associated. Considering how slowly the column advances, for I am informed it is often no less than four or five months on the road, resting as it does every second day, this must be an awful journey indeed for those who are leaving friends, home, and in fact all behind them for ever. For these “unfortunates,” when not criminal ones, all one’s sympathy is due; but the canaille marching on ahead, and who are thus most en évidence, in most cases richly deserve more than their fate, and ought to thank their lucky stars they are Russian and not English convicts.

In the rear of the column followed about twenty open sledges, on which were women, children, footsore prisoners, and miscellaneous baggage. Even the drivers were soldiers, and with their rifles across their knees presented a curious appearance. Last of all came my friend, the officer in charge of the detachment, in a luxurious covered-in sledge. There were no “politicals” with the party.

As I was desirous of seeing for myself all that takes place on the arrival of a gang of convicts at the étape or perasilny of a large town, I returned to Krasnoiarsk at the head of the detachment, and made sketches and photos to my heart’s content of the unsavoury crowd of ruffians following closely behind me.

The perasilny of Krasnoiarsk is situated on the outskirts of the town, quite close to the ostrag, or regular prison, and, like most buildings of its kind I have hitherto seen, built entirely of wood, even to the high wall surrounding it. It is composed of several blocks of buildings in which prisoners are indiscriminately placed pending their removal to their ultimate destination. On arrival outside this building, the convicts were formed up two deep for inspection, and immediately after told off to unload the sledges and get their baggage; after which they were marched into the building preparatory to being “verified.” In a large bare whitewashed room sat the officer who had brought the detachment and two prison officials, with a heap of papers before them. All the prisoners were in an adjoining room, at the door of which stood the staroster, or leader of the gang, waiting to call out the name as each man was required.

It may not be generally known that in Russia every gang of prisoners has its staroster, or captain, who is elected by themselves from amongst their number, and who on all occasions acts as their spokesman. It is difficult to ascertain on what particular merits he is elected—perhaps it is that he is known to be the biggest dare-devil villain amongst them, or that he is generally feared; at any rate, from all accounts, the staroster has always such unbounded influence and power amongst his fellows that if he were to decree the death of one of them there is no doubt whatever but that the sentence would be carried out. As a matter of fact, cases of the kind have been frequently known, the sort of liberty which Siberian prisoners enjoy amongst themselves rendering this an easy matter, and detection of the actual assassin absolutely impossible. A weak prisoner, therefore, who is in the bad books of his staroster must have a bad time of it, for he can be bullied and knocked about with impunity, and would never dare to report it. I have heard of an incident which happened quite recently, and which will give some idea of prison life here.

A prisoner had the foolhardiness (for one can call it nothing else) to inform the officials of the intended evasion of three of the most desperate characters in the prison. Whether he did it out of revenge or to suit his own ends is not known; at any rate, his treason (for such it would undoubtedly be considered amongst his fellows) got somehow to be known, and his death decreed by the staroster. In the mean time, however, he had been removed to another cell, so it was arranged that it should take place at the Government photographer’s, when the gang went to be photo’d; but the officials heard of his danger, and he was removed to another room—only just in time, for he would have been lynched, to a certainty, otherwise. Although after this he was placed in another part of the building, the news had spread, and his life was made so awful for him that he was eventually placed in solitary confinement till he could be sent to another prison. Capital punishment not existing in Siberia (except in the rarest and most extreme of cases), criminals are absolutely reckless, as they know they cannot get worse than they have got, so there are many prisoners with a list of murders and other crimes against them which would probably make an English criminal open his eyes.

But revenons à nos moutons (or rather convicts). As the different men were required the staroster called out their names, and they then came to be “verified”—that is to say, compared with their photo, which is attached to the paper relating to each one. I omitted to mention that all convicts, before starting on the long march across Siberia, have their heads shaved on one side, to render them immediately recognizable as prisoners, and so as to prevent them from running away; and very hideous does this operation render them, as there is no concealing it. Still, in spite of it, numbers of them do escape, as I shall have occasion to tell you in a subsequent chapter. After the “verification” the prisoners were let loose into the courtyard of the perasilny, and left to shift for themselves and find accommodation where they could in the building. As I have already remarked, the perasilny is only a sort of depôt for prisoners; they never remain in it long, only till a detachment is starting for the prison or mine to which they have been consigned.

I was permitted to roam about all over the place with my sketch-book, quite alone, so made sketches amongst the unsavoury crowd of ruffians to my heart’s content, and although they came closer to me at times than I desired, still I was in no way molested. It was certainly a most extraordinary sight. Groups of evil, sullen-looking men were either roaming about the spacious courtyard, or else hanging about in groups, talking in an undertone to each other. Most of them were in chains, and their clanking noise harmonized well with the gloomy surroundings. It gave one the impression of being in a den of human wild beasts, and judging from their faces I should fancy most of them were but little better. They all seemed pretty well free to do what they pleased, and I noticed many were smoking cigarettes or pipes. The principal occupation, whilst I was there, seemed to be noting the new arrivals as they individually made their appearance inside the gate. In some cases the new-comers immediately found friends among the crowd, in which, event he was introduced by them to the others, and the mutual greetings were most effusive, and doubtless sufficient to raise feelings of envy in the breasts of younger prisoners standing by, and who were unknown to criminal fame. I was told afterwards that new-comers, if they are absolutely unknown to any one in their cell, have to stand a sort of supper, or bienvenue—pay their “footing,” as a matter of fact. Fancy this sort of thing in an English prison! I naturally asked how a prisoner would manage if he had no money. “He can always get enough for that,” was the reply. How?

Whilst I was strolling about making notes and sketches, a warder came up and asked me if I would like to visit the building, and volunteered to show me over it. Naturally I accepted the offer, and was much interested, and I may say astonished, at all I saw. There were three blocks of wooden buildings, the windows of which were heavily grated; though why there were bars I could not make out, for all doors were unlocked, and the prisoners appeared to be free to go and come as they pleased. It was more like a large school-house than a prison. In the rooms, or rather dormitories, the same liberty prevailed, as there seemed to be no one to maintain discipline or order; in fact, there was such a row in all of them that the warder accompanying me had to call out several times at the top of his voice in order to get a little silence, as the noise was simply deafening. The sleeping accommodation in all the rooms consisted of the usual sloping wooden shelves fixed down the centre of the room.

What astonished me most in the whole place was the married prisoners’ quarters; for in the large dormitory there were at least two hundred men, women, and children of all ages herded together indiscriminately. No words can fitly describe the scene. The evil faces, the babel of voices, the crying of children, the clanking of the men’s chains, and, above all, the indescribable stench which seems inseparable from the Siberian prisons, all combined to make as hideous an impression as could well be imagined. All round, seated or standing, were little family parties, so to speak. Tea was going on at the moment I entered, and the women naturally were in their element; in fact, it was more like a picnic of the lower orders than a prison scene. The heat of the place, which appeared to be without ventilation, was as usual fearfully oppressive, and many of the men and women were in the very scantiest of attires, for decency did not appear to affect them much, and the sight of so many poor little innocent children, in such foul surroundings, struck me as being particularly horrible.

We afterwards visited the room of a priviligiert, or swell prisoner, who was too good to associate with the ordinary horde of vulgar scoundrels, although possibly he may have caused as much misery in his time to his fellow-creatures as any of them. The “gentleman” in this case, I heard, “wrote too well.” He was in ordinary civilian attire, and looked a well-dressed, gentlemanly fellow. His little son was with him in the room he occupied, which was really not an uncomfortable one, for there were two real beds in it, with sheets, bedding, etc., washing appliances, looking-glass, tea-things, plates, saucers, etc.—in fact, quite a little ménage. He was sitting on the bed when I entered, and my visit evidently did not seem to please him much, for he immediately turned his back on me and began muttering to himself. However, I went in all the same and had a good look round, and made a sketch of him in spite of his ungracious reception.

On coming out of the prison I was surprised to see quite a little crowd of peasant women with baskets of bread, etc., gathered round a hole in the outer wall, through which they were selling the provisions to such fortunate prisoners who happened to have a little money. It was a curious sight, and well worthy of a sketch, I thought—the grimy hands thrust out through the aperture, and in the background the mass of swarthy, evil countenances—a subject worthy of Doré.

As I was driving back to town with my friend, the conversation naturally turned on the scenes I had just witnessed, and I asked him if no work was ever done in the prisons. He then informed me that all work, except such as wood-cutting, getting water, etc., is optional; if the prisoners can find work and care to take it they are at liberty to do so, as there are specially reserved rooms for them to work in. Many, he told me, made money by making cigarettes, at which they were very clever, and naturally could turn them out cheaper than they could be bought at the shops. Being in want of some at the moment, I thought it would not be a bad idea to get some made by a prisoner, just out of curiosity. So the next day I purchased some tobacco and paper, and went to the ostrog (the regular prison, not the depôt) with a friend to interpret for me. It seemed a usual sort of proceeding, for the gaoler we spoke to about it said immediately, “Morgenor” (it can be done), and opening the large heavily ironed and barred door leading into the courtyard, called out at the top of his voice, “Paperossnik” (a cigarette-maker). There was a clanking of chains, and in a few minutes a miserable-looking wretch in prison clothes came forward. I had only brought a little tobacco, so it was not a big commission I had to give him. On asking what they would cost, he replied that he would make me a thousand for sixty kopeks (1s. 6d.), that these few he would make me as a sample, and I could give him what I chose for them. However, the result, though not exactly a failure, was not a success, as they were not particularly well made, and I had strong reason to believe that at least a third of the tobacco had been purloined, for I had got very many less cigarettes than I ought to have received. So much for convict labour in the prison itself. I shall have occasion, in a subsequent chapter, to speak about outdoor employment of the prisoners.

Of course, there are many political exiles living in Krasnoiarsk, but most of them are time-expired prisoners who cannot leave the district. At the time of my visit several were employed as clerks, and so forth, at the various Government offices; and, as far as I could see or hear (and I had many opportunities for so doing), were not treated with the severity one hears so much of in England. As a matter of fact, there is a great deal more complaint out of Siberia about the tyranny of officials than there is inside it, and the average notions about life there seems to me to be the outcome of entire ignorance. I must say, however, that the Russian officials take things too much au sérieux. They “drop upon” people for doing things which in England would be laughed at and forgotten in twenty-four hours. They don’t believe in the safety-valve principle, but maybe one official thinks that if he doesn’t take notice of a thing some other official will, and probably report the first official into the bargain. Everybody is watched, from a governor downwards. You don’t see the working of the system, but it is there all the same. I will give an instance in proof of this. There was a fancy-dress ball at the club, and, as usual in Siberia, everybody wore a mask. One young fellow thought he would create a sensation—and he did. He appeared as a sort of walking advertisement. On his breast were written some of the advantages of life in Siberia. On his back were the disadvantages, so strongly worded that a police official tapped him on the shoulder and requested him to step into a private room. This he did, his mask was removed, and it was found that he was a young student at the Tomsk University. He was told to leave the place, notwithstanding the indignation of the other guests at the official’s action. The official reported the matter; there was telegraphing backwards and forwards; the culprit was finally sent back to Tomsk, and I don’t know what became of him. Probably he is at this moment in solitary exile in some out-of-the-way place. At any rate, as every one at the ball agreed in conversation about the affair, his life was practically ruined through a freak which, in any country not under Russian rule, would simply have been laughed at.

Local malefactors, whatever their offence, are first taken before the chief of police (politcemeaster), who, if the charge be only a petty one, disposes of it himself; if, however, it be of a grave nature it is sent for trial at the high court of justice of the district. I was informed that it goes very hardly indeed with a liberated criminal exile if he is ever caught committing a felony in Siberia, for he has then but a very slight chance of ever regaining his liberty. The police court itself offered little of interest, being merely a large room with a big table in it, at the head of which sat the chief and all his officers. The prisoners were brought in in charge of a soldier or a warder, and stood about anywhere, for there was no dock, and the proceedings, though novel, were not interesting.

I had heard a good deal about the “night refuges for the destitute,” which exist in all Siberian towns, so was determined to visit one, although at first it seemed likely to prove a difficult matter, as my friends were not eager to go to such an uninviting den, even in the interests of art. However, at last I persuaded one to accompany me late one night. The refuge naturally was situated in the poorest part of the city, and we had some difficulty at first in finding it. It only consisted of two fairly large rooms, lighted by a swinging lamp. The effect was almost the same as in the prison, for there was the same fearful heat and stench, the same crowd of unkempt wretches, most of whom looked like old gaol-birds. The only difference was that these two rooms were simply packed to their utmost capacity, every available corner being occupied, even to the floor underneath the sloping shelf which served as the sleeping-place—so much so, in fact, that it was positively difficult to get in without treading on some one’s face or body. As may be imagined, I hurried up with my sketch as much as possible, for I was anxious to get out into the open air again without delay. Beyond the sloping shelf no other “bedding” is supplied, the men having to provide any further luxuries themselves; but the heating arrangements were so complete that no coverings whatever were needed. Besides the actual lodging, the men are given a mug of tea and piece of bread for supper, and the same in the morning for breakfast. Those who are known to have a little money are charged five kopeks (1½d.) for the lodging. Before leaving, I was permitted to have a peep into the female dormitory, which was comparatively empty, for I only saw three miserable old hags in their “beauty sleep.”

As in most Siberian towns where wood is principally used in the construction of the houses, the fire brigade forms a most important feature in the municipal arrangements. All over the city are to be seen large and in many cases handsome watch-towers, in which watchmen are always stationed, with a big bell close at hand to give the alarm when necessary; whilst below several manuals are in constant readiness with a supply of warm water during the winter, to avoid risk of its freezing.

The theatre is really quite an imposing building, and rendered more so by being situated in the centre of an immense open space. Performances take place in it three times a week during the winter, and, judging from the way they are patronized, histrionic art is evidently well appreciated here.

Taking it all in all, therefore, I found Krasnoiarsk a very interesting place, and well worth the six weeks’ stay I made in it; in fact, I was quite sorry to leave it.