There was always so much to see and do in Irkutsk, that the five weeks I spent there were fully occupied. The prison life of Siberia has always interested me highly, for I had read so much of it before coming to the country that I never missed an opportunity of seeing as much of it as possible. One of my first excursions, therefore, was to the gaol here. As at Yeniseisk and Krasnoiarsk, the officials were politeness itself, and although the ostrog here is a really important one, containing as it does no less than twelve hundred prisoners (owing to the recent burning of the Alexandroffsky prison), I experienced not the slightest difficulty in being shown all there was to be seen. The authorities offered me every assistance in their power, and no secret whatever was made of it; the governor-general of Irkutsk, to whom my mission as a special artist and correspondent was well known, even going so far as to send me a courteous message, saying that he would be pleased to let me see all I wished of the prison life, and hoped that I would only write the exact truth about it! So I spent a long morning there, walking round with the director, the doctor, and other officials, and saw and sketched as much as I wished, and only had to ask to be told all I wanted to know.

What struck me most in the internal arrangements was the comparative liberty that existed inside the vast building; for, with the exception of a few prisoners in solitary confinement, all seemed free to roam about in the corridors or the large quadrangle to their hearts’ content; and although a warder with a large bunch of keys accompanied us on our round, in no case did he find occasion to use them, for all the doors were unlocked. I was informed that it is only at night the prisoners are locked in. The system is certainly a curious one. Of course the men in the “solitary” cells were not allowed this sort of liberty.

The description I have given of the Yeniseisk prison will almost suffice for the Irkutsk one as well, with the exception that the various “halls,” or “dormitories,” there were infinitely better than those here, which—probably on account of their overcrowded state—were in a filthy condition, and little better than human pigsties. Every spot was occupied, and the stench was awful in consequence, for this is an old prison as compared with that at Yeniseisk. I was much astonished to see dogs, cats, and even pigeons and doves in some “halls,” and on inquiry was informed that prisoners are allowed their “pets,” and that each crowd had its special and distinctive favourites, fed out of the general “mess”! It was quite touching to see some hulking ruffian loafing about in the sunshine with a tiny kitten in his arms, or to hear the cooing of turtle-doves in some gloomy recess of a filthy cell. Although these incongruities of prison life struck me as being very extraordinary, they passed unnoticed by my companions, who were surprised when I drew their attention to them and observed how much more severe the English prison system is.

After going the round of the “halls” we next visited the workshops. As I told you in a previous chapter, work in a Siberian prison is purely optional; a man can be as lazy as he likes, or else he can set to and earn a little money at his particular trade, if he has one, and such work is required. There are two kinds of work permitted by the Government—work in the prison itself in the various workshops provided for the different trades, and outdoor work away from the prison. In the Irkutsk prison almost every trade was not only represented but well employed also, for in many of the workshops I was informed the men were so busy with orders on hand that for the moment they could undertake no more. All the work being carried out was for townspeople. Of the money thus earned, a certain percentage goes to the Government, and the rest is divided equally among the men of the atelier.

We visited all the “shops,” and it was quite refreshing to see the men hard at work, and working cheerfully together—as well they might, considering that it is to their mutual advantage to do so. They were working evidently under no restraint whatever, for I noticed no guards about. I was told that one could get almost anything made here—for in the “shops” were tailors, hatters, bootmakers, smiths, locksmiths, carpenters, cabinet-makers, cigarette-makers, jewellers, engravers, and even artists; for in the prison, at the time I visited it, were two men convicted of uttering false banknotes, and who, having artistic proclivities, passed their time in painting—the one, portraits from photographs; the other, bons Dieux, or the sacred pictures so dear to the Greek Church. I saw the portrait-painter at work in the same room as the cigarette-makers, and much out of place here did the easel and canvas look, almost as much so as the artist himself, in his prison garb, with a large palette and bunch of brushes and mahl-stick in his hand. The fellow spoke German fluently, so we had a talk together, as he was not at all reticent, and did not seem to feel his position a little bit. He informed me that he always had as much work to do as he could possibly get through, so he never found the time hang heavily on his hands. This work—which, by the way, was very indifferent—I further learnt, was mostly for local photographers.

The other “artist,” whom we subsequently visited, was quite a “swell,” for he was in solitary confinement, and had been permitted to fit up his small cell quite as a studio. There were shelves on the walls full of half-completed pictures, a lot of the usual paraphernalia of art lay about, while in one corner hung a large framed oil-painting, a copy of a celebrated picture I knew well through the recently published photogravures of it in London—a beautiful composition, and looking strangely incongruous in so gruesome and dismal a place, for the only light entered by a small, heavily grated window high up near the ceiling. This gentleman, who seemed quite as busy as the portrait-painter, was, however, quite a different character, and as reticent and moody as the other was talkative, for when the director asked him if he did not speak French or German so that I could ask him a few questions, he curtly replied that he had forgotten whether he ever did or not, for he was now a “number,” no longer a man. I afterwards learnt that both these men, though convicted, were not as yet sentenced, and that probably they would be sent for an indefinite number of years to hard labour in one of the Government mines, and that it was only pending their sentence that they were allowed to go on with their painting, though, my informant added, with a smile, they would probably be able to do a little even at the mines if they behaved themselves!

With so much labour of all sorts to be got almost for the asking, it may be imagined how exploitée the prison is by local tradesmen, who thus get their work done by these “unfortunates” at probably less than a third of what it would cost them if they employed town labour. I got a large double brass seal made, and engraved at both ends, for less than 2s. 6d., and then, when it was finished, the governor ordered the prisoner who had made it to engrave my initials on my stick into the bargain, which the fellow did without a word of grumbling. He looked very grateful, however, when I slipped a few extra kopeks into his hand afterwards.

The forged banknote which I give in facsimile was the work of a prison artist. All its elaborate pen-and-ink work represents when complete only the sum of five roubles (10s.). Yet for this small amount a long term of imprisonment was risked! (and got).