Outdoor employment away from the prison is often granted to prisoners who have been remarked for special good conduct, and they are drafted off either to Government or private works, such as salt or iron workings. Those sent to private works are thus rewarded for exceptionally good behaviour whilst in prison; they get well paid whilst thus employed, and they work side by side with free men, receiving the same pay, and enjoying the same allowances, the only difference being that of course they cannot leave of their own accord. The pay struck me as being exceptionally good, for it averages twenty-five roubles (£3) per month for foremen, and ranging down to four roubles for ordinary labourers. Besides this pay each man receives eighty pounds of flour for himself, and if married forty for his wife, and the same amount for each child from the day of its birth till it is thirteen years of age. Eight roubles per year are also allowed for boots and gloves. Housing is provided by the owners of the works, but the convicts may if they choose live apart on the works at their own expense. At the Government works (not the hard-labour ones) it is very different, for although it is a distinct rise in the prisoner’s position to be sent to them, the pay is very poor indeed, being only five kopeks (a little over one penny) per day, and the men are always under the supervision of convoy soldiers. There is no military guard over men working at private works.

I had an interesting interview with the owner of some salt works who largely employs convict labour. He told me that he would far rather employ convicts than ordinary labourers, as they were “more reliable.” If a convict gave his “convict’s word” to do or not to do a thing, as the case might be, he could rely on his never breaking it, for it would be contrary to the recognized code of prison honour. For instance, he told me, it would often happen, when the gang he had ordered arrived, the staroster of it would inform him that such and such prisoners were unreliable, as they had declared their intention of running away at the first opportunity. “But how about the others?” he would ask; “for it would be awkward to find one’s self shorthanded at a critical moment.” “Oh, the others,” would reply the staroster, “have given me their ‘convict’s word’ to remain and do their best, so you can rely on them.” This system of thus utilizing convict labour is undoubtedly part of a huge scheme for gradually colonizing this vast continent, as round the works small villages gradually spring up.

After visiting the men’s quarters we went to the portion reserved for the fair sex, which, beyond being very crowded, offered but little of novelty or interest. Just as we were turning to leave the building, however, the doctor said, “Let’s go and see how the baroness is;” so we went back and down a corridor, at the end of which was a door by itself. Before going in I was informed that this was the cell of the famous poisoner, Sofie de Willup, Baroness de Sachs, whose trial, with that of her lover, a groom, some years ago in St. Petersburg, for murdering her second husband by slow poison, was a cause célèbre, for it then transpired that her first husband had also died in some mysterious manner. The case was proved to the hilt, I was told, and in England her fate, the gallows, would have been inevitable; but in Russia it was different, for she was a scion of a noble and wealthy house, and her relatives moving in the highest circles. Still, she could not entirely escape punishment of some sort, and she was eventually sent to Siberia for life, nominally to “hard labour at the mines,” where a poor and unknown woman would undoubtedly have gone; but the governor of the province she was consigned to was a relative of hers, so she naturally never reached her destination, but remained in the Irkutsk prison as “an invalid.” Her lover, being a nobody, was sent to work in chains for the remainder of his life in Saghalien, and is doubtless there still.

In response to a discreet knock by the governor, a female voice from within bade us enter. Imagine my astonishment, after having been told all the lady was, to find myself in a small but comfortably furnished room, with flowers and birds in cages in the window, and books and other “luxuries” lying about in profusion; whilst in a cupboard I noticed the usual extensive wardrobe of a stylish woman. On a carved bedstead in one corner of this unique prison “cell” lay the invalid, a healthy, not unprepossessing young woman of about thirty years of age; she was dressed in ordinary walking costume, and on hearing our knock had evidently hastily thrown herself on the bed and covered herself with a smart travelling rug, so as to carry out fully her invalid condition. The whole look of the place was certainly the most hollow mockery of justice I had ever seen, and I could not help involuntarily contrasting her surroundings with those of the poor wretches in other parts of the building, whose crimes were probably not half as bad as hers. The lady languidly gave us her hand to shake, and in reply to the doctor’s question as to how “Madame la baronne” felt, said she felt a little better.

“By the way,” said the governor, “you speak English, or French, or German, don’t you, Baronne?”

“Oh yes,” she replied, “all three.”

So I was formally introduced, and had my first conversation with a real live murderess. It was rather embarrassing at the commencement, for I hardly knew what to say; but she helped me out of the difficulty by asking in very fair English how dear old London looked, and how long it was since I had left it, etc., and we ended by having quite a cosmopolitan chat together, first in English, then in French, and gradually drifting into German, as, so to speak, we wandered about Europe, talking of the different places we knew, whilst I meanwhile was making a rough sketch of the room and its occupant. She told me, to my surprise, that she hoped to be free in a couple of months, when, although she would not be allowed to leave Siberia, she could live on her means (which, I believe, were ample) in some designated village or town. “After six years of ‘prison’ life,” she added, “any place will be an agreeable change for me.”

On leaving the baroness the doctor suggested that the criminal madhouse might interest me, so we all adjourned to a neighbouring building standing within a high stockade. The unfortunate inmates were evidently well looked after, for the place was as warm as toast and as clean as possible. There were no dangerous madmen there when we visited it, so the padded rooms were empty. It gave one more the impression of a hospital than a madhouse. As we entered, a wretched-looking little individual rushed up to the director and loudly complained about his being still detained there because the governor-general of Irkutsk refused to pay him what he owed him. The director agreed with him that it was very unfair his being there under the circumstances, but assured him that the matter was receiving the attention it deserved, and doubtless in a few days he would be permitted to leave. This seemed to satisfy the poor fellow, and he withdrew, after thanking us all for having honoured him with our visit.

In another of the wards amongst the patients was an actor (absurdly like Willard). Immediately he caught sight of us he ran up to the doctor, and in excited tones informed him that he had not yet received the thirty thousand roubles, which were owing to him for his last performance. The doctor pacified him with the assurance that the money would shortly be forthcoming, but had not yet been received by the officials, and further, to humour him, asked how the performance for his “benefit” was progressing. In reply, the fellow gave us, in the centre of the room, what evidently was part of a scene he had once acted in, and went through some extraordinary performance, alternately weeping, tearing his hair, and grovelling on the floor, whilst uttering incoherent sentences, and then rushing about as though with a sword in his hand and singing operatic airs. It was a painful rather than an amusing sight, and one which I shall not easily forget—the poor half-witted chap in the centre of the large room declaiming to an imaginary audience, and all round, sitting or standing by their beds, were the other lunatics, watching his movements in rapt amazement.

We then went back to the prison, as I expressed a wish to see the prisoners in the solitary, or sekrétene, cells. This was the only part of the building which was really like a prison. And very gloomy and depressing was it; no less than three heavily barred iron doors had to be unlocked before we reached the corridor where these cells were situated. A warder is on duty here, I was told, night and day, for there were several political prisoners, and the rest were the most desperate characters. In each door was a little hole about the size of a sixpence, through which could be seen the interior of the cell. I had a peep into all; it was almost like looking at some caged wild beasts, the clanking of the heavy chains they wore on their hands and feet heightening the illusion. Some of the prisoners had, I was informed, been there for years, and only were allowed out for exercise for an hour a day, and were not permitted to mingle with the other prisoners. It was easy to distinguish which were the “politicals,” for they were in ordinary civilian costume and had no chains on, as far as I could see. Most of them were quite young men, one being a mere lad, his curly hair and good-looking face not giving him the appearance of being so dangerous a political character as to necessitate such elaborate precautions being taken to prevent his escape. To my astonishment—for I had always read to the contrary—I noticed that all these political prisoners were not only allowed books to read, but in most cases were smoking also, and in every instance had their own mattresses and bedding; so their cells, at any rate, looked cleaner and more cheerful than those of the ordinary criminals, to whom filth seemed indifferent.

As we were crossing the quadrangle on our way out, a prisoner came up and offered to sell me a horsehair chain he had made. The fact of the governor and other officials being present did not seem to matter a bit, so as the work was curious I bought it of him, and as I had no small money about me, he took a rouble note and went and got change from some other prisoner!

This my first visit to the prison was followed by many others, and I made a heap of sketches; in fact, I fancy I got to be looked upon as quite an habitué of the gruesome place. I even obtained permission to make a painting of a prisoner in one of the solitary cells, and had a whole day’s work at it under the supervision of a warder, a break in the poor wretch’s awful existence which he will probably remember for many a long year, whilst probably wondering what the Angliski Gospodin could have seen worthy of being painted in so dreary a place.

On the morning of my last visit to the prison, when I went to fetch away my canvas and paint-box, I was rather surprised to notice as I drove up a tall, well-dressed woman walking up and down, accompanied by a gaoler, in the sunshine, outside the gates, in front of the group of warders and soldiers who were always lolling about smoking and chatting on the benches against the wall. On getting nearer, I found it was my murderess friend the baroness. We shook hands in the most unconstrained manner, and she told me in French that she was taking her usual “constitutional” after breakfast. We then had quite a long talk together, for she had news to give me. In a month she would be free again, and was going to live at a little place called Oussolié, near Irkutsk, where she intended building a house for herself. She then told me a lot more about her future plans—I almost felt inclined to ask if they included any more husbands! Whilst thus chatting, the warders in no way interfered with us; they did not seem to consider it in any way strange my speaking to a prisoner. Before leaving her she said she would be glad to write to me if I ever cared to hear from her, and would also send her photo if I liked. My murderess friend was evidently “smitten”! I gave her my address, and, to my surprise, a few days later received the letter, of which I give a facsimile, and also enclosing her photo, which I afterwards learnt she had had taken expressly for me. With this somewhat novel adventure ended my visits to the prison.