PREPARATIONS FOR OUR TRAVELS—THE BOAT JOURNEY BY THE VOLGA AND THE KAMA—EKATERINBURG—ON THE TROIKA—“TO EUROPE, TO ASIA”
The spring of 1885 came, and we began to make ready for our long journey. At the outset arose the very important question, what luggage could we take? The rules prescribed that those “deprived of all rights” should not have more than 25 lbs. in weight. The equipment provided by Government weighed that by itself; so that all our own belongings would have to be abandoned, including books, of course. This would have been a severe loss, for in Moscow our private library had grown considerably. Count Tolstoi had given us an edition of his collected works in twelve volumes, and also a History of Russia in twenty-nine volumes. Happily, however, the authorities decided that only the gross weight of the luggage should be counted for the whole detachment of exiles; so that as the “administratives” were allowed 5 pood (about 180 lbs.) apiece, and many of them had but few possessions, we managed to get our books in.
As everything we possessed had been through the hands of the officials, of course there was no forbidden literature in our library; nevertheless we were told to submit it all anew to inspection, and in the course of this the appointed censor had opportunities for exhibiting to our delighted gaze his special qualifications for the post. He was a high official, and had graduated in jurisprudence at 139Petersburg. Our friend Rubìnok turned to him with the question whether he might take Karl Marx’s Capital with him.
“Why, how can you take somebody else’s capital with you?” asked our censor in a surprised tone.
“It is my own,” said Rubìnok, not comprehending.
“Well, if it is your own, of course you can take it,” was the reply, “only you must hand it over to the officer commanding the convoy, who takes charge of all money.”
We, who saw the joke, had great difficulty in repressing our mirth at the idea of Rubìnok’s running off with the apparently unknown Karl Marx’s property!
When the time of departure drew nigh the idea was mooted of giving some substantial testimonial to the worthy old Captain Maltchèvsky, our governor. He learned with pleasure of the project, but begged us not to spend on him any of the little money we possessed, as we should need it on our long journey. I forget whether in the end any present was actually bought or not. At all events, the old gentleman was a great exception among his kind. I have only known one other instance of “politicals” desiring to testify their gratitude to a prison governor in such a manner. Yet an event happened at the last moment which changed our hitherto friendly feeling for Captain Maltchèvsky into resentment and dislike.
During the whole eight months of our sojourn in Moscow we had been on a perfectly amicable footing with the prison staff. Our independent proceeding in discarding our fetters and our revolt against head-shaving had been silently condoned at the time; but it was just these two points that led to a rupture of relations on the day of our departure. We were informed that we must now submit to the head-shaving and chain-riveting processes, because the officer who was to command our convoy insisted on it. We roundly refused to comply; and the “administratives,” 140who were themselves exempt from the proceeding, declared their intention of supporting us in our resolve.
The hour for mustering the party arrived. We determined to keep together, and on no account to go singly into the office for our enrolment. The staff saw at once that any attempt to use force would lead to a row; so they resolved to outwit us. We were given to understand that the idea of subjecting us to the barbarous proceeding had been thought better of, and we were committed to the charge of the convoy officer. The party was almost ready to start, when we three “hard-labour men” were suddenly told that if we liked we could get a medical certificate from the doctor to excuse us from travelling on foot when we reached Siberia, as those condemned to penal servitude were supposed to do. We said we were quite willing to be examined for this purpose; but scarcely were we separated from our companions than a party of warders hidden behind the door surrounded us. We saw immediately that we had fallen into a trap, and determined to resist to our utmost. We kept close together, and struck out with feet and fists when the warders advanced on us; but, of course, we were ultimately overpowered by their superior numbers. We were dragged away and each held forcibly down on a bench while the barber shaved the half of our heads and the blacksmith riveted on our fetters. Captain Maltchèvsky stood by the while and gave the orders. This performance of his was enough to alter our sentiments towards him, and our parting was distinctly cool.
Our journey began on a beautiful morning in the middle of May when spring had just made its appearance in Moscow. The sunshine was bright and warm, and the scent of spring was in the air. Our mood was by no means in consonance with this aspect of outward things; but most of us elected to go on foot to the station. Our procession must have been an odd sight. Convicts with fettered feet and grey prison garb marched along 141beside other men and women in ordinary clothes. Most of us were quite young; few had reached middle-age. Of the twelve women in our party three were voluntarily accompanying their husbands to Siberia.
The last violent scene had depressed us all, and we traversed in silence the quieter streets of Moscow, where the few passers-by paused to look at us, and here and there faces stared from the windows. The station, which we reached after a short tramp, had been cleared of people; only some gendarmes, prison officials, and porters were on the platform. Police were keeping guard all round, and nobody who had not a special order was allowed through to the train reserved for us. When we “politicals” were established in the places assigned to us, a few persons—relations of the prisoners—arrived to say good-bye. The gendarmes would not let them come near to the carriages, and we had to shout our farewell greetings.
“Good-bye! Good luck! Don’t forget us!” sounded from the barred windows.
“Keep up your courage! We’ll meet again soon!” came back the response.
“Let us sing something together,” called out somebody. We had formed a choral society in prison, and now started a song of Little Russia—“The Ferryman.” Slowly the train was set in motion, and as we glided away the affecting strains of the beautiful melody accompanied us. Many could not restrain their tears, and sobs were heard which the rattle of the train soon drowned. With faces pressed against the bars of the windows we gazed back at Moscow as long as it could be seen. Then came the outskirts, and then our eyes were refreshed by the sight of broad meadows.
When we halted at the next station there were a good many people on the platform—peasants and workmen. Many of them came up to the carriage windows unhindered, and seemed to be offering things to us.
“Here, take it, in the Virgin’s name!” said a voice close 142by me. I looked out, and was aware of an old peasant woman who held out a kopeck[55] to me.
“I don’t need it, mother; give it to someone who does,” I said; and felt my heart warm towards this kindly old woman of the people.
“Take it, take it, my dear!” she insisted.
“Well, as a remembrance, then.” I agreed; and I kept the little copper coin for a long time before I eventually lost it.
A whole chain of recollections was started in my mind by this occurrence, and I sank deep in thought. The further we went from Moscow, the sadder became my spirits; I felt as if I were leaving behind me there a host of friends I should never see again. I did not want to talk to anyone, but gazed silently out of the window. The line ran through a factory district; the stations were crowded, and along the railway banks we saw many groups of workpeople. Men and women in brightly coloured cotton garments stopped and called out after the train, making expressive gestures. Whether they knew us for exiles on our way to Siberia and meant to send us a message of sympathy I cannot tell. Perhaps it is the custom in that countryside, whence many prisoners are transported, to express in this way that feeling of compassion towards the “children of misfortune”[56] so common among the Russian people.
On the following morning we arrived at Nijni Novgorod, whence we were to journey by boat to Perm, by the Volga and its tributary the Kama. Our party attracted much attention both at the station and on the way to the quay. The married and betrothed couples walked in front, arm in arm, and the rest of us followed, the escort surrounding us all. Two large cabins, one for the men and one for the women, were assigned to us on the big barge, which was 143taken in tow by a river steamer. Here we were rather comfortably lodged, and we were all in common allowed free access to the roomy deck, which was enclosed by iron netting at the sides and overhead. Food we provided for ourselves, and on that head had nothing ............