Siberian Exiles
They gave him his breakfast, and would not accept any remuneration but his warm and cordial thanks.
One evening Piotrowski’s life was nearly extinct. The way was lost, the hail pierced his skin, his supply of bread was exhausted, and after vainly dragging his weary limbs, he fell into a kind of torpor. A loud voice roused him—“What are you doing here?”
“I am making a pilgrimage to the monastery of Solovetsk, but the storm prevented my seeing the track, and I have not eaten for several days.”
“It is not surprising. We who live on the spot often wander away. There, drink that.”
The speaker gave him a bottle containing some brandy, which burned him so fearfully, that in his pain he danced about.
“Now try to calm yourself,” said the good Samaritan, giving him some bread and dried fish, which Piotrowski ate ravenously, saying—“I thank you with all my heart. May God bless you for your goodness.”
“Ah, well, do not say so much; we are both Christians. Now, try to walk a little.”
He was a trapper; and led him into the right path, pointing out a village inn where he could get rest and refreshment. Piotrowski managed to crawl to the place, and then fainted away. When he recovered himself, he asked for radish-soup, but could not swallow it; and toward noon he fell asleep on the bench, never awaking until the same time on the next day, when the host roused him. Sleep, rest, and warmth restored him, and he again started on his long pilgrimage.
The town of Veliki-Ustiug was reached, where he determined to change his character and become a pilgrim, going to pray to the holy images of Solovetsk, on the White Sea. There are four of these holy places to which pious Russians resort, and everywhere the wayfarers are well received, hospitality and alms being freely dispensed to those who are going to pray for the peace of the donor. Passports are not rigorously exacted, and he hoped to join himself to a company, trusting to be less marked than if alone. As he was standing irresolute in the market-place, a young man accosted him, and finding that they were bound to the same place, invited him to join their party. There were about twenty; but no less than two thousand were in the city on their way, waiting until the thaw should have opened the Dwina for the rafts and boats which would transport them to Archangel, and then to Solovetsk. It was a scene for Chaucer: the half-idiot, who sought to be a saint; the knave who played upon the charity of others; and the astute hypocrite. The rafts are loaded with corn, and the pilgrims receive a free passage; or a small sum of money is given them, if they consent to row; from forty to sixty sailors being required for each, the oars consisting of a thin fir-tree. Piotrowski was only too happy to increase his small store of money by working. At the break of day, before starting, the captain cried—“Seat yourselves, and pray to God.” Every one squatted down like a Mussulman for a moment, then rose and made a number of salutations and crossings; and next, down to the poorest, each threw a small piece of money into the river to secure a propitious voyage.
Fifteen days passed, during which Piotrowski learned to be an expert oarsman. Then the golden spires of Archangel rose before them; a cry of joy was uttered by all; and the rowers broke off the lower parts of their oars with a frightful crash, according to the universal custom. It was a heartfelt prayer of gratitude that Piotrowski raised to God for having brought him thus far in safety. How pleasant was the sight of the ships, with their flags of a thousand colors, after the snow and eternal forests of the Urals! But there was again disappointment. He wandered along the piers, but could not find a single vessel bound for France or Germany, and not daring to enter the cafes, where perhaps the captains might have been, he left Archangel in sadness, determined to skirt the coast towards Onega. He would thus pass the celebrated monastery without the necessity of stopping, and pretend that he was proceeding to Novgorod and Moscow on the same pious pilgrimage.
Through marshes and blighted fir-plantations the weary wayfarer sped, the White Sea rising frequently into storms of the utmost grandeur; but the season was lovely, and the sun warm, so that camping out offered less hardship. The wolves howled around him, but happily he never saw them. Many soldiers, who were Poles, were established at different points to take charge of the canals.
Having reached Vytegra, he was accosted on the shore by a peasant, who asked where he was going. On hearing his story, he said—“You are the man I want. I am going to St. Petersburg. My boat is small, and you can assist me to row.”
The crafty fellow evidently intended to profit by the pilgrim’s arms without wages; but, after long debate, he agreed to supply Piotrowski with food during the transport. It seemed strange, indeed, to go to the capital—like running into the jaws of the lion—but he seized every occasion to pass on, lest his papers should be asked for. As they coasted down through Lake Ladoga and the Neva, they took in some women as passengers, who were servants, and had been home to see their parents. One of them, an aged washerwoman, was so teased by the others, that Piotrowski took her part, and in return she offered him some very useful assistance.
“My daughter,” she said, “will come to meet me, and she will find you a suitable lodging.”
It will be guessed with what joy he accepted the proposal; and during all the time spent in the boat, no one came to ask for passports. The house she took him to was sufficiently miserable; as the Russians say, “It was the bare ground, with the wrist for a pillow.” He asked his hostess if he must see the police to arrange the business of his passport. “No,” she said. “If you only stay a few days, it is useless. They have become so exacting, that they would require me to accompany you, and my time is too precious.”
As he passed along the quays, looking for a ship, his eyes rested on one to sail for Riga on the following morning. He could scarcely master his emotion. The pilot on board called out—“If you want a place to Riga, come here.”
“I certainly want one; but I am too poor to sail in a steamer. It would cost too much.”
He named a very small sum, and said—“Come; why do you hesitate?”
“I only arrived yesterday, and the police have not visé my passport.”
“That will occupy three days. Go without a visé. Be here at seven o’clock, and wait for me.”
Both were to their time. The sailor said, “Give me some money,” and handed him a yellow paper; the clock struck; the barrier was opened, and, like a dream, he was safely on the ocean.
From Riga he went through Courland and Lithuania. The difficulty of crossing the Russian frontier into Prussia was still to be managed. He chose the daytime; and when sentinels had each turned their backs, he jumped over the wall of the first of the three glacis. No noise was heard. The second was tried, and the firing of pistols showed that he was perceived. He rushed on to the third, and, breathless and exhausted, gained a little wood, where for many hours he remained concealed. He was in Prussia. Wandering on through Mernel, Tilsit, and Konigsberg, he decided at the last place to take a ship the next morning to Elbing, where he would be near to Posen, and among his compatriots. Sitting down on a heap of stones, he intended taking refuge for the night in a corn-field; but sleep overcame him, and he was rudely awakened in the darkness by a policeman. His stammering and confused replies awakened suspicion, and to his shame and grief, he was carried off to prison. He announced himself as a French cotton-spinner, but returning from Russia, and without a passport. Not a word he said was believed. At length, after a month’s detention, weary of being considered a concealed malefactor, he asked to speak to M. Fleury, a French advocate, who assisted at his trial. To him he confessed the whole truth. Nothing could equal his advocate’s consternation and astonishment.
“What a misfortune!” he said. “We must give you up to the Russians; they have just sent many of your countrymen, across the frontier. There is but one way. Write to Count Eulenberg; tell your story, and trust to his mercy.”
After ten days he received a vague reply, desiring him to have patience. The affair got wind in the town, and a gentleman came to him, asking if he would accept him as bail. Efforts had been made in his favor, and the police were ready to set him free. M. Kamke, his kind friend, took him home, and entertained him for a week; but an order came from Berlin to send the prisoner back to Russia, and he received warning in time to escape. Letters to various friends on the way were given him, to facilitate his journey; and just four years after he had left Paris he reached it in safety again, after having crossed the Urals, slept for months in the snow, jumped over the Russian frontier in the midst of balls, and passed through so many sufferings and privations.