For Russia the consequences were equally disastrous. The Polish insurrection was the definitive close of the reform period. True, the law of provincial self-government (Zémstvos) and the reform of the law courts were promulgated in 1864 and 1866; but both were ready in 1862, and, moreover, at the last moment Alexander II gave preference to the scheme of self-government which had been prepared by the reactionary party of Valuev, as against the scheme that had been prepared by Nicholas Milútin; and immediately after the promulgation of both reforms, their importance was reduced, and in some cases destroyed, by the enactment of a number of bylaws.
Worst of all, public opinion itself took a further step backward. The hero of the hour was Katkov, the leader of the serfdom party, who appeared now as a Russian “patriot,” and carried with him most of the St. Petersburg and Moscow society. After that time those who dared to speak of reforms were at once classed by Katkov as “traitors to Russia.”
The wave of reaction soon reached our remote province. One day in March a paper was brought by a special messenger from Irkutsk. It intimated to General Kukel that he was at once to leave the post of governor of Transbaikália and go to Irkutsk, waiting there for further orders, and that he was not to reassume the post of commander of the general staff.
Why? What did that mean? There was not a word of explanation. Even the governor-general, a personal friend of Kukel, had not run the risk of adding a single word to the mysterious order. Did it mean that Kukel was going to be taken between two gendarmes to St. Petersburg, and immured in that huge stone coffin, the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul? All was possible. Later on we learned that such was indeed the intention; and so it would have been done but for the energetic intervention of Count Nicholas Muravyov, “the conqueror of the Amúr,” who personally implored the Tsar that Kukel should be spared that fate.
Our parting with Kukel and his charming family was like a funeral. My heart was very heavy. I not only lost in him a dear personal friend, but I felt also that this parting was the burial of a whole epoch, full of long-cherished hopes—“full of illusions,” as it became the fashion to say.
So it was. A new governor came—a good-natured, “leave-me-in-peace” man. With renewed energy, seeing that there was no time to lose, I completed our plans for the reform of the system of exile and municipal self-government. The governor made a few objections here and there for formality’s sake, but finally signed the schemes, and they were sent to headquarters. But at St. Petersburg reforms were no longer wanted. There our projects lie buried still, with hundreds of similar ones from all parts of Russia. A few “improved” prisons, even more terrible than the old unimproved ones, have been built in the capitals, to be shown during prison congresses to distinguished foreigners; but the remainder, and the whole system of exile, were found by George Kennan in 1886 in exactly the same state in which I left them in 1862. Only now, after thirty-five years have passed away, the authorities are introducing the reformed tribunals and a parody of self-government in Siberia, and committees have been nominated again to inquire into the system of exile.
When Kennan came back to London from his journey in Siberia, he managed, on the very next day after his arrival in London, to hunt up Stepniák, Tchaikovsky, myself, and another Russian refugee. In the evening we all met at Kennan’s room in a small hotel near Charing Cross. We saw him for the first time, and having no excess of confidence in enterprising Englishmen who had previously undertaken to learn all about the Siberian prisons without even learning a word of Russian, we began to cross-examine Kennan. To our astonishment, he not only spoke excellent Russian, but he knew everything worth knowing about Siberia. One or another of us had been acquainted with the greater proportion of all political exiles in Siberia, and we besieged Kennan with questions: “Where is So-and-So? Is he married? Is he happy in his marriage? Does he still keep fresh in spirit?” We were soon satisfied that Kennan knew all about every one of them.
When this questioning was over, and we were preparing to leave, I asked, “Do you know, Mr. Kennan, if they have built a watchtower for the fire brigade at Chitá?” Stepniák looked at me, as if to reproach me for abusing Kennan’s goodwill. Kennan, however, began to laugh, and I soon joined him. And with much laughter we tossed each other questions and answers: “Why, do you know about that?” “And you too?” “Built?” “Yes, double estimates!” and so on, till at last Stepniák interfered, and in his most severely good-natured way
