MR. HARRY DE WINDT has undoubtedly shown courage in asking me to write a few words of preface to his book on Russian prisons.

Me, of all the world! Anybody who has ever heard of me knows that I am a thorough Russian, a staunch believer in Greek orthodoxy, in autocracy and nationalism, convinced of the grand future of Russia as of my own existence, and a prison directress to boot! In fact, never paying the homage of hypocrisy in disguising my real self, I represent all that the English people have the greatest dislike to.

I hesitated to comply with Mr. de Windt’s request, because I felt that my sympathies with his honest and energetic investigations might injure his book rather than commend it to English readers.

Another very important consideration occurred to me. To form a proper opinion of the Russian prisons, it is necessary to possess, what English people certainly do not possess, some knowledge of the ordinary conditions of life in our country. A preface to any book on Russia ought, in fact, to be somewhat of an introduction into the penetralia of our innermost existence. But in giving real facts about our country, I have the feeling of printing advertisements about ourselves—to us Russians a very antipathetic work indeed.

Russia is, over a great extent, a land of stoicism, fortified by Christianity—not a bad basis for the formation of character, after all, but it is a hard school. Our country life is an important study. It is full of self-denial, of hardships, of privations. Indeed, in some parts peasant life is so hard that we, the upper classes, could scarcely endure it.

Landed proprietors are generally in close intercourse with their ex-serfs. The latter, though perfectly free and themselves land-owners, from the fact that their former masters have at heart their welfare, naively think that the latter are still under obligation to furnish help when needed. This irrational relationship is generally accepted good-naturedly by the ex-masters, though very often it involves great material sacrifices. We could all give our personal experiences of village life, and I, for one, venture to do so, though there are many others better qualified.

To visit the sick and the poor is a common duty recognized by all in our country, although the discharge of this duty sometimes is rather an ordeal. How overcrowded and dark are their dwellings! How poor their daily food! (The only approach to the condition that I know of in the United Kingdom is in the poverty-stricken districts of Ireland.) Yet those who lead that rough life seem strong and happy, on the whole. They will make merry jokes, and after a long day’s heavy work, from sunrise to sunset, return home from the fields, singing and dancing.

Injudicious and indiscriminate charity would do harm here as elsewhere. In illustration of this I will mention the following from my own experience.

My son, a newly appointed Zemski Natchalnik (Zemski chief), has recently founded two schools on our Tamboff estate—as has been done by other landed proprietors in the same province, such as Mr. E. Narishkine, Mr. Garainoff, etc.

The principal local representatives of the Church and the chiefs of our local school inspectors were invited to discuss the programme of the teaching and management of these schools—one for boarders (future primary school teachers), the other a daily school for our parish children. (All our schools for the people are, and have always been, free of charge.)

The educational scheme met with almost unanimous approval, but when the boarding arrangements came to be discussed, with suggestions about “light mattresses and pillows,” they were met by a general outburst of disapproval.

“Here you are wrong. Why should you spoil them, and make them unfit for their usual life, by accustoming them to unnecessary luxuries? The utmost you should provide, as a comfort for peasant boys, is some straw, and a plain bench to sleep on. Nothing more.”

It may perhaps interest my readers to know that there is such a thirst for learning amongst our peasant children, that candidates come in overwhelming numbers, and this happens to all our educational institutions—they are overcrowded to the last degree. The population increases more quickly than church and school accommodation for it. That inconvenience is also noticeable in our prisons. But to people accustomed to a very hard life, would it be a punishment if, instead of suffering discomfort for their crimes, they were surrounded with what to them would appear extreme luxury? Where is one to draw the line between necessaries and luxuries? A prison ought to be a punishment, not a reward for crimes.

In visiting the prisons I have heard the remark that some of the convicts would not have committed their misdeeds had they possessed at home half of the comfort provided in the prison. They also know that whilst they are away, good care is taken of their children. I remember a female prisoner, who had to suffer a year’s punishment for theft and smuggling, whose looks of distress and misery forcibly struck me. Knowing that she was near the end of her term, I asked how it was that she did not look happier.

“I am pining for my boy; I feel sure he is dead. I wrote to him twice, but he never replied,” answered she, sobbing. “He was taken up as a beggar and a vagabond by the Beggars’ Committee.”

“Well,” said I, “since you can tell me where he may be found, I will go and see him at once, and you shall know the exact truth about him. Wait patiently till I come back.”

Off I went to the “Beggars’ Institution,” which is in close connection with the prisons, and had the boy brought to me. He looked clean and healthy.

‘‘Your mother sends you her blessing,” I began; “she is in good health, but grieves that you never answered her letters. Have they not reached you?”

“Oh yes, they have, but I cannot write. I began learning here, and can only write O’s and pothooks.”

As I always provide myself with writing materials on visiting the prisons, and am always ready in deserving cases to write letters, dictated to me by illiterate prisoners, I offered my services to the little beggar.

He seemed radiant. “Yes, tell her I am very well fed here, three times every day. Food plentiful.”

“What else?” asked I. “Would you not like to see your mother? Don’t you go to church every Sunday, and don’t you pray for her?”

“Oh yes. Tell her to come to live with me here.”

You should have seen the joy of the mother when I brought her this very undiplomatic despatch, and the interest created amongst her fellow-prisoners!

To help the wretched is a pleasure thoroughly appreciated by Russians. It is absurd to preach to us charity and compassion. We are brought up in those notions from our childhood. Christianity with us is not a vague term; it represents a very clear “categorical principle” which forms a link between all of us, from the Emperor down to the humblest peasant. Our highest classes are very well represented in that respect. First comes our Empress, who is the soul of charity and compassion. I never heard of any appeal made to her in vain. Nor could anybody, I think, be kinder than the Emperor. His aunt, the Grand Duchess Constantine, notwithstanding the endless demands on her generosity, has just undertaken to feed a thousand of famine-stricken peasants in our district till next harvest. I could also give other examples from amongst the Imperial family.

Then, coming to a lower rank, we have for instance the procurator of the Holy Synod, Mr. Pobédonostzeff and his wife. The latter, though far from strong in health, takes care of two large schools, visiting them almost daily; with the support and sympathy of her husband she collects large sums of money every year, in order to send to the prisoners of Sakhalin (our worst criminals) quantities of clothes, useful tools, tobacco and toys, writing materials, and religious books. Our lower classes only care for “Divine literature,” as they call it. Religious books are in great demand in every part of Russia, which helps to defeat Nihilistic teaching, and saves the people from that criminal folly.

Or take another well-known case: a man of good birth and worldly prospects, a distinguished Moscow professor, who, without any of that self-advertisement which seems to be the necessary stimulus to similar efforts in Western Europe, buried himself in the country, and there founded a school, which has served as a model for ten or twelve other schools in the same province, and which he superintends and guides with fatherly care, and in strictly Greek orthodox views. He also organized a large temperance movement, which is now spreading throughout Russia.

I could give numerous instances to show that philanthropy, far from being unknown, is widely practised in Russia. In fact, it permeates all our work, including the prisons.

Our great Empress, Catherine II., used to say, “Better pardon ten criminals than punish one innocent.” This became a favourite saying with us, and perhaps accounts for the leniency of our juries, which is often carried too far. For what right have we to endanger the public safety by allowing crime to reign unchecked?

In England murderers are quietly hanged, and this happens even pretty often. According to us, this is going too far. How are you to manifest Christian compassion and love to sinners when they are so quickly and definitely disposed of?

What chance have they to repent? Capital punishment is repellent to public feeling in Russia, and has been used in cases which, thank God, were quite exceptional and extremely rare. With us, only the very worst crimes are punished with imprisonment for life. And even for these it may at all events be said, “While there is life there is hope.”

Very great improvements have been introduced in our prison system. More are to follow. We see our shortcomings better than ignorant dilettante critics, whose only object is to excite artificial indignation.

These questions are very important and complicated; but, as Thiers used to say, “Prenez tout au sérieux, rien au tragique.”

Those who wish to know the Russian prisons as they are in the year 1891, have now the opportunity of doing so, by studying Mr. Harry de Windt’s most interesting and trustworthy book. I must add that he has seen more of Russian territory than I have. Unfortunately, I have never visited Siberia: he has been there twice. Our prison authorities, both in Europe and in Asia, convinced of his sincere desire to write “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” opened the prison doors to him whenever asked, by day or by night. I am happy that they have done so. Mr. de Windt deserves confidence, not only as an able writer and keen observer, but because, if he will permit me to say so, he shows himself to be a gentleman. By this we understand a man imbued with the conviction that honour is not a commercial commodity, to be trafficked with or exchanged for either notoriety or money.

The more his interesting work is read the more convinced do we become that whatever he writes, be it in praise or blame, he thoroughly believes! An Englishman has his own views and feelings. By all means let him express them freely, so long as his criticism is guided by a genuine respect for truth. In that direction Mr. de Windt’s book deserves imitation, and is a wholesome contrast to that literature, so popular in England, which is chiefly based upon imagination and our police court reports. Every country having prisons must be supposed to have criminals, and any collector of horrors can easily fabricate the most dreadful pictures. In Russia sketches of this kind, purposely misleading the public, would of course be ridiculed. In England, unfortunately, the grosser the exaggeration the better it pays! But not everything should be considered from either a penny-a-liner or a Stock Exchange point of view. Nor, even judged by that standard, is it admissible to obtain money on false pretences. England has nothing to gain by not only ignoring the truth, but by acting under absolute misrepresentations and calumnies. I declare and insist upon this positive fact. Credulous readers of English newspapers—these latter-day gospels—are misled, shamefully misled, by a great portion of the press. People were angry with me last year when I reminded them of the force represented by Russia. I did say that she is a great military power, with an army of two millions, whom no European country dares to attack single-handed. I might have added what is of even more importance, namely, her capacity to transform her humble everyday life into a heroism which has, more than once in moments of great national trial, astonished the world. Might not a nation of this character be a useful friend and ally?

How I wish I had the miraculous gift of curing moral blindness! What a grand and edifying spectacle would be that of the two great Christian civilizing powers, trustful and united, working together not only in Europe, but especially in Asia, where their present policy is only hindering the work of civilization amongst alien races!

Thus any English writer, helping towards a true knowledge of Russia as she really is, is doing good service to a great Christian cause.

Amongst these is Mr. Harry de Windt, and I, as a Russian, can only wish him and his book “God-speed.” If noblesse oblige, Christianisme oblige plus encore!

OLGA NOVIKOFF.

CLARIDGE’S HOTEL, 

BROOK STREET.