"I get my living by the exile system," said a high officer of the prison department to me one day, "and I have no fault to find with my position or my pay; but I would gladly resign both to-morrow if I could see the system abolished. It is disastrous to Siberia, it is ruinous to the criminal, and it causes an immense amount of misery; but what can be done? If we say anything to our superiors in St. Petersburg, they strike us in the face; and they strike hard—it hurts! I have learned to do the best I can and to hold my tongue."
"I have reported upon the abuses and miseries in my department," said another officer, "until I am tired; and I have accomplished little or nothing. Perhaps if you describe them, something will be done. The prison here is unfit for human habitation,—it isn't fit for a dog,—and I have been trying for years to get a new one; but my efforts have resulted in nothing but an interminable correspondence."
Statements similar to these were made to me by at least a score of officers who held positions of trust in the civil or military service of the state, and many of them furnished me with abundant proof of their assertions in the shape of statistics and documentary evidence.
In Tomsk the condition of the prisons and the evils of the exile system were so well known to everybody, and had been so often commented upon in the local newspapers, that the higher officials did not think it worth while apparently to try to conceal anything from us. The governor of the province, Mr. Krasófski, happened at that time to be absent from the city, but his place was being filled by State Councilor Nathaniel Petukhóf, the presiding officer of the provincial administration, who was described to us as a man of intelligence, education, and some liberality. As soon as I conveniently could, I called upon Mr. Petukhóf, and was received by him with great cordiality. He had read, as I soon learned, my book upon northeastern Siberia; and
