The RevolutionistBy Catherine Breshkovskaya(Born to luxury, but casting her lot, when only twenty-six, with the group of revolutionists who dared hope that the Russian peasantry might some day arise and rebel against the horrible oppression of the government. Twice exiled to Siberia, escaping once after serving a sentence of twenty-one years. Just before the overthrow of the czar closely guarded in a Siberian prison cell, after a second attempt to escape. Free once more, she has lived to see part of the realization of her dreams, the overthrow of Imperialism.)
By Catherine Breshkovskaya
(Born to luxury, but casting her lot, when only twenty-six, with the group of revolutionists who dared hope that the Russian peasantry might some day arise and rebel against the horrible oppression of the government. Twice exiled to Siberia, escaping once after serving a sentence of twenty-one years. Just before the overthrow of the czar closely guarded in a Siberian prison cell, after a second attempt to escape. Free once more, she has lived to see part of the realization of her dreams, the overthrow of Imperialism.)
We put on peasant dress, to elude the police and break down the peasant’s cringing distrust. I dressed in enormous bark shoes, coarse shirt and drawers, and heavy cloak. I used acid on my face and hands; I worked and ate with the peasants; I learned their speech; I travelled on foot, forging passports. I lived ‘illegally!’
By night I did my organizing. You desire a picture? A low room with mud floors and walls. Rafters just overhead, and still higher thatch. The room was packed with men, women and children. Two big fellows sat up on the high brick stove, with their dangling feet knocking occasional applause. These people had been gathered by my host, a brave peasant whom I picked out, and he in turn had chosen only thosewhom Siberia could not terrify. I now recalled their floggings; I pointed to those who were crippled for life; to women, whose husbands died under the lash; and when asked if men were to be forever flogged, then they would cry out so fiercely that the three or four cattle in the next room would bellow and have to be quieted. Again I would ask what chances their babies had of living, and in reply some peasant woman would tell how her baby had died the winter before. Why? I asked. Because they had only the most wretched strips of land. To be free and live, the people must own the land! From my cloak I would bring a book of fables written to teach our principles and stir the love of freedom. And then far into the night, the firelight showed a circle of great, broad faces and dilated eyes, staring with all the reverence every peasant has for that mysterious thing—a book.
These books, twice as effective as oral work, were printed in secrecy at heavy expense. But many of us had libraries, jewels, costly gowns and furs to sell; and new recruits kept adding to our fund. We had no personal expenses....
In that year of 1874, over two thousand educated people traveled among the peasants. Weary work, you say. Yes, when the peasants were slow and dull and the spirit of freedom seemed an illusion. But when that spirit grew real one felt far from weary....
We may die in exile, and our children may die in exile, and our children’s children may die in exile, but something must come of it at last.