Małgorzata Król
This honest and uncompromising prisoner — though it may sound like a paradox — strove to remain free even in the yolk of captivity. Independent despite oppression. Wise and good in a world of absurdity and evil. Driven to exhaustion by his relentless journey of deportation, worn down by illness, crushed upon hearing the news of his wife’s death and the orphanhood of his young children, he was possessed of an extraordinary spiritual strength — or, as he himself wrote, “nobility of the spirit.”
Julian Sabiński is a little-known figure, yet he appears in the Bibliography of Polish Literature, the so-called New Korbut, where he is referred to simply as a “diarist.” To leave it at that — an wholly inaccurate label, since he was the author of a diary written in real time during his “captivity and exile” — would be akin to introducing Mickiewicz as merely a “teacher in Kowno.”
Julian Glaubicz Sabiński was a son, brother, husband, father, and friend. Beyond these familial and social ties, he counted among the insurgents of the November Uprising, was a member of the Association of the Polish People, exile and penal laborer, self-educated scholar, polyglot, and man of letters. To truly relay the nature of his character, one must write: “a nobleman of spirit,” a man of truth (“incapable of either flattery or falsehood” (I, 421)) and of honor. And despite such words sounding somewhat lofty to the modern ear, he did himself indeed affirm their meaning, when writing in his Diary:
“Poor are these people here!… In the impotence of their mental blindness, they sometimes reproach me for my present condition, clearly intending to humiliate me! They neither know or understand, that there is a form of nobility that no power on earth is able to strip away — for it is founded not only on ancient grants and records, nor solely on the lineage of one’s ancestry, but still more nobly on the refinement of one’s personal feelings, the purity of one’s ideals, the goodness of one’s soul, and the integrity of one’s striving.” (I, 364)
“In Agony Beyond Imagination”
Julian Glaubicz Sabiński was born on February 11, 1797, in Kamieniec Podolski, the son of Ludwik and Elżbieta née Raczyńska. Following his parents’ divorce, he was raised and educated by Rajmund Korsak. His guardian instilled in him a deep love for learning, which led to him being remarkably well-educated, despite never having formally attended school. From an early age, he maintained ties with Poland’s intellectual elite — including scribes such as Tymon Zaborowski and Stanisław Starzyński, and later, while in exile, Gustaw Ehrenberg and Apollo Korzeniowski — each one of whom placed great value on both his knowledge and his friendship.
During the November Uprising, Sabiński fought in the defense of Zamość. In the aftermath of the fortress’s capitulation, he was taken into captivity by the Russians. Later granted amnesty, he returned to Podolia in 1832. Two years on from this, he was married to Pelagia Darowska, with whom he fathered three children: Ziemowit (b. 1835), Olgierd (b. 1837), and Hemilda (b. 1838).
In 1838, for involvement with Szymon Konarski’s Association of the Polish People — something he never admitted to — Sabiński was arrested and imprisoned in the Kyiv Citadel. In March 1839, a military court sentenced him to death, a punishment subsequently commuted to twenty years hard labor in Siberia to be followed by lifelong exile. Did he treat this in any way as an act of mercy? In his Diary, he commented that the death penalty, “where the end comes in a matter of seconds,” had been replaced by “a twenty-year-long slow, agonizing death” (I, 83).
Upon arriving in Usolye — the place of his penal servitude — he was informed of his wife’s death. He was so overcome with despair that he wrote:
“It appears I have entirely forgotten how to speak… And now I no longer know how to pray… I am the most miserable of men.” (I, 174)
As a convict he was officially registered as being assigned to haul firewood to the saltworks, a form of labour that in reality, he never actually performed. From December 1839 onwards, he was employed as a foreign languages tutor for the children of local officials, including Andrei Mevius, chief of the saltworks in Eastern Siberia.
In 1841 and 1842, his sentence was twice reduced — by ten years in total — and in 1843, in a further act of grace he was to be formally resettled in the village of Granovskoya in the Irkutsk district. He never actually made it there. He went instead, to live with the exiled Decembrist prince Sergei Volkonsky, serving as tutor to his son, Mikhail. Pardoned by the coronation amnesty of 1856, Sabiński returned to Kamieniec Podolski in the autumn of 1857. Peace, however, was to prove elusive. In May 1861, he was arrested once more for participating in a patriotic service and administratively exiled to Chernihiv, where he passed away in February [1869].
“Where I am, alas! In Asia!… In chains!”
As an exile, Sabiński was an absolutely exceptional figure — leaving behind an equally extraordinary testimony of the Siberian experience. His Diary, vast both in its sheer breadth (3,335 manuscript pages) and scope (spanning the years 1838–1857), was penned in beautiful Polish. Composed of daily entries, it chronicles his imprisonment and interrogation in Kyiv, through the long journey eastward, to his long-term stay in Usolye and Irkutsk.
These notations reveal a man of great intellect, exceptional memory, and a profound culture not limited only to the realm of literature. Torn away from his homeland, wife, and children, condemned to a punishment grossly disproportionate to his so-called “crime,” tormented and humiliated, Sabiński kept his dignity intact — something he referred to as “the majesty of martyrdom.”
He began to put pen to paper while imprisoned in Kiev, initially with his wife in mind, and following her death, for his children. It was there in such conditions that he taught himself to write “in shorthand, very quickly.” He persevered with his diary entries, even during the grueling stages of transportation, noting:
“Lying here wrapped in my cloak, with my back turned to these thugs, under the guise of reading a prayer book.” (I, 53)
Thus came into being what he described as “the sorrowful tale of our misfortune.” (I, 53)
On the road to Tobolsk he fell ill, losing all hope of ever reaching the capital of Western Siberia. The fresh sting of his sentence, the sense of isolation, alongside the anxiety about his loved ones weighed heavily upon him, especially on those days that marked the arrival of family anniversaries. On his daughter Hemilda’s first birthday, he teetered on the brink of despair: “Where am I, alas! In Asia!… In chains!… A year ago, I felt so happy. Back then there was so much hope, and so much life ahead of me!… And now!!!” (I, 84).
The presence of the nine of us might harm his horses
He had been counting on a meeting with Prince Gorchakov in Tobolsk that would lead to a revision of his sentence. He learned instead that, along with everyone who was condemned in Kyiv, he was destined for Eastern Siberia, to a sentence of forced labor in the Nerchinsk mines. He was to meet with the nightmare of an exile’s lonely march, during which the heat, cold, illness, squalidness of the staging posts, the omnipresent vermin, did not however burden him as much as the moral chaos and primitive cruelty of the guards. Among the most reprehensible, he made mention of Colonel Kiryn, who flatly refused to house the political prisoners in a damp, manure-ridden stable because “the presence of us nine might harm his horses standing there” (I, 116). Another guard, whose vileness “surpassed all imagination of brutality and inhumanity,” added hunger to the catalogue of cruelties (I, 105).
Yet there were also those like the educated, obliging officer Czyhunow, frequently seen with a book in his hand (I, 108), who shared with them the meagre prison food. Such testimonies ought to be believed, as it seems that Sabiński was not a man capable of flattery or falsehood.
I need no favour from anyone, I ask for none, nor shall I ever accept one.
This honest, uncompromising convict — though it may sound somewhat paradoxical — strove to remain free even in the evident conditions of enslavement. Independent despite subjugation. Wise and good in a world of absurdity and evil. Exhausted by the long march, worn down by illness, and devastated to the core by news of his wife’s passing and his children’s orphanhood, he was nevertheless in possession of an extraordinary strength of spirit — or, as he himself expressed it, “nobility of the spirit.” This was something that became very apparent during his very first conversation with the commandant, Andrei Mevius — a man, the whim of whom could determine the Pole’s fate, not to mention, even his very life.
Upon being offered the position of tutor, in reply, Sabiński remarked:
“If, Major, you believe in your conscience that this occupation does not violate the duties of my sentence, then I accept . But if the proposal I am hearing from you is meant as a kind of favor […], I must declare that I neither need, request, nor will ever accept a favor from anyone. I know that I have been sentenced to hard labor, and I am ready to perform it […] Believe me, Major, that I am in no way ashamed to be the object of resentment, anger, or vengeance of the mightiest power in the world. Yet in my situation, a favor from anyone…”
The commandant the proceeded to interrupt him, exclaiming with feeling:
“Upon my honor, I swear to you […] that it is not I who grant you a favor, but you who bestow the greatest favor upon me!” (I, 189–191).
Sabiński stayed — but only on the understanding that there be not the slightest mention of payment. The work, however, turned out to be far from easy. His pupil was not only lazy but also displayed great “stubbornness and rude behavior toward me. Yet […] we must endure all of this, not forgetting after all that ‘we have been sentenced to hard labor!’” (I, 331).
A small, honest mistake!!!
The Diary not only reveals to us a man who, without the evidence of these notations would surely have evaporated into the ether along with the other nameless martyrs of Siberia, but it also exposes the Russian system of repression — described with unflinching honesty, emotional detachment, taking aim at the bureaucratic chaos that ruled it. Villainy went unpunished, along with the rampant misappropriation of money or valuables sent by exiles’ families. Mistakes, which assumed a level of grotesqueness in their tragic absurdity, were not uncommon. Sabiński was horrified to learn of the fate of “Gąsiorowski, a soldier from Galicia,” who was eventually released from Nerchinsk in 1839 — where he had been sent by mistake in 1831! “A small, honest mistake!!!” (I, 125), the author was to comment in his Diary.
He portrayed not only the intricate functioning of the system however, but also its disintegration — which was triggered by the omnipresent, yet for the exiles, strangely beneficial drunkenness: “Better for us with drunkards than with the sober ones — luckily, there are very few of the latter” (I, 123). He was a shrewd observer of the shallowness of religious and moral principles, and the evident lack of deep attachment even among close relations. In stark contrast to this, he picked up an astonishing tendency to invent ever more elaborate degrees of kinship — “which even the most skilled genealogist would struggle to untangle.” One Siberian woman, upon being asked if she was familiar with a certain person who came up during a conversation, replied: “How could I not know him, he’s a relative of mine — and not even a distant one — because his sister-in-law’s aunt was married to my stepson’s brother-in-law.” No one was the least bit surprised; “everyone viewed this peculiar lineage as something quite simple and normal. For me, it was like a scene from a comedy” (I, 398).
During his time in Usolye and later in Irkutsk, Sabiński was an active participant in the lives of both Polish and Russian exiles. He stayed in contact with the Decembrists (the Volkonskys, the Trubetskoys) and was responsible for the education of young Volkonsky. By virtue of his teaching work, he was a frequent visitor to the homes of Irkutsk’s elite and provincial authorities. He was afforded the opportunity to both observe and be privy to valuable information. He lived with the awareness of censorship — an awareness he would on occasions reveal in his Diary:
“Once again I take Leopold in with me, and here, the two of us can with a certain ease. He explains to me, in a lively manner, about everything in his letters that had to remain obscure, unstated and so on.” (I, 340).
… woe to us all and to the entire nation…
His years of exile were seen out therefore, not only among strangers but also alongside fellow exiles and their families — both lay and clerical, Polish and Russian, supervisors and the supervised. On both sides encountered honest, noble, and heroic individuals, as well as those degenerates and scoundrels. Employing his characteristic distance and fairness, he gave each person their due, without regard for their nationality or status. Yet there was often a tone of deep bitterness in these reflections:
“Are unity, harmony, and brotherly love feelings foreign to us Poles, or is it merely the case that they are unable to endure even within our small community? In either case the very doubt itself is unspeakably painful. In the case the of first — woe to us all and to the entire nation; and in the second — woe to our small circle!…” (I, 103).
He himself guarded above all those loftiest and most crucial of values: love for one’s neighbor, love of the homeland, and faith in God.
A remarkable testimony to his resolute attachment to Polish identity — which was inseparable from loyalty to the Roman Catholic Church and the preservation not of ritual, but of the deep faith of his ancestors — is to be found in the scene of his encounter with an Orthodox priest who tried in vain to convert him over to the Orthodox Church. In turning down the offer, Sabiński dismissed the clergyman with firm, ironic, yet profoundly faithful words:
“[…] If only I had strength enough, learning, ability, I would, out of gratitude, strive to instill in him the principles of our faith, guiding him onto the true path of salvation — into the bosom of the Roman Church,”
adding a moment later:
“There is no doubt our paths shall not cross again —for all eternity.” (I, 81)
Another Orthodox priest “fed the hungry,” declined to accept payment, and for a certain time accompanied the exiles on their journey. Sabiński was of the impression that faith and prayer imbued him with strength. He came up with prayers that reflected the suffering of exile. While still on his way to Siberia, on the anniversary of the adoption of the 3rd of May Constitution, he wrote The Exiles’ Prayer on the Road to Irkutsk, 21 April / 3 May 1839, the beginning words of which are:
“Great God of our Fathers! Thou under whose protection our Homeland once flourished in happiness and glory […]. Look upon our misery, restrain Thy punishments, and show mercy to the descendants of a nation that for so many centuries was beloved by Thee …” (I, 182).
“O my wife, O my children! How bitter it is to live without you…”
For Sabiński, Siberia also afforded him time to both shape and educate himself— through deepening his command of the Russian language and by immersing himself in literature. It was here— perhaps for the first time? — that he dipped into the “treasure”, namely “a small volume of poetry by our Adam [Mickiewicz], from the Petersburg edition” (I, 313). He pored through it with an ultra-critical eye, his Diary being loaded with reflections, some of which could be classified in the genre of literary criticism:
“I made a comparison between Pushkin with Mickiewicz. In my judgment, I tried to maintain the strictest, most conscientious impartiality. Yet, putting to one side all the advantages Mickiewicz had in his language […], even considering the matter of pure talent and poetic value, without a shadow of a doubt, Mickiewicz deserves all the laurels.” (I, 455–456).
He was familiar with the works of Wincenty Pol. He maintained both literary and professional (as a tutor) contact with Gustaw Ehrenberg, and kept a keen eye on the latest writings of Józef Ignacy Kraszewski. Numerous examples abound. His reading went far beyond only Polish literature. As a true polyglot, he devoured books in French, Italian, and German, as well as Latin and Russian. In a quest to broaden his knowledge, he got to grips with source material, maps, and works regarding history, geography, and botany.
He even sought out libraries — locating one in Krasnoyarsk! It was housed in a building that had a windowless façade and doors that were secured with a gigantic padlock — a state of affairs, as he remarked, “hardly compatible with the adjective ‘public’” (I, 150).
Reading was his antidote to monotony, anxiety for his loved ones, and the pain of longing:
“O my wife, O my children! How bitter it is to live without you, even if I were in paradise!” he wrote — adding a little later:
“My thoughts and heart are nowhere to be found here… They are with you, my wife, my children, my homeland…” (I, 101, 108).
The Good Fruits of Suffering
When comparing the alien land that had been imposed upon him, with his homeland, the contrast always favored the latter — our “land that flows with milk and honey” (I, 255). In Siberia, he was to experience sorrow and evil in equal measure, his mood coloring the way he viewed the landscape that enveloped him:
“The surroundings here are incredibly bleak. A flat plain, encircled in the distance by great forests. In a word — Siberia, just as I had imagined it back when, never in my wildest dreams, would I have envisioned being forcibly relocated here.” (I, 101).
Elsewhere he added, “There are no nightingales or larks in Siberia!” —as it later turned out though, he had not been entirely correct in this observation.
Did this time of exile, longing, and suffering bear any positive fruit? In 1843, when Eliza Mewiusk bid him farewell — that same girl who had, years earlier, tormented her tutor with her laziness and arrogance — she thanked him “for everything, for whatever GOOD may be found within me” (I, 437). That goodness was the direct result of his influence.
Dr. Małgorzata Król lectures at the John Paul II Catholic University of Lublin.
Translated from Polish by Jan Dobrodumow.
Subheadings added by the editorial team.
The full essay in Polish is here: https://swiatsybiru.pl/pl/szlachectwo-ducha-julian-glaubicz-sabinski-na-zeslaniu/
Citations from:
Julian Glaubicz Sabiński, Dziennik syberyjski (Siberian Diary), vols. 1–3, edited for publication by W. and R. Śliwowscy, introduction by J. Trynkowski, Warsaw 2009.
Translation note: Roman numerals refer to the volume number; Arabic numerals to the page.