From time to time, important persons visited Rykovsk, and they always went into raptures over everything they saw and learned. But this was understandable. They were not long-term guests and spent a few days, no more, in our settlement; and in such a large district as Tymovsk, it was easy to amuse someone for so brief a time. A special itinerary had been devised for this purpose. Each time a new person (a general, a notable, a correspondent, and other types) arrived from the other shore, we knew beforehand where he was going and what he’d be shown.

Honored guests visited the church first. Expansive and bright, with iconostases carved from local elmwood, it made a pleasing impression. Especially delightful were the inlays of various woods on the majesterial doors, made by Butakov himself. If it was a holiday, fine singing by the convict choir during services definitively won guests over into sincerely praising the local church.

“And all this, you say, was done by penal laborers? Remarkable! …” guests would exclaim.

The new school, with its crowd of children of both sexes, greatly astounded them.

The prison was usually shown off while the penal laborers were away at their jobs. In these circumstances, the wards would have been decorated with fresh sprigs of elm and fir and the floors covered with pine needles, so that their resinous scent concealed the unbearable stench characteristic of prisoners’ quarters. Guests were then shown the workshops in the prison yard. In the joinery, they were, without fail, shown the tables, wardrobes, and boxes made from Sakhalin wood burls, and at that point the intrigued guests would be sold some memento. There followed the tour of the prison's operations. The farm and its operations were in model order. The horses had a large structure, clean, dry, and not as offensively smelly as the prisoners’ barracks. The entire row of government horses was well-fed, healthy, and had smoothly shining, painstakingly cleaned coats. Various shiny carriages were in the barn.

“But is this, too, the work of penal laborers?” guests asked.

“Everything's made here…”

Not far from the hospital, upon which they’d also glanced in passing, was located a grand building. The house— not a house, a barn— not a barn, a…

“What is this?” guests asked.

“The potato palace…”

“Wha-a-at?! …”

Instead of an explanation, they were ushered inside.