In one of the poorer quarters of St. Petersburg there is a street on a
back canal, and over the street an arch. To the right of the arch is a
flight of steps, ancient and worm-eaten, difficult of climbing by day
by reason of a hole here, a worn place there, and the perilous tilting
of the boards; at night well nigh impassable without a lantern. The
steps wind and end in a tenement, once a palace, spanning the water.
It was midnight.
A cloud had come over the moon, light and fleecy at first, but
gradually growing blacker and spreading until finally it hung like a
huge drop-curtain screening the stars.
The street lay in darkness. From a window in the top of the arch a
single light was visible, pale and flickering as the ray from a candle;
otherwise the grey bulk of the building seemed lost in the shadows,
lifeless and silent.
Suddenly the light went out.
"Hist--st!" As if at a signal something moved on the staircase,
creeping forward, and then from the shadow of the tenement, from under
the archway, emerged other shadows, moving slowly like wraiths,
hesitating, stopping, losing themselves in the general blackness, and
then stirring again; shadows within shadows creeping.
Presently a door at the top of the steps opened and shut. Every time
it opened, a shadow passed through and another crept forward. No word
was spoken, no sound; not a step creaked, not a board stirred. It was
a procession of ghosts.
Behind the door was a long stone passage, narrow and dark like a cave.
The shadows felt the walls with their hands softly, gropingly, but the
hands were silent like the feet. Except for a hurried breathing in the
darkness the passage seemed empty.
Beyond were more steps leading down, and another passage, and then a
second door locked and barred. Before this door the shadows halted,
huddled together. "Hist--st!" Instantly the floor under them began to
quiver and drop, inch by inch, foot by foot, down a well of continued
blackness. The minutes passed. They still dropped lower and lower, so
low that they were now below the level of the canal; down, down into
the very foundations of the tenement, once a palace. All of a sudden
the darkness ceased.
The room into which the elevator entered was large, low-raftered and
lighted by a group of candles at the far end. In the centre was a
black table, and about the table thirteen chairs also black. The one
at the head was occupied by a figure garbed in a cloak and hood, with a
black mask drawn down to the lips. The other chairs were empty.
By the light of the candles the shadows now took shape, the one from
the other, and twelve black-cloaked and hooded figures stole forward,
also masked to the lips. They passed one by one before the seated
mask, touching his hand lightly, fleetingly, as one dipping the fingers
into holy water, and then around the table to their seats, each in
turn, until all were placed.
Some of the figures were tall, broad-shouldered and heavy, others small
and slight. From the height, the strength or delicacy of the chin, the
shape and size of the hand, was it alone possible to distinguish the
sex; the rest was shrouded in a mystery absolute and unfathomable.
As the last and thirteenth chair was filled, the mask at the head
leaned forward and pointed silently to a dark object at the far end of
the room about which the candles flickered and sparkled. It was a huge
Black Cross suspended as above an altar. Below it lay an open bier,
roughly hewn out of the stone, and across it a name in scarlet
lettering. The bier was empty.
The twelve other masks turned towards the Cross, reading the name, and
they made a sign with the hands in unison, a rapid crisscross motion
over the breast, the forehead, the eyes, ending in the low murmur of a
word, unintelligible, like a pledge. Then the first mask to the left
rose and bowed to the Head.
"Speak," he said, "the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the
truth. Of what is this man accused?"
There was a moment of silence, intense and charged with significance;
then the mask spoke.
"In the province of Pskof there is a Commune. One night, last winter,
the peasants rose without warning. They shot, they maimed, they
hacked, they burned alive every Jew in the village, men, women and
children; not one escaped. The police were behind them. The
instigator of the police was--"
The Head raised his hand: "Do you know this for a fact, from personal
information?"
"I know it for a fact, from personal information."
The first mask took his seat and the second rose, a gaunt figure, the
shoulders bowed and crippled under the cloak. His voice was deep and
full, with tones plaintive and penetrating.
"A month ago there were seven men arrested. They were taken to 'Peter
and Paul' and thrust into dungeons unspeakable. They received no
trial; they were convicted of no crime; they never saw their families
again. Three of these men are now in the mines. Two are still in the
cells. Two are dead."
"Why were they arrested and by whose order?"
"They were workmen who had attended a meeting of the Social Democrats
and had helped to circulate Liberal papers. It was done by the order
of--"
The third mask sprang to his feet. His fists were clenched, and he was
breathing hard like one who has been running.
"It is my turn," he cried, "Let me--speak! You know--you haven't
forgotten!--On the Tsar's birthday, a band of students marched to the
steps of the Winter Palace. They went peacefully, with trust in their
hearts, no weapon in their hands. They were surrounded by Cossacks,
who beat them with knouts, riding them down. They were boys, some of
them hardly out of the Gymnasium, the flower of our youth, brave sons
of Russia ready to fight for her and die." He hesitated and his voice
broke. "At the foot of the Alexander Column, they were mown down like
grass without warning, or mercy; their blood still sprinkles the
stones. Many were killed, hundreds arrested, few escaped. At the head
of the Cossacks rode--"
A sigh stirred the room deepening into a groan, and then came a hush.
Some buried their faces in their hands, weeping silently behind the
masks. After a while the Head raised his hand and the fourth rose,
slowly, reluctantly, speaking in a woman's voice so faint and low it
could scarcely make itself heard. The masks bent forward listening.
"Last week," it murmured, "the Countess Petrushka was suspected. She
was torn from her home, imprisoned"--The voice grew lower and lower.
"She was beaten--tortured by the guards; she never returned,--yesterday
she was--buried." The voice broke into sobs. "The man who signed the
paper was--"
So the trial went on amid the stillness, more and more solemn, more and
more impressive, as one accusation followed the other in swift
succession; the candles dropping low in their sockets, the light
growing dimmer, the room larger and lower and more ghostly, the night
waning.
In every case the name was left a blank; but in that strange pause, as
if for judgment, the eyes of the masks sought the bier, resting with
slow fascination on the words across it, gleaming scarlet beneath the
flickering candles, vivid and red like blood.
The final accusation had been made. The twelfth and last mask had sunk
back in his chair and the leader rose. The silence was like a pall
over the table. When his voice broke through, it was sharp and stern,
as the voice of a judge admonishing a court.
"You have all heard," he said, "You are aware of what this man has
done, is now doing, will continue to do. Does he merit to live?--Has
he deserved to die? For the sake of our country, our people,
ourselves, deliberate and determine.--His fate rests in the hands of
the _Black Cross_."
He bowed his head on his breast and waited. No one moved or spoke. At
the far end of the room, the candles dripped one by one on the bier,
falling lower and lower. Occasionally the wax flared up, lighting the
darkness; then all was dim.
Suddenly, as from some mysterious impulse, the thirteen sprang to their
feet, and again their hands flashed out in that curious crisscross
motion over the breast, the forehead, the eyes, and a murmur went from
mouth to mouth like a hiss.
"_Cmeptb_--Death!" rising into a sound so intense, so terrifying, so
muffled and suppressed and menacing, it was as the cry of an animal
wounded, dying, about to spring. Falling on their knees, they remained
motionless for a moment; then, following the leader, each stepped
forward in turn and took their places about the bier.
The ceremony that followed was strange and solemn; one that no outside
eye has ever gazed on, no lips have ever dared to breathe. They stood
in the shadow of death, their own and another's. Their heads were
bowed. Their bodies shook and trembled. With hands raised they took
the oath, terrible, relentless, overpowering, gripping them from now on
as in a vice; both sexes alike, with voices spent and faint with
emotion.
"_In the name of the Black Cross I do now pledge myself, an instrument
in the service of Justice and Retribution. On whomsoever the choice of
Fate shall fall, I vow the sentence of Death shall be fulfilled, by
mine own hands if needs be, without weakness, or hesitation, or mercy.
And if by any untoward chance this hand should fail, I swear--I swear,
before the third day shall have passed, to die instead--to
die--instead._"
The words ended in a whisper, low, intense, prescient of a woe not to
be borne.
"_I swear--I pledge myself--by mine own hands if needs be._"
A sigh broke the stillness. The masks stirred, recovered themselves
and bent over the bier, drawing out, one after the other, a slip of
paper folded. There were thirteen slips. Twelve were blank; on one
was a Black Cross graven.
They drew in silence; no start, no movement, no trembling of the
muscles betrayed the one fated. Twelve drew blanks. Which of them had
the Cross; which? They stared dumbly, questioningly, fearfully from
one to the other. One was the assassin. Which? The answer was
shrouded behind the masks.
Lower and lower the candles burned in their sockets, flickering
fitfully. The room grew darker and the figures, cloaked and hooded,
seemed to melt back into the shadows from whence they had emerged, less
and less distinct, until finally the shadow was one, more and more
vapoury, filling the darkness.
Suddenly, a scream cut the silence, like a knife rough and jagged. In
a twinkling the lights went out. There was a scuffling, a struggling
in the corridor, cries and shouting, the sound of wood splintering, the
blows of an axe,--a rushing forward of heavy bodies and the trampling
of feet. The doors burst open, and a cordon of police dashed over the
wreckage, cursing, shouting--and then stopped on the threshold, staring
in amazement and panting with mouths wide open.
"Oï!--Oï! Týsyacha chertéi!"
The room was empty, dark, deserted save for an old woman, half-witted,
who was crouching on the floor before the sacred Icon, rocking herself
and mumbling. They questioned her, but she was deaf and answered at
random:
"Eh, gracious sirs--my lords--eh? So old--so poor, so wretched! See,
there is nothing!--A copeck, for the love of heaven--half a copeck--a
quarter, only a little quarter! Ah! Rioumka vodki[1]--rioumka--vodki!"
The police brushed her aside and searched the room. In the corner was
a low cot, hanging on a nail was an old cloak; on the table the remains
of a black loaf and an empty cup. They searched and searched in vain;
tapping the walls, tearing at the stone foundations, peering up at the
rafters, tumbling over one another in their eagerness.
"Chórt vozmí[2]--!" shouted the captain, "We are on the wrong track.
The scream came from the other side. Head them off! Run, men, run!
Here, this passage, and then straight ahead! Devil take the old
beggar! Shut up, you hag, or I'll strangle you!--Head them off!"
Gradually the hurrying footsteps died away in the distance. The
shouting ceased on the stairs. It was still as the grave, silent,
deserted. The old woman glanced over her shoulder. She was still
crouching before the Icon, rocking herself backwards and forwards; the
beads of the rosary slipping through her fingers one by one; mumbling
to herself.
Suddenly she stopped and listened. The rosary fell to the floor. Her
eyes watched the wreckage of the doorway closely, suspiciously, like an
animal before a trap. The shadows encircled her, they were here,
there, everywhere; but none moved, none crept.
Snatching a slip of paper from her bosom, she bent over it, her eyes
dilated, her mouth twisted with agony. In the centre of the paper,
clearly graven against the white, was a Black Cross.
She moaned aloud, wringing her hands. Her teeth gnawed her lips. She
clung to the foot of the Icon, sobbing, struggling with herself,
glancing around fearfully into the shadows. A gleam from the candle
fell on her hood; it had slipped slightly and a strand of her hair hung
from under the cowl. It sparkled like gold.
She staggered to her feet, still sobbing and trembling, catching her
breath. Then she went to the nail on the wall and took down the cloak.
The woman stood alone in the midst of the shadows; they were heavy,
motionless. Glancing to right and left, behind her, to the wreckage of
the door, to the furthermost corner, back to the Icon again, her eyes
roved, darting from side to side like a creature hunted. Clasping the
cloak to her quivering bosom she approached the candle slowly,
stealthily. Her steps faltered. She hesitated. She stooped
forward--another glance over her shoulder, and blowing with feeble
breath, the spark went out.
[1] A small glass of brandy.
[2] "The devil take you!"