Wrapped in furs until only my nose and eyes were visible, I was walking
along the Nevski Prospekt in St. Petersburg one winter's evening, and
almost involuntarily turned into the Dominique, that fashionable
restaurant which, garish in its blaze of electricity, is situated in the
most frequented part of the long, broad thoroughfare. It was the
dining-hour, and the place, heated by high, grotesquely-ornamented
stoves, was filled with officers, ladies, and cigarette smoke, while the
savoury smell of national dishes mingled judiciously with those of
foreign lands.
At the table next the one at which I seated myself were two persons, a
man and a woman.
The former, who was about fifty, had a military bearing, a pair of keen
black eyes, closely-cropped iron-grey hair, and a well-trimmed bushy
beard. The woman was young, fair haired, and pretty. Her eyes were
clear and blue, her face oval and flawless in its beauty, and she was
attired in a style that showed her to be a patrician, wearing over her
low-cut evening dress a velvet _shuba_, lined with Siberian fox; her
soft velvet cap was edged with costly otter, and the _bashlyk_ she had
removed from her head was of Orenberg goat-wool. On her slim white
fingers some fine diamonds flashed, and in the bodice of her dress was a
splendid ornament of the same glittering gems, in the shape of a large
double heart.
As our eyes met, there appeared something about her gaze that struck me
as strange. Her delicately-moulded face was utterly devoid of
animation; her eyes had a stony stare--that fixed, unwavering glance
that one sees in the glazed eyes of the dead.
Having poured out a glass of the Brauneberger I had ordered, and taken a
slight draught, I caught sight of a man I knew who was just leaving,
and, jumping up, rushed after him. We remained chatting a few moments
in the vestibule, and on returning, I sat down to my soup.
My neighbours were an incongruous pair. The man, who spoke the dialect
of the South, was uttering words in a low, earnest tone with a curious,
intense look in his eyes, and an expression on his dark, sinister
features that filled me with surprise and repulsion. Notwithstanding
his excited manner, his fair _vis-a-vis_ remained perfectly calm, gazing
at him wonderingly, and answering his questions wearily, in abrupt
monosyllables.
Once she turned to me with what I thought was a glance of mute appeal.
At last they finished their dessert, and when the man had paid the bill,
he rose, exclaiming--
"Come, Agafia, we must be moving!"
"You--you must go alone," she said quickly, passing her hand wearily
across her brow. "I have that strange sensation again, as if my brain
is benumbed. My forehead seems on fire, and I can think of nothing
except--except the enormity of my terrible crime."
And she shuddered.
"Fool! some one will overhear you," he whispered, with an imprecation.
"You are only faint. The drive will revive you."
As she rose mechanically, he fastened her _shuba_, then, taking her
roughly by the arm, led her out.
Finishing my meal leisurely, I afterwards sat for a long time over my
tea and cigar, until I gradually became aware that my mind was wandering
strangely, and a curious, apprehensive feeling was oppressing me,
causing me considerable uneasiness. Tossing the cigar away, I pulled
myself together, rose, and went out.
The thermometer was below zero, and in the keen night air my head felt
better, yet as I walked along my senses seemed dulled. The one vivid
impression, however, that remained on my mind was the calm, beautiful
face of the girl who, by a slip of the tongue, had confessed to some
mysterious crime. Walking on under the dark walls of the palace of
Sergiei Alexandrovitch, embellished with its highly-coloured saints and
heads of seraphim, I was suddenly amazed at seeing her standing before
me. But a moment later I laughed heartily, when I saw that her form was
a mere vagary of the imagination. The face, however, seemed so
distorted by passion and indignation as to appear hideous, and in vain I
endeavoured to account for its appearance.
On the Anitchkoff Bridge I paused, and as I leaned over to watch the
skating carnival in progress, there was a movement behind me, and I
heard words uttered in a low half-whisper--
"To-night. On the table!"
I turned quickly, but the unknown messenger was already some distance
away, walking as quickly as his clumsy sheepskin would allow.
It was a summons from the Party of Political Right--the so-called
Nihilists! On one occasion, during my residence in the Russian capital,
as correspondent of a London daily newspaper, I had been able to render
the Terrorists an important service, and being in sympathy with their
attempt to free their country from the terrible yoke of Tzardom, I
sometimes attended their secret meetings.
The message I had received prompted me to take a drosky to an
unfashionable little tea-shop a few doors from the entrance to the
Gostinny Dvor Bazaar. Having seated myself, and ordered a cup of tea
and a cigarette, I leaned my arms on the little round marble table, and,
without attracting notice, proceeded to examine it minutely.
Strange as it may seem, this table was the private notice-board of the
Nihilists. The proprietor was a member of the Circle, and this was
considered one of the safest means of communication. In a few moments I
discovered what I sought; a line in English, very faintly traced with a
lead pencil, which read, "Come at eleven to-night, certain." For nearly
an hour I remained smoking and chatting with the genial proprietor,
then, after rubbing out the message, bade him adieu and left.
Shortly before eleven I strolled down one of the narrow, squalid streets
that led to the Neva, halted before a little bakery, and having rapped
three times at a side door, was admitted. Passing to the end of a long,
dark passage, I bent, groped about until I found an iron ring in the
floor, and pulled up a large flap, from beneath which came a flood of
light. Then I descended the ladder, and, walking into an underground
kitchen, found myself in the presence of the Revolutionary Executive
Committee.
As I glanced round quickly, I saw a stranger--a woman, with her back
turned towards me, and holding in her hand a bright, keen knife. She
stood looking up at the _ikon_ upon the wall. The president from his
seat at the head of the table had apparently been addressing her.
"I agree to the conditions," she was replying, in Russian, in harsh,
strained tones. "I bind myself irrevocably, by my solemn oath before
this holy picture, to strike any such blow for liberty as the Circle may
direct."
There was something in her form that struck me as curious, and as she
slowly raised the knife to her lips, and kissed the thin, double-edged
blade, I rushed across and looked into her face.
It was the woman I had noticed in the Dominique! She had taken an oath
to commit murder at the bidding of the Revolutionists! There was the
same fixed look in her eyes, the same blank, expressionless countenance,
and as she turned and faced the council of desperate conspirators, her
teeth were firmly set and her bejewelled hands tightly-clenched.
As her eyes met mine, I fancied she started, but the words of the
president attracted her attention.
"It is enough," he said solemnly. "To-morrow you will receive
instructions. You have joined us, therefore never forget that the
punishment inflicted on those who divulge our secret is always swift and
decisive--death!"
A shudder ran through her, the knife fell from her grasp, and she reeled
and would have fallen, had not an elderly, grey-haired woman jumped up
from her seat and caught her.
In a few moments, however, she recovered, and the pair walked slowly
out.
When they had left, I inquired the name of the mysterious stranger, but
all information was refused. Secrecy is one of the chief tenets of the
Nihilistic creed, and frequently members of the same Circle do not know
one another. The Terrorist organisations are most elaborate and
far-reaching, and the more I have known of their operations, the more
wonderful they have always seemed. The business of the Executive with
me was unimportant--merely to give me some information which I might
send to London, and which, when published in my journal, would be
calculated to take the police off the scent of a fugitive conspirator
who was being diligently sought for by the ubiquitous members of the
Third Section of the Ministry of the Interior.
When I left, half an hour later, I went straight to my bachelor lodgings
in a tall and rather gloomy house on the other side of the Moika.
Lighting a cigarette, and drawing my armchair close to the stove, I sat
for a long time in my dimly-lighted sitting-room, pondering over the
events of the evening. How long I sat there I have no idea, but I was
aroused by distinctly hearing a woman's shrill scream. At the same
time, I felt a tight pressure on my right wrist, as if it were being
held by bony fingers, and on my throat I felt a strange, cold sensation,
as if a knife had been drawn across it.
Again I was mystified on discovering that I was alone; that it was
nothing but a weird sensation! Yet, on removing the green shade from my
reading-lamp, and going over to the mirror, I saw upon my throat _a thin
red line_, while upon my wrist were three red marks that had apparently
been left by unseen fingers!
During the weeks that followed, I seemed filled with a terrible dread of
some utterly vague danger, and before my eyes came frequent visions of
the pale, handsome face of the beautiful woman who had allied herself
with the most dangerous group of the Narodnaya Volya. Was there, I
wondered, some mysterious affinity between us? So puzzled was I to
account for the strange phenomena, and the fact that the curious marks
upon my wrist still remained, that I began to fear that the periodical
fits of passion and despair were precursory of madness.
Lounging aimlessly along the streets in the hope of meeting her, I was
walking one afternoon along the English Quay, when a drosky drove
swiftly past, and pulled up before one of the great palaces that face
the Neva. A woman, wrapped in costly furs, alighted, and in a moment I
recognised her. As I approached, she halted, with her eyes fixed upon
me, her mouth slightly open, and the same curiously blank expression on
her countenance. At first I was prompted to stop and speak, but the
tall man-servant in livery who had thrown open the great door looked
down upon me with suspicion, therefore I hesitated, and walked on.
As I brushed past her, I thought I heard a long sigh, and, turning, I
was just in time to see her enter the palace, saluted by the gigantic
_dvornik_.
Stumbling blindly on for a few hundred paces, I met a man I knew, and,
pointing out the house, asked him who lived there.
"The woman has enmeshed you, eh?" he suggested, laughing. "Well, you
are not the first who has been smitten by her extraordinary charms."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Flirtation is a dangerous pastime here, in Petersburg," he replied,
shrugging his shoulders ominously. "Especially so if one's idol is
Agafia Ivanovna, the Princess Tchikhatzoff."
"Princess?" I echoed, in surprise.
Then, linking my arm in his, I begged him to tell me what he knew of
her. But he only replied--
"I really cannot tell you anything, _mon cher_, except her name. Ugly
rumours were once afloat, but perhaps the least said of her the better."
And, waving his hand and wishing me a hurried adieu, he went on.
A month later, having received instructions from London to proceed to
the cholera-infected districts of Vologda, in order to describe the
hospitals, I had obtained the necessary permit from the Ministry of the
Interior, and one evening had taken my seat in the mail train for
Moscow. Scarcely had I arranged my traps and prepared for the long
night journey, when a rather shabbily-attired female appeared at the
carriage door.
"M'sieur," she exclaimed in a soft, musical voice. "It is M'sieur
Wentworth that I address, is it not?"
Replying in the affirmative I alighted.
"You are going to Pavlova, in Vologda?" she said in broken English.
"I--I am in a great difficulty--a great danger threatens me. If you
would only render me a service, I should indeed owe my life to you."
"What can I do?" I asked.
"I have here a message to a--a friend who is lying ill of cholera in the
hospital at Pavlova;" and she drew forth a letter from under her faded
shawl.
"You wish me to deliver it?"
"Yes," she replied anxiously. "Were I able to travel, I would not ask
this favour; but only the journalists are allowed to pass the cordon,
and the post is suspended for fear of infection."
I took the letter slowly from her hand, and as I did so, was amazed to
discover that on her slim white wrist there were three red marks,
exactly similar to those I bore!
"I shall be pleased to act as your messenger," I said, placing the
letter in my pocket; "you may rest assured it will be delivered safely,
Princess."
"You recognise me, then?" she cried, starting back. "I--"
But her sentence remained unfinished, for the train was moving off
slowly, and I had barely time to scramble in without bidding her adieu.
The mid-winter journey by sleigh through the remote, plague-stricken
district, where poverty, disease, and death were rife on every hand, was
a terrible experience. The distress and suffering I witnessed is
photographed indelibly on the tablets of my memory. Not without
difficulty, I one night found Nikanor Baranovitch, the addressee of the
letter, who was lying on the point of death in the filthy log-built
hospital. He was young, dark-haired, emaciated, but still conscious.
When I handed him the missive, he tore it open eagerly and read it by
the aid of the guttering candle I held.
Suddenly his face was convulsed by anger, and, crying, "Agafia--Agafia!"
he uttered fearful imprecations in Russian. Then, crushing the letter
in his hand, he thrust it into the flame of the candle, and in a moment
the flimsy paper was consumed.
Gasping a word of thanks to me, and crying for the vengeance of heaven
to descend upon some person he did not name, he sank wearily back upon
the dirty straw pallet, and a few moments later had passed to the land
that lies beyond human ken.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Two years had gone by. I was back again in England, writing
descriptions of events at home, and holding myself in readiness to
journey to any quarter of the globe, should occasion arise.
Frequently in my day-dreams the countenance of the Princess Agafia
Ivanovna passed before me, always serious, always haggard, always
intense.
When, after my journey through Vologda, I returned to the capital, the
Tchikhatzoff Palace was closed, and the only information the burly
_dvornik_ would vouchsafe was that the Princess had gone abroad.
I longed to penetrate the mystery surrounding her, and obtain some
explanation of the extraordinary coincidence of the marks upon her wrist
and mine. I had never been entirely myself since first seeing her.
Some strange, occult spell seemed to enthrall me, for the phenomena I
had experienced were remarkable, while the varied mental sensations were
utterly mystifying.
Horribly morbid thoughts constantly oppressed me. Sometimes they were
of murder, which I felt impelled to commit, even though the very
suggestion was repugnant. At others, in moments of blank despair, I
contemplated the easiest modes of suicide; while through all, I
cherished a deadly hatred towards some person of whose identity I had
not the remotest notion.
In the months that had elapsed after returning to England, I had
gradually grown callous to mental anguish; yet the bodily pain I
frequently experienced in the wrists and across the forehead was
remarkably strange, inasmuch as livid marks would sometimes appear on my
arms without any apparent cause, and disappear as suddenly as they came.
Through the hot August days I was idling in that part of Norfolk that is
justly termed Poppyland, making my headquarters at a farmhouse near
Cromer. I had been unusually perturbed regarding Agafia Ivanovna, and
such an intense longing to see her had seized me, that I even
contemplated returning to Petersburg.
One very hot afternoon, while sitting on the bench outside the house
calmly smoking, some unknown force prompted me to rise and set out for a
long walk along the cliffs. I had no motive for doing this, yet a
lichen-covered stile, nearly five miles in the direction of Yarmouth,
was fixed in my mind as my destination, and I felt myself compelled to
reach it.
The sun blazed down mercilessly, notwithstanding the cool breeze that
had sprung up, and sparkling waves were breaking with sad music on the
shingly beach. Engrossed in my own thoughts, I had sped on, and was
just approaching the stile, when the rustle of a woman's dress startled
me, and I saw a graceful form clad in cream-coloured serge, with a
bright ribbon at the waist, standing before me.