"It was imperative. You English know nothing of the persecution which
follows those who flee from the wrath of the White Tzar. We were
compelled to leave hurriedly, and as the Secret Police were watching
both you and me it was unsafe for us to meet. To-night I have risked
coming to you for a most important purpose," she added, looking up into
my face earnestly.
"Oh! What's that?" I asked.
"I want you to take me to Siberia."
"To Siberia? You?" I repeated in astonishment.
"Yes. I hear you are going. Any news affecting us travels rapidly.
I--I have an intense desire to see what the country beyond the Urals is
like."
"Who told you I was going?"
"I'm not at liberty to say," she replied. "All I ask is that I may be
allowed to accompany you. I have here sufficient money to defray the
cost of my journey;" and she drew from the breast of her dress a large
packet of Russian bank-notes.
I shook my head, replying that Siberia was no place for a
delicately-reared woman, and pointed out the uninviting prospect of a
winter journey of five thousand miles in a sleigh. "Besides," I added,
"your connection with the Terrorists would render it unsafe for you to
return to Russia; and, again, there are _les convenances_ to be
studied."
"Do you think that I, a Russian, am afraid of a cold sleigh journey?"
she asked earnestly, after a few moments' silence. "Scarcely! Of
course, I should not travel in this dress, but would assume the disguise
of a Russian lad, in order to act as your servant and interpreter. As
for _les convenances_"--and, shrugging her shoulders, she pulled a
little grimace, and added, "Bah! we are not lovers!"
I asked for news of her father, but she informed me that he was in
Zurich. She refused to give me her address, and all argument was
useless. The point she urged, that she would be companion and
interpreter combined, impressed me, and ere I had finally promised, she
had given me instructions that I should, in applying for my passport
from the Russian Embassy, also make application for one for "Ivan
Ivanovitch, servant."
Four evenings later, I was on the platform at Charing Cross Station,
watching my big iron-bound trunks being stowed away into the Continental
express, and chatting to two old Fleet Street friends, who had come to
see the last of me, when a rather short young man, enveloped in a long,
heavy ulster, approached, and, touching his cap respectfully, said--
"Good-evening, sir. I hope I'm not late."
"No, plenty of time," I said indifferently, although I had a difficult
task to keep my countenance. Turning to my friends, I explained,
"That's my interpreter, Ivanovitch." Meanwhile, the object of our
attention had walked across to the van to see his own trunk placed with
mine.
Five minutes afterwards, when we were in the carriage together, gliding
out over the bridge that spans the Thames, I burst into a hearty laugh
as I, for the first time, regarded her critically. Her disguise was so
complete that, for the moment when she had greeted me, I had been
deceived. Laughing at her successful make-up, she removed her round fur
cap, and showed how she had contrived, by cutting her hair shorter, to
make it appear like a man's. Underneath her overcoat she wore a suit of
thick, rough tweed, and with great gusto she related how she had filled
up her large boots with wool.
She produced the inevitable cigarettes, and we spent the two hours
between London and Queenborough in smoking and chatting.
To describe in detail our long railway journey across Europe by way of
Berlin and Moscow would occupy too much space. Suffice it to say that I
travelled through Holy Russia with a passport which bore the _vise_ of
the Minister of the Interior at Petersburg, and which ensured myself and
my "servant" civility and attention on the part of police officials.
At length we passed through the Urals and alighted at Ekaterinbourg,
where the railway at that time ended. A fortnight after leaving London,
I purchased a sleigh, hired three Government horses, and Prascovie and
I, in the great fur coats, skin gloves, and sheepskin boots we had
bought, took our seats; the baggage and provisions having been packed in
the bottom of the conveyance, and covered with a layer of straw. Then
our driver shouted to the little knot of persons who had assembled
before the post-station, whipped up the three shaggy horses, and away we
started on the first stage of our long, dreary drive across Siberia.
Over the snow the horses galloped noiselessly, and the bells on the
wooden arch over their heads tinkled merrily as we moved swiftly along
through the sharp, frosty air.
Soon we were out upon the Great Post Road, and as far as the eye could
see, there was no other object visible on the broad, snow-covered plain
but the long straight line of black telegraph poles and striped
verst-posts that marked our route.
Day after day we continued our journey, often passing through miles of
gloomy pine forests, and then out again upon the great barren steppes.
Frequently we met convoys of convicts, pitiful, despairing bands of men
and women, dragging their clanking chains with them wearily, and
trudging onward towards a life to which death would be preferable. No
mercy was shown them by their mounted escorts, for if a prisoner
stumbled and fell from sheer exhaustion, he was beaten back to his
senses with the terrible knout which each Cossack carried.
On dark nights we halted at post-houses, but when the moon shone, we
continued our drive, snatching sleep as best we could. We lived upon
our tinned meats and biscuits, the post-houses--which are usually about
twenty to thirty miles apart--supplying tea and other necessaries.
Although the journey was terribly monotonous and uncomfortable, with a
biting wind, and the intense white of the snow affecting one's eyes
painfully, my fair fellow-traveller uttered no word of complaint. All
day she would sit beside me chatting in English, laughing, smoking
cigarettes, and now and then carrying on a conversation in Russian with
our black-bearded, fierce-looking driver, afterwards interpreting his
observations. Indeed, it appeared that the further we travelled from
civilisation, the more light-hearted she became.
Arriving at last at Tomsk, we remained there three weeks, during which
time I visited the _kameras_ of the "forwarding prison," the horrors of
which I afterwards fully described. An open letter I had from the
Minister of the Interior admitted me everywhere, but I was compelled to
secrete the notes I made in the money-belt I wore under my clothes,
otherwise they would have been discovered and confiscated by the prying
_ispravniks_, or police officers, during the repeated examination of our
baggage at almost every small town we passed through.
Since leaving England, time had slipped rapidly away, until, one day,
after we had left Tomsk, and were well on our way towards Yeniseisk, I
chanced to take out my diary. I discovered that it was the last day of
the old year.
The journey had been most cheerless and wearisome. It was now about
four o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun, which had struggled out for
half an hour, had sunk upon the hazy horizon, leaving a pale yellow
streak in the grey lowering sky. An icy wind blew in fierce gusts
across the barren steppe; the monotony of the dull thud of the horses'
hoofs in the snow and the incessant jingle of the bells had grown
utterly unendurable. The only stoppage we had made that day was about
noon, when we changed horses, and Prascovie had then told me she felt
very fatigued. Almost hidden under her furs, she was now sleeping
soundly. Her head had fallen upon my shoulder; and I--well, although I
tried to console myself with a cigar, I confess I was thinking of the
folk at home, and had the nostalgia of England upon me. Suddenly she
moved uneasily, and awoke with a start. She addressed a question to the
driver, which he answered.
"You must be terribly tired," I said, recollecting that it was two days
since we drove out of Tomsk, and that, owing to the lack of
accommodation at the post-houses, we had been unable to rest.
"No, I'm not very tired," she replied. "But I feel so cramped and
cold."
"Never mind," I said cheerfully, placing my arm tenderly around her
waist and drawing her closer to me: "in a couple of hours we shall get
something hot to eat." She did not answer, but in a few moments she
again fell asleep with her head upon my shoulder; and I, too, also dozed
off.
Our lonely halting-place was, like all Siberian post-houses, built of
pine logs, and little better than a large hut, devoid of any vestige of
comfort, and horribly dirty. The sitting-room was a bare, uncarpeted
place, with a large brick stove in the centre, a picture of the Virgin
upon the wall, a wooden table, and three or four rough chairs, while the
little dens that served as sleeping apartments contained nothing beyond
a chair and a straw mattress.
It was not long after our arrival that the great _samovar_ was placed
upon the table, and, together with the two sinister-looking fellows who
kept the place, we sat down to a rough, uncivilised meal. The evening
we spent in smoking and drinking vodka, Prascovie and I being able to
carry on a private conversation by speaking English.
I asked why she was so unusually thoughtful, but she replied that it was
only because she was in need of rest.
"I am sorry I am breaking down," she said apologetically, and laughing
at the same time. "But I'm only a woman. It was, indeed, very kind of
you to have been bothered with me."
"Don't mention it," I said. "I'm sure I'm indebted to you, for your
knowledge of Russian assists me in my work. Do you remember," I added,
"that it is a year to-night since we first met?"
"Was it?" she asked in a strange tone of alarm. "Ah, I remember. I--I
was happy then, wasn't I?"
"Are you not happy now?" I inquired.
"Yes--very," she replied, smiling. "But I'm tired, and must go to my
room, or I shall be fit for nothing to-morrow."
"Very well," I replied. "I'll tell you to go in a few minutes."
Then, after joining the driver and post-house keepers in another glass
of vodka, I said to her--
"Ivan, you can go. I shall require you no longer."
Gathering up her coat, hat and gloves, she bowed, and, wishing the men
"Good-night," went to her room.
After smoking for another hour, I also sought my dirty little den. In
the heart of Siberia one must expect to rough it, therefore I took my
revolver from my belt, placed it under my pillow, and, after removing
some of my clothes, strapped my fur rug around my neck, and, stretching
myself upon the hard pallet, soon dropped off to sleep.
Next morning, when I had dressed, I knocked several times at Prascovie's
door, but received no reply. Subsequently I pushed it open and entered,
discovering, to my surprise, that the room was empty.
Notwithstanding my limited knowledge of Russian, I managed to make the
men understand that my servant was missing, and they searched the
premises, but without avail. They examined the road outside, but, as it
had been snowing heavily during the night, no footprints were visible.
Prascovie had mysteriously disappeared!
While I remained in charge of the post-house, the three men mounted the
horses and rode out in different directions, thinking it possible that
she had strayed away upon the steppe and become lost in a snowdrift.
Towards evening, however, they returned, after a long and futile search.
Anxious to solve the mystery, and reluctant to leave without her, I
remained there several days. As the nearest dwelling was twenty miles
distant, and her overcoat and hat still remained in her room, her
disappearance was all the more puzzling. I examined her box, but found
nothing in it except articles of male wearing apparel; so after a week
of anxious waiting, I became convinced that to remain there longer was
useless.
With heavy heart, and sorely puzzled over the mystery, I continued my
lonely journey towards the mines of Yeniseisk. Having inspected them, I
journeyed south, alone and dejected, and investigated the great prisons
at Krasnoiarsk and Irkutsk, afterwards returning through Omsk and
Tobolsk, and thence to the Urals and civilisation.
I missed her companionship very much, and long before my journey ended,
I had grown dull, morose, and melancholy.
After an absence of six months, I again returned to London. When I
arrived home, fatigued and hungry, and before I had time to cast off my
worn-out travelling suit, the servant girl handed me a small packet
which she said had arrived by registered post a week before.
It had a Russian stamp upon it, and bore the postmark of Kiakhta, a
small town south of Irkutsk, on the border of Mongolia.
Breaking open the seals, I found a small box, from which I took a thick
gold ring, set with a magnificent diamond.
Attached to it was a small piece of paper which bore, in a man's
handwriting, the following words:--
"_The husband of Prascovie Souvaroff, who owes to you the safe return of
his beloved wife, sends this little gift as a slight recognition of the
kindness she received at your hands_."
There was neither, name, address, nor date; nothing to show who was the
anonymous husband.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The mystery was solved in a most unexpected manner.
Some months after the results of my investigations had been published, I
chanced one night to attend the banquet of the Association of Foreign
Consuls held in the Whitehall Rooms of the Hotel Metropole. As usual, a
number of the _corps diplomatique_ were present, and among them Serge
Velitchko, one of the _attaches_ of the Russian Embassy, an old friend
of mine, whom I had not seen since my return.
"I congratulate you on your lucky escape, old fellow," he exclaimed,
after we had exchanged cordial greetings.
"Escape? What do you mean?" I inquired.
"Ah, it's all very well," he replied, laughing, as we strolled together
into an ante-room that was unoccupied. "Prascovie was very fascinating,
wasn't she?"
"How did you know?" I asked in amazement, for I imagined no one was
aware that she had been my companion.
"Oh, we knew all about it, never fear," he said, with a smile. "By
Jove! it was quite a romance, travelling all that distance with a pretty
companion, and then losing her on the Yeniseisk Steppe. It was lucky
for you, however, that she left you in time, otherwise you would, in all
probability, have been working underground at Kara, or some other place
equally delightful, by this time."
"Explain yourself," I urged impatiently. "You're talking in enigmas."
"Listen, and I'll let you into the secret," said my friend, casting
himself lazily into a chair. "The man you knew as Souvaroff was, until
about six years ago, wealthy and popular at our Court at Petersburg; but
he was suspected of political intrigue, and sentenced to lifelong exile
and hard labour in Siberia. After his banishment, Prascovie, who was
then living at Moscow, was detected by the police distributing some
revolutionary pamphlets, for which she also was sent to Siberia. At the
prison at Irkutsk father and daughter met. While there, Prince
Pavlovitch Kostomaroff, the governor of the Yeniseisk province, who had
previously known and admired _la belle_ Souvaroff in Petersburg society,
discovered her, and offered her marriage. This she accepted, and they
were married privately, because, had it become known that the Prince had
wedded a political exile, he would have fallen into disfavour with the
Tzar. The Prince not being governor of the province in which his wife
was imprisoned, a difficulty presented itself how he should obtain her
release. Even Ivan Kobita, controller of the prison, was ignorant of
the secret union, but it so happened that he also became enamoured of
his fair captive. At length, in return for her promise to marry him, he
allowed her and her father comparative freedom. As might be expected,
they were not long in taking advantage of this, for within a fortnight,
aided by the Prince, and provided with a passport obtained by him, they
managed to escape and come to England."
"And what of Kobita?"
"He quickly discovered the ruse, and ascertained that the Prince had
connived at their escape. Our Secret Police tracked the fugitives to
their hiding-place in London. Still unaware that she was the Prince's
wife, Kobita obtained leave of absence and came to England. Before his
arrival, however, he wrote, urging her to marry him, declaring that if
she refused, he would expose the Prince as aiding and abetting dangerous
Nihilists. Prascovie, who clearly saw that if the truth reached the
Tzar, her husband would be disgraced and deprived of liberty, was at her
wits' ends. She was in desperation when, two years ago, Kobita arrived
in London--"
"Was that on the night I called upon them?"
"Yes. It was on receipt of the letter from Kobita that Souvaroff sent
for you and requested you to put the obituary notice in the papers, in
order that when the Siberian official came to claim his daughter's hand,
he could convince him of her death. But this plan was not carried out
quickly enough. Kobita arrived on the night of your visit, and was
received by Prascovie's father, who stated that she had gone to call
upon a friend in the vicinity, and offered to send his servant to direct
him to the house in question. To this Prascovie's admirer had no
objection, and, shaking Souvaroff warmly by the hand, wished him _au
revoir_, and started off, accompanied by the servant, in search of the
imaginary neighbour. The hand-shaking proved fatal, for he had not
walked far before he fell dead. The whole thing had been carefully
planned, and the trusty servant, who had been instructed how to act,
extracted everything from the dead man's pockets that would lead to
identification. Hence his burial in a nameless grave."
"Do you assert that he was murdered?"
"Yes. We were in possession of all these facts, but refrained from
causing Souvaroff's arrest, because it was not a wise policy to expose
to the London public that Russia had established a bureau of secret
police in their midst. Prascovie and her father hid for some months,
and we lost sight of them until she called upon you, and accompanied you
in disguise to Siberia. Once or twice you very narrowly escaped being
apprehended; indeed, on one occasion orders were telegraphed to Tomsk
for the arrest of your companion and yourself, because the declaration
on your passport regarding `Ivan Ivanovitch' was known to be false. By
the intervention of a high official, however, the order was
countermanded, and you were allowed to pass."
"What has become of Prascovie's father?" I asked in astonishment.
"Surely he was not Kobita's murderer, for the man died of heart
disease."
"You are mistaken. He died of Obeah poison. Souvaroff, who was once a
consul in Hayti, knew of the secret poison which the natives extract
from the gecko lizard, and which cannot be detected. So deadly is it,
that one drop is sufficient to produce a fatal result, and the manner in
which he administered it was somewhat novel. He prepared to receive his
enemy by allowing the nail of the forefinger of his right hand to grow
long, afterwards thinning it to a point as fine as a needle. Upon this
point he placed the poison, and kept a glove on until Kobita's arrival.
Then, in wishing him adieu, he pricked the skin of his victim while
shaking hands with him, producing an effect similar to syncope."
"Where is Souvaroff now?"
"Dead. He returned to Petersburg as soon as his daughter had left with
you, but was arrested and placed in solitary confinement in the
Fortress. While there, he wrote a confession of the murder, and
afterwards committed suicide."
"And will they arrest Prascovie?"
"No. She lives in another province to that in which she was imprisoned.
No one there knows that she is an escaped convict, and as the Prince
was once attached to this Embassy, we are not likely to divulge."
He chaffed me a little, laughed heartily in his good-natured way, and
soon afterwards we rejoined the guests.
I have heard nothing since of my unconventional travelling companion. A
short time ago, however, I received an anonymous present of furs, and I
shrewdly suspect whence it came. The Prince's ring, which is the
admiration and envy of many of my friends, still glitters on my finger,
and I regard it as a souvenir of the most happy and romantic journey of
my life.