HOW HOPE SHORTENED THE LONG ROAD
In spite of her high courage and fervent spirit, Hope Palma never
recalled without a shudder the horrors of that long journey down the
Volga, over the Urals, down the Irtish and up the Ob, to Tomsk, and
thence along the great Siberian road to Irkutsk. The physical trials
of the road, the defective supply of coarse food, the bone-bruising
bumping of the springless telégas, the promiscuous herding at night
in the filthy, unventilated étapes--the convict stage-houses--where
the tortured children cried incessantly till they slept and sometimes
never woke, and the equally tortured mothers tended them in stony
despair--these things burnt themselves into her very soul, and would
have broken a less courageous spirit.
Old Marya had had to be left behind. The paternal Government
provided transport, such as it was, for convicts' wives and children,
but Marya had no such claim, and with unflinching kindliness Hope had
sent her home to her own people. And the loss of her faithful and
whole-hearted sympathy was to her almost as the loss of a part of
herself.
What money she had she hoarded with miserly care, for there was no
knowing for what high service it might avail at the end of her
journey. Every rouble might be a step towards Serge's enlargement,
and she treasured her pieces as the woman of the Gospel.
And yet, at times, the miseries of those about her prevailed. The
little ones crept into her heart and her purse, and precious coins
were dispensed for slabs of brick tea and cakes, for any possible
sweetening of the bitterness which came home to her so closely. With
her sweet, firm face and glowing eyes, and the tender pity of a
guardian spirit, she lived and moved among them like an angel of
mercy, and smoothed their little passages--to exile or the stars, as
the case might be--as well as she was able, and in such gentle
ministries found relief from her own griefs and fears.
She talked with the women as they walked, learned their pitiful
stories, and gave them much wise counsel which they accepted for the
sake of her brick tea, and remembered long after she and her tea had
passed out of their lives. She argued with them day by day, and
scolded them by night, for their many and obtrusively undeniable sins
of omission and commission. She saved many a tiny life by her care
and insistence. That, indeed, was a doubtful benefit to the little
ones themselves, but she could not stand by and see them die. And,
by her own words and her own high courage, she strengthened into
hopefulness many a heart that was weary to death of its load and
embittered with the bearing of it.
But each day now brought brighter weather, and to that extent
softened the asperities of the road. The birches and poplars
fluttered trembling welcomes as they passed, as though they feared
the law might take official cognizance of more; the children began to
stray outside the slow-moving line to gather bunches of
forget-me-nots and wild roses, and Hope's sore heart was gladdened
and her eyes filled as the shy little tokens of their remembrance
were tendered her.
The aspect of the country surprised her greatly. She had thought of
Siberia as a mighty desert of snow and ice and desolate wastes. But
here were great sweeps of growing corn, and pastures and
farmsteadings. There were rolling rivers and rustling forests. They
walked in clouds of dust and the children picked flowers by the
wayside.
But this was midsummer, and Siberia in summer and Siberia in winter
are as different as heaven and hell.