who were with the speaker. Stanford slowly opened his eyes, wondering
what these savages were who rejoiced in the death of an inoffensive
stranger cast upon their shores. He saw a group standing around him, but
his attention speedily became concentrated on one face. The owner of it,
he judged, was not more than nineteen years of age, and the face--at
least so it seemed to Stanford at the time--was the most beautiful he
had ever beheld. There was an expression of sweet gladness upon it until
her eyes met his, then the joy faded from the face, and a look of dismay
took its place. The girl seemed to catch her breath in fear, and tears
filled her eyes.
[Illustration: "HE IS UNDOUBTEDLY DEAD."]
"Oh," she cried, "he is going to live." She covered her face with her
hands, and sobbed.
Stanford closed his eyes wearily. "I am evidently insane," he said to
himself. Then, losing faith in the reality of things, he lost
consciousness as well, and when his senses came to him again he found
himself lying on a bed in a clean but scantily furnished room. Through
an open window came the roar of the sea, and the thunderous boom of the
falling waves brought to his mind the experiences through which he had
passed. The wreck and the struggle with the waves he knew to be real,
but the episode on the beach he now believed to have been but a vision
resulting from his condition.
[Illustration: "A PLACID-FACED NURSE STOOD BY HIS BED."]
A door opened noiselessly, and, before he knew of anyone's entrance, a
placid-faced nurse stood by his bed and asked him how he was.
"I don't know. I am at least alive."
The nurse sighed, and cast down her eyes. Her lips moved, but she said
nothing. Stanford looked at her curiously. A fear crept over him that
perhaps he was hopelessly crippled for life, and that death was
considered preferable to a maimed existence. He felt wearied, though not
in pain, but he knew that sometimes the more desperate the hurt, the
less the victim feels it at first.
"Are--are any of my--my bones broken, do you know?" he asked.
"No. You are bruised, but not badly hurt. You will soon recover."
"Ah!" said Stanford, with a sigh of relief. "By the way," he added, with
sudden interest, "who was that girl who stood near me as I lay on the
beach?"
"There were several."
"No, there was but one. I mean the girl with the beautiful eyes and a
halo of hair like a glorified golden crown on her head."
"We speak not of our women in words like those," said the nurse,
severely; "you mean Ruth, perhaps, whose hair is plentiful and yellow."
Stanford smiled. "Words matter little," he said.
"We must be temperate in speech," replied the nurse.
"We may be temperate without being teetotal. Plentiful and yellow,
indeed! I have had a bad dream concerning those who found me. I thought
that they--but it does not matter. She at least is not a myth. Do you
happen to know if any others were saved?"
"I am thankful to be able to say that every one was drowned."
Stanford started up with horror in his eyes. The demure nurse, with
sympathetic tones, bade him not excite himself. He sank back on his
pillow.
"Leave the room," he cried feebly. "Leave me--leave me." He turned his
face toward the wall, while the woman left silently as she had entered.
[Illustration: "HE NOTICED THAT THE DOOR HAD NO FASTENING."]
When she was gone Stanford slid from the bed, intending to make his way
to the door and fasten it. He feared that these savages, who wished him
dead, would take measures to kill him when they saw that he was going to
recover. As he leaned against the bed, he noticed that the door had no
fastening. There was a rude latch, but neither lock nor bolt. The
furniture of the room was of the most meagre description, clumsily made.
He staggered to the open window, and looked out. The remnants of the
disastrous gale blew in upon him and gave him new life, as it had
formerly threatened him with death. He saw that he was in a village of
small houses, each cottage standing in its own plot of ground. It was
apparently a village of one street, and over the roofs of the houses
opposite he saw in the distance the white waves of the sea. What
astonished him most was a church with its tapering spire at the end of
the street--a wooden church such as he had seen in remote American
settlements. The street was deserted, and there were no signs of life in
the houses.
"I must have fallen in upon some colony of lunatics," he said to
himself. "I wonder to what country these people belong--either to
England or the United States, I imagine--yet in all my travels I never
heard of such a colony."
There was no mirror in the room, and it was impossible for him to know
how he looked. His clothes were dry and powdered with salt. He arranged
them as well as he could, and slipped out of the house unnoticed. When
he reached the outskirts of the village he saw that the inhabitants,
both men and women, were working in the fields some distance away.
Coming towards the village was a girl with a water-can in either hand.
She was singing as blithely as a lark until she saw Stanford, whereupon
she paused both in her walk and in her song. Stanford, never a backward
man, advanced, and was about to greet her when she forestalled him by
saying:
"I am grieved, indeed, to see that you have recovered."
The young man's speech was frozen on his lip, and a frown settled on his
brow. Seeing that he was annoyed, though why she could not guess, Ruth
hastened to amend matters by adding:
"Believe me, what I say is true. I am indeed sorry."
"Sorry that I live?"
"Most heartily am I."
"It is hard to credit such a statement from one so--from you."
"Do not say so. Miriam has already charged me with being glad that you
were not drowned. It would pain me deeply if you also believed as she
does."
The girl looked at him with swimming eyes, and the young man knew not
what to answer. Finally he said:
"There is some horrible mistake. I cannot make it out. Perhaps our
words, though apparently the same, have a different meaning. Sit down,
Ruth, I want to ask you some questions."
Ruth cast a timorous glance towards the workers, and murmured something
about not having much time to spare, but she placed the water-cans on
the ground and sank down on the grass. Stanford throwing himself on the
sward at her feet, but, seeing that she shrank back, he drew himself
further from her, resting where he might gaze upon her face.
Ruth's eyes were downcast, which was necessary, for she occupied herself
in pulling blade after blade of grass, sometimes weaving them together.
Stanford had said he wished to question her, but he apparently forgot
his intention, for he seemed wholly satisfied with merely looking at
her. After the silence had lasted for some time, she lifted her eyes for
one brief moment, and then asked the first question herself.
"From what land do you come?"
"From England."
"Ah! that also is an island, is it not?"
He laughed at the "also," and remembered that he had some questions to
ask.
[Illustration: "SHE LIFTED HER EYES FOR ONE BRIEF MOMENT."]
"Yes, it is an island--also. The sea dashes wrecks on all four sides of
it, but there is no village on its shores so heathenish that if a man is
cast upon the beach the inhabitants do not rejoice because he has
escaped death."
Ruth looked at him with amazement in her eyes.
"Is there, then, no religion in England?"
"Religion? England is the most religious country on the face of the
earth. There are more cathedrals, more churches, more places of worship
in England than in any other State that I know of. We send missionaries
to all heathenish lands. The Government, itself, supports the Church."
"I fear, then, I mistook your meaning. I thought from what you said that
the people of England feared death, and did not welcome it or rejoice
when one of their number died."
"They do fear death, and they do not rejoice when it comes. Far from it.
From the peer to the beggar, everyone fights death as long as he can;
the oldest cling to life as eagerly as the youngest. Not a man but will
spend his last gold piece to ward off the inevitable even for an hour."
"Gold piece--what is that?"
Stanford plunged his hand into his pocket.
"Ah!" he said, "there are some coins left. Here is a gold piece."
The girl took it, and looked at it with keen interest.
"Isn't it pretty?" she said, holding the yellow coin on her pink palm,
and glancing up at him.
"That is the general opinion. To accumulate coins like that, men will
lie, and cheat, and steal--yes, and work. Although they will give their
last sovereign to prolong their lives, yet will they risk life itself to
accumulate gold. Every business in England is formed merely for the
gathering together of bits of metal like that in your hand; huge
companies of men are formed so that it may be piled up in greater
quantities. The man who has most gold has most power, and is generally
the most respected; the company which makes most money is the one people
are most anxious to belong to."
Ruth listened to him with wonder and dismay in her eyes. As he talked
she shuddered, and allowed the yellow coin to slip from her hand to the
ground.
"No wonder such a people fears death."
"Do you not fear death?"
"How can we, when we believe in heaven?"
"But would you not be sorry if someone died whom you loved?"
"How could we be so selfish? Would you be sorry if your brother, or
someone you loved, became possessed of whatever you value in England--a
large quantity of this gold, for instance?"
"Certainly not. But then you see--well, it isn't exactly the same thing.
If one you care for dies you are separated from him, and----"
"But only for a short time, and that gives but another reason for
welcoming death. It seems impossible that Christian people should fear
to enter Heaven. Now I begin to understand why our forefathers left
England, and why our teachers will never tell us anything about the
people there. I wonder why missionaries are not sent to England to teach
them the truth, and try to civilise the people?"
"That would, indeed, be coals to Newcastle. But here comes one of the
workers."
"It is my father," cried the girl, rising. "I fear I have been
loitering. I never did such a thing before."
The man who approached was stern of countenance.
"Ruth," he said, "the workers are athirst."
The girl, without reply, picked up her pails and departed.
"I have been receiving," said the young man, colouring slightly, "some
instruction regarding your belief. I had been puzzled by several remarks
I heard, and wished to make inquiries regarding them."
"It is more fitting," said the man, coldly, "that you should receive
instruction from me or from some of the elders than from one of the
youngest in the community. When you are so far recovered as to be able
to listen to an exposition of our views, I hope to be able to put forth
such arguments as will convince you that they are the true views. If it
should so happen that my arguments are not convincing, then I must
request that you will hold no communication with our younger members.
They must not be contaminated by the heresies of the outside world."
[Illustration: "RUTH AT THE WELL."]
Stanford looked at Ruth standing beside the village well.
"Sir," he said, "you underrate the argumentative powers of the younger
members. There is a text bearing upon the subject which I need not
recall to you. I am already convinced."
[Illustration: POLITICAL EXILES EN ROUTE FOR SIBERIA]
MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NIHILIST.
BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. ST. M. FITZ-GERALD.
INTRODUCTION.
BY MRS. MONA CAIRD.
In giving to the world her exciting and terrible story, "Mademoiselle
Sophie" has also conveyed incidentally some idea of her remarkable
character. As I had the privilege of hearing from her own lips all that
she relates in this series of papers, I can supplement her unintentional
self-portraiture by recording the impression that she made upon me at
our first meeting.
I had always taken a strong interest in the political movements of
Russia and in the Slavonic races whose character and temperament have
something more or less mysterious to the Western mind. The Russian novel
presents rather than explains this mystery. It is perhaps to the Tartar
blood that we must attribute the incomprehensible element. Between the
East and the West, there is, psychologically speaking, a great gulf
fixed.
There are times when the reader of Russian fiction begins to wonder
whether he or the author is not a little off his mental balance, so
fantastic, so inconsequent, yet so insanely logical (so to put it) are
the beings with whom he finds himself surrounded--beings, however,
evidently and bewilderingly human, so that though they may appear
scarcely in their right minds (as we should judge our compatriots), they
can never be mistaken for mere figures of sawdust and plaster such as
people extensive realms of Western fiction. It is the reality of the
characters, coupled with their eccentric demeanour (the most humdrum
Slav appears wildly original to the inexperienced Anglo-Saxon), that
stirs anxiety.
Would "Mademoiselle Sophie" be like one of these erratic creations, or
would she resemble the heroines of Russian political history whose
marvellous courage and endurance excite the wonder of all who can even
dimly realise what it must be to live from moment to moment in imminent
peril of life and limb, and in ceaseless anxiety as to the fate of
relatives and friends? Of all the trials that "Mademoiselle Sophie" went
through, this last, she told me, was the worst. The absolute silence,
the absolute ignorance in which she had to pass her days, seemed to have
broken her wonderful spirit more than any other hardship.
It is not every day in the Nineteenth century that one comes in contact
with a human being who has had to submit to the "ordeal by fire" in this
literal mediaeval fashion; who has endured perils, insults, physical
privations and torments, coupled with intense and ceaseless anxiety for
years; and this in extreme youth before the troubles and difficulties of
life have more gradually and gently taught the lessons of endurance and
silent courage that probably have to be learnt by all who are destined
to develop and gather force as they go, and not to dwindle and weaken,
as seems to be the lot of those less fortunate in circumstance or less
well-equipped at birth for the struggles that in one form or another
present themselves in every career.
Russia is a nation that may almost be said to have preserved to this day
the conditions of the Middle Ages. It affords, therefore, to the curious
an opportunity for the study of the effect upon human character of these
conditions. Here are still retained, to all intents and purposes, the
thumbscrew and the rack; indeed, this is the case in a literal sense,
for "Mademoiselle Sophie" told me that it was certain that prisoners
were sometimes tortured in secret, after the good old-fashioned methods,
not exactly officially (since the matter was kept more or less dark),
but nevertheless by men in the employment of the Government who were
able to take advantage of the powers bestowed by their office to
practise despotism even to this extreme.
Many of the so-called Nihilists or Revolutionists (as "Mademoiselle
Sophie" insisted on styling the more moderate party to which she
belongs) seem to stand in the position of the early Protestants, when
they protested against the abuses of the Catholic Church while retaining
their reverence for the institution itself.
It is not against the Government, so much as against the illegal and
tyrannous cruelty practised by many of its officials, that a certain
section of the "Revolutionists" raise a remonstrance. It is astonishing
how conservative some of these terrible "Revolutionists" appear to be.
Many of them still look to the Tzar with a pathetic conviction that all
would be well, if only the cry of his distressed children could reach
his paternal ears. They ask so little; they would be thankful for such
small mercies; yet there is apparently slight hope that the Tzar will be
allowed to hear or would listen to the appeal of his much-enduring
people!
"Mademoiselle Sophie" had promised to take tea with me on a particular
afternoon, and to give me an account of her imprisonment. I had heard
the general outlines before, but was anxious to hear her tell the tale
in her own words. I may mention here that "Mademoiselle Sophie's"
acquaintance had been _sought_, and that the idea of writing her story
for publication in England did not emanate from her. Of her veracity
there is not the faintest question; moreover, there was, evidently, no
motive for deception.
Though I had heard that "Mademoiselle Sophie" had been a mere girl when
she was first sent to face the rigours of a Russian prison, I was
scarcely prepared to see anyone so young and fragile-looking as the lady
in black who entered the room, with a quiet, reserved manner, courteous
and dignified. I felt something like a thrill of dismay when I realised
that it was an extremely sensitive woman who had gone through the scenes
that she describes in these pages. She had been the more ill-prepared
for the hardships of prison-life from having passed her childhood amidst
every care and comfort.
[Illustration: MRS. MONA CAIRD.]
She was singularly reticent and self-possessed. In speaking, there was
no emotional emphasis, whatever she might be saying. The only comment on
her narrative that one could detect was an occasional touch of cold
scorn or irony. The more terrible the incident that she related, the
more quiet became her tones.
It seemed as if the flame of indignation had burnt itself out in the
years of suffering that she had passed through. The traces of those
years were in her face. Its very stillness and pallor seemed to tell
the tale of pain endured silently and in solitude for so long. It was
written, too, in the steadfast quality that expressed itself
in her whole bearing, and in the entire absence of any petty
self-consciousness. In spite of the awful nervous strain that she had
endured she had no little restless habits or movements of any kind.
One felt in her a vast reserve force and a dauntless courage. It was
courage of a kind that is almost terrible, for it accompanied a highly
organised and imaginative temperament, a nervous temperament, be it
observed, which implies _controlled_ and _ordered_, not _uncontrolled_
and _disordered_ nervous power. The half-hysterical persons who class
themselves among the possessors of this temperament are apt to overlook
that important distinction.
"Mademoiselle Sophie" gained none of her courage from insensitiveness.
Her whole life was dedicated to the cause of her country, and the
personal elements had been sacrificed to this object beyond herself: the
forlorn hope which has already claimed so many of the noblest and
bravest spirits in all the Tzar's dominions.
After "Mademoiselle Sophie" left that afternoon, I could not help
placing her in imagination beside the average woman that our own
civilisation has produced (not a fair comparison doubtless); and the
latter seemed painfully small in aim and motive, pitifully petty and
fussy and lacking in repose and dignity when compared with the calm
heroine of this Russian romance.
But human beings are the creations of their circumstances, and the
circumstances of a Western woman's life are not favourable to the
development of the grander qualities, though, indeed, they are often
harassing and bewildering, and cruel enough to demand heroism as great
even as that of "Mademoiselle Sophie." I think it would be salutary for
all of us--men as well as women of the West--to come more often within
the influence of such natures as this; natures that command the tribute
of admiration and the reverence that one must instantly yield to great
moral strength and nobility.
MEMOIRS OF A FEMALE NIHILIST.
BY SOPHIE WASSILIEFF.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. ST. M. FITZ-GERALD.
I.
DEAR MESSIEURS,
You have asked me for a few reminiscences of the time when I took a more
or less active part in the Revolutionary Movement in Russia--a sort of
autobiographical sketch, to be published in English. As I never had the
good fortune to render any really important service to my country, I
have no right to draw public attention upon myself, and no wish to do
so. But my experiences, of which I have told you a good deal by word of
mouth, have been, save for sundry personal details, very like those of
thousands of other young Russians, who, unwilling and unable to accept
quietly the order of things that weighs so heavily upon their country,
have devoted all their strength and all their faculties to the great
struggle for freedom, which you of Western Europe call the Nihilistic
Movement. In your opinion, it is just because of its simplicity and its
likeness to many others, that the story of my life may possess some
value; and perhaps you are right. At any rate, since to interest if but
a small number of people in the lot of those who serve "the cause," will
be to serve the cause still further--and it is, for the rest, the cause
of common humanity and justice--I herewith put at your disposition such
of my souvenirs as I am at liberty to make public, at the same time
reminding you of your promise to preserve my incognito intact.
And now for my facts:
It was the year 188-. My brother had been arrested during the winter.
At the beginning of the spring I went to X----, to the house of my uncle
and aunt, to pass the summer, and to rest after the emotional strain I
had been under. At least, such was the explanation of my leaving St.
Petersburg which I gave to the police of that city, when I asked them
for a passport for the interior of the Empire. As a matter of fact, I
was anxious to see certain of my brother's friends at X----, with the
object of trying, with their assistance, to destroy the traces of his
last visit there--traces which, if discovered by the police, might be
extremely detrimental to Serge's interests. On my arrival in the
town--where, by the way, it was my habit to pass all my holidays--I
found the Nihilist community, many of whose members were old friends of
mine, in serious trouble. The police had just been making a terrible
raid among them. Many had been arrested. The others, under strict
surveillance, were daily expecting to be arrested in their turn.
[Illustration: "SERGE WAS ARRESTED."]
[Illustration: "TEACHING THEM TO READ AND WRITE."]
This circumstance, apart from the regret it caused me, had a
considerable influence upon my relations with the local revolutionary
organisation. The centre of this organisation was a group of young men
and women, who, besides the revolutionary agitation that they were
carrying on, were in correspondence with other groups of the same sort,
for the purpose of exchanging books, helping comrades to escape from
prison and fly the country, and so forth. X---- is a big town, chiefly
given up to manufactures; and at the time of which I speak there was
gathered around this central group a sort of duplex association,
composed, on the one hand, of well-educated young folks, and, on the
other, of working men. As a precautionary measure, the association as a
whole was split up into a number of small circles, or clubs, that met
separately, and knew nothing of one another. It was especially in these
smaller clubs that the members of the central group carried on their
propaganda, the aim of which was then, as it is to-day, to alter the
present method of government, to rid the country of the despotism that
bears so heavily upon it, and stops its development, and thus to make
possible at once an improvement in the condition of the labouring
classes, and a reconstruction of Russian society upon a more rational
and a more humane basis. With the working people, however, the
revolutionists were often forced to begin by teaching them to read and
write. Outside of all these clubs, there were in the town a good many
people who, while taking no direct part in the movement, sympathised
with it, and did what they could to aid and abet it by gifts of money,
and by providing refuge for such of the active members as were hiding
from the police. With these very useful friends the revolutionists kept
up more or less continuous relations.