_ON THE QUAY._
That day we kept together until late in the afternoon, when Mary and I
went for a short walk on the Court Quay. I had seen a few beggars, and
had nearly always given them something, until I believe I was pretty
well known to them as one who could easily be imposed upon, and now as I
saw one coming toward me I began to harden my heart, and involuntarily
put my hand upon the bag Carl had wrenched from me.
But something in the man’s face and attitude struck me as different from
the ordinary beggar; and into the outstretched palm I put a few kopecks,
and was asking where he lived and his name, when a hand was laid roughly
on his shoulder and a harsh voice said: “I can tell you, madame; it
is——”
I did not catch the name. I only knew I was standing face to face with
Paul Strigoff, the gendarme, whom I had met after my encounter with Carl
Zimosky.
There was a taunting sneer on his face as he said to me:
“So madame is playing the charitable? But it is not necessary. She is
mistaken in her man. He is no beggar. We have been looking for him and
have found him at last. His disguise is pretty good, but it did not
deceive _me_.”
He spoke with the utmost pomposity and self-conceit; and I wanted to
knock him down, while I pitied the poor wretch who had fallen into his
clutches and in whose appearance a great change was taking place. His
face grew pale, but took on a very different expression from the one it
had worn when he asked me for alms. Then it had been the face of a
hungry peasant, with little intelligence in it. Now it was that of a man
resolute and defiant, but refined and educated. He had evidently been
playing a hazardous game and had lost. His disguise was detected. He was
a prisoner, with no way of escape, unless——
There was a quick glance toward the Neva, as if help lay in that swift
stream, if he could only reach it. But the gendarme’s grip was firm, and
the man seemed half his size as he cowered in his rags.
Extending his hand to me with the kopecks I had given him, he said, in
fair English:
“Thank you, lady, but take them back; I shall not need them. We have
little use for money where I am going. Please write to No. — Nevsky, and
tell her I have been arrested, and tell Sophie and Ivan——”
He did not finish the sentence, for the gendarme shook him roughly,
commanding him to stop, or speak Russian. As he could not understand a
word of English, he evidently suspected we might be hatching some plot,
and sternly demanded to know what we were saying. I told him all except
that I was to write to No. — Nevsky. It was well to withhold this, I
thought, and there was a gleam of intense satisfaction in the man’s
eyes, which thanked me more than words could have done.
“God bless you!” he said, in much the same tone of old Ursula when she
bade me good-by, and then he was started for the gloomy fortress.
In my excitement I stepped in front of him and, stopping him for an
instant, grasped his hand and said:
“Good-by and God pity you! I shall pray for you every day.”
It was a bold thing to do in the teeth of Paul Strigoff, who scowled at
me threateningly and asked again what I had been saying, and if I knew I
was sympathizing with one of the most notorious nihilists alive.
“He is more dangerous than your thief, Carl Zimosky,” he added.
The prisoner made no sign that he heard or cared, until Carl was
mentioned; then he looked up quickly, with a flash of resentment, it
seemed to me, at being classed with a thief. It was then that I noticed
more particularly his finely-cut features and dark, expressive eyes,
which, in spite of his courage, had in them such a look of terror and
despair as I shall never forget.
I made no reply to the gendarme and walked away, not knowing but I might
be arrested as a suspect and sympathizer with anarchists.
Arrived at our hotel I wrote my promised letter, with no clew to guide
me except the number, “Ivan,” “Sophie” and “her.” The “her” was probably
his wife, and I addressed her as madame and told her the particulars of
the arrest and that the man had evidently wished to send some word to
“Ivan” and “Sophie.” I would not trust my note to the mail, but sent it
by a private messenger from the hotel to the number on the Nevsky, which
I found was in a more fashionable quarter than M. Seguin’s house.
The excitement of the last few days, added to the heat, which was
intense, proved too much for me, and instead of leaving St. Petersburg
the next day, I was in bed with what would have proved a case of nervous
prostration if I had not fought it with all my will power. At first I
rebelled against the detention, for I was anxious to leave St.
Petersburg behind me; but as the days went by I was glad of the illness
which brought me so many unknown friends. These were not tourists—they
were too busy with sight-seeing to do more than ask how I was and pass
on—but the citizens, people whom I did not know, who surprised me by
their frequent inquiries and the profusion of flowers they sent, until
my room was like a great garden, and the doctor ordered some of them to
be taken out, as the perfume was so strong. No name ever came with the
flowers but once, and that touched me closely.
Around a bunch of pinks a paper was twisted, and on it was written:
“Carl is doing better. He has sent the silver back, and seen the
gendarme.
URSULA.”
I cried when Mary read me the note, which I still have, together with a
few of the faded pinks pressed between the leaves of my Bible. I cried
again when another bouquet came, this time beautiful hothouse roses,
tied with a broad white ribbon, to which was attached a card with the
words: “To our friend, A. N.”
[Illustration: “‘GOD BLESS YOU!’ HE SAID ... AND THEN HE WAS STARTED FOR
THE GLOOMY FORTRESS.”]
“A. N.,” I repeated. “Who is ‘A. N.’? I know no one with those
initials.”
“I have it!” Mary exclaimed, after a moment. “‘A. N.,’ _a nihilist_!
That is what it is, and all these flowers are from the same
source—nihilists, I mean. They have heard a lot about you and wish to
show their gratitude.”
“But I am not a nihilist!” I said.
“No,” Mary replied, “but you have got your name mixed up with them,
defying Paul Strigoff to his face, and letting Carl somebody go, and
calling on an old lady who was once in prison, and a lot more we have
heard, until I believe the hotel people begin to think they are
harboring a suspect and will be glad when we are gone.”
“Not more than I shall be!” I exclaimed, while Mary went on:
“I have not told you that Chance comes every morning and looks at me so
inquiringly that I give him a card, with the words ‘_About the same_,’
‘_Improving_,’ or ‘_Better_’ on it, and he goes off on the run, with the
card held in his mouth. The first time I gave it to him a miserable
censor happened to be outside and demanded to see it. I motioned him to
get it if he could. He tried, but the dog held on till the card was torn
in shreds, and I am not sure that the censor’s hand was not scratched a
little. I wrote another at the desk and held it up to the censor, who of
course could not read it; but he pretended he could, and nodded very
patronizingly, while Chance growled at him and then set off on a gallop
for home. M. Seguin has not been here that I know of, but he has sent
you flowers every day—expensive ones, too, the best he could find—and,
oh! I came near forgetting, a frowsy-headed girl, wearing your old hat,
came bringing a few violets she must have gathered in the country, and
an old _drosky_ driver, looking like a barrel, inquired for ‘little
madame’ at the office, saying he was the first to drive you in the city.
He seemed to think it an honor. I did not tell you all this at the time,
as you were too weak to hear it.”
I turned my face to the wall and cried, until Mary became alarmed and
sent for the doctor. I did not know what I was crying for, but as a
thunder shower clears the sultry atmosphere, tears did me good, and I
was better the next day and the next, and was soon able to start on the
long overland journey to the frontier. Many kind wishes were expressed
by the people in the hotel, and I was the recipient of so many flowers
that I was obliged to leave some of them behind. The old barrel-shaped
man who boasted of having given me my first drive in the city stood
outside, smartened up with a new wadded garment tied around the waist
with a piece of red cord like that with which we sometimes hang
pictures.
“Would little madame do him the honor to let him drive her to the train?
He would promise to go slowly, and not break her bones!”
I could not refuse, and so it came about that in the same old rattletrap
in which I first rode through the streets of St. Petersburg, I was
driven to the station, the old man stopping occasionally to ask if the
little madame was comfortable and was he driving too fast.
“No, no,” I cried, “go on; we may be late.”
“All right!” and he shook the strips of leather which could not have
restrained his horse a moment had he chosen to use his strength.
Near the station there was quite a motley crowd of people, some well
dressed, some otherwise. My hat was bobbing up and down in the midst as
if the wearer were trying to get a sight of me, and I caught a glimpse
of Ursula and, near her, Carl, who boldly waved his hat. A moment after,
my old hat went up in the air, showing two streamers of some soiled
stuff at the back.
What did it mean? Had they come to see me off, and were these the people
who had sent me so many flowers? The possibility brought a big lump into
my throat. Then I wondered if M. Seguin would be there to say good-by,
not caring to confess how disappointed I should be if he were not.
He was there with Chance, who put his big paws on my shoulders, with a
low kind of _woof_, as if he knew I was going and was sorry. In my weak
state tears came easily, and they fell like rain as I put my arms around
the noble brute’s neck and bade him good-by. M. Seguin was there
ostensibly on official business, but he attended to our tickets and
passports and made it very easy for us to leave.
“Do you know you are having a unique send off?” he said. And when I
asked what he meant, he replied:
“Do you notice that group of people in the streets? They are your
friends. I saw the tangle-haired girl to whom you gave your hat among
them, with Ursula and Carl Zimosky. He brought back the silver himself,
knowing the risk he ran. He said he was trying to do better for your
sake, because you kept him from Paul Strigoff. I believe every mother’s
son and daughter there in the street is a nihilist at heart, and they
think you are one with them and are showing their gratitude.”
I could not answer for that lump in my throat, but at the very last I
put a limp, clammy hand into his broad, warm one and tried to thank him
again for all his kindness to us.
“Don’t, please,” he said, very low. “For anything I have done I have
been more than repaid in knowing you—the fearless American woman who
dares say what she thinks. I shall not forget you, and some time you
will come again.”
I shook my head and hurried toward my companions, who were motioning me
to make haste. There was not much need of haste, I thought, as the
trains seldom start on time, but this one did, and in a few minutes we
were on our long journey of five hundred and sixty miles to the
frontier. It was monotonous and wearisome, with nothing to interest us
or to look at except the brown plains and forests of pines and silver
birches, and at rare intervals a village of twenty mud cottages or more,
with a few peasants working in the fields. It was very tiresome, and
when at last it ended and we crossed the frontier into Germany eight
women simultaneously said: “Thank God!” And yet in the heart of one of
the eight there was a lingering regret for all she was leaving; and she
felt, too, a throb of sympathy and gratitude for the strangers in the
street who had waved her a farewell and sent after her, she was sure, a
fervent “God bless you!”