The life of a female prisoner! It is so uniformly dull that I fear to
weary you, friends, in repeating its history; while for me, even now,
outside of some few days only too memorable, the twenty-seven months
spent in the fortress are like a great hole, empty and badly lighted, at
the bottom of which sometimes passed human shadows and some few
phantasmagorical scenes.
In these scattered remembrances, the foremost is my cell and the first
moments I passed there.
About ten feet square, its stone walls were covered with whitewash. For
furniture, a whitewood stool showing the marks of time and hard wear, a
rough deal table, a narrow iron bedstead with thin mattress, a pillow
filled with horsehair, and a coarse grey blanket such as is used for
covering horses. These details, lighted up for a moment by the candle
held by the director of the prison who accompanied me, soon fade away,
not into darkness, but into semi-obscurity, for above the door, the dark
outlines of which form a contrast with the surrounding whitewashed
walls, is a square of glass the width of the door, and behind this burns
a small paraffin lamp. By the uncertain light of this lamp, I try to get
a more exact idea of my new abode.
High up in the wall opposite the door is a deep and dark hole which I
presume to be a window. On the floor, in addition to the slender
furniture noticed by the light of the candle, I vaguely distinguish the
outlines of my travelling trunk and of a water-jug. The cold humid air
gives off a musty odour. Silence reigns, but, as I move, the sound of my
footsteps echoes and re-echoes beneath the vaulted roof of the corridor.
[Illustration: THE FACE AT THE WICKET.]
All this gives to my cell the aspect of a funeral vault, into which, a
few moments ago, I entered full of feverish life and vibrating emotion,
and in which I now suddenly find myself buried. From time to time, at
intervals of about ten minutes, this cavern is lighted up a little more
brightly. There is in the door, at about the height of a man, another
window much smaller than that to which I have already referred, a sort
of wicket that I have not before noticed, and which on the outside
appears to be protected by a shutter. At intervals, this shutter opens
with a metallic noise; a ray of bluish light penetrates into my cell,
and behind the wicket appears the head and part of the shoulders of a
man. He wears a moustache, and for several seconds regards me
attentively. Accustomed to the stronger gaslight burning in the
corridor, he can only vaguely distinguish what is going on in the cell.
His eyes, fixed on me at short intervals, vex and trouble me. Taking
advantage of one of these intervals, I rapidly change the clothes I am
wearing for others larger and more comfortable, which Aunt Vera has put
into my trunk, and then I throw myself upon my narrow bed. A few minutes
later, amidst the noise of iron bars and padlocks being removed, my cell
door opens, and then a woman appears, and behind her I notice several
men wearing blue uniforms braided with silver. The woman, whose
features, owing to her back being turned towards the light, I can only
vaguely distinguish, appears to be either a servant, or a woman of the
people; she alone enters my cell.
This apparition causes a shudder to go through my entire being. I have
before now heard of an atrocious and odious proceeding, of a special
search, for the carrying out of which the prisoners, gagged and strapped
on their beds, or to the iron rings found in the walls of the cells of
all political prisons, are reduced to absolute helplessness, while men
and women appointed to this work examine their mouths, their hair, their
ears, every fold of their garments and of their bodies, in the search
for some scrap of paper hidden at the last moment, and on which,
perchance, may be found a name or an address.
The sudden remembrance of these examinations[1] exasperates and freezes
me with terror. I rise and stand trembling by the side of my bed, with
arms outstretched to defend myself, while I follow each of my visitor's
movements, and question her, "What does she require? Why has she come?"
She neither replies nor turns her head, but gathers up the garments I
have taken off, together with the few toilet necessaries I have placed
on the table, then turning towards me she extends her right arm. I start
back, and my question, "What do you require of me?" becomes almost a
scream.
[1] These examinations of the person only take place in cases of
exceptional gravity. On the other hand, it is not prisoners alone who
have to submit to the ordeal, but all persons suspected of concealing
papers, Russian travellers returning from abroad, &c., &c.
Ah! no--happily, no!--it is only to take the fur mantle that I have used
to cover my feet, and that, silently, and with the same noiseless
footsteps, my ghostly visitor takes away, together with my other
effects.
Are they to be examined, or are they simply taken away in order to be
replaced by the prisoner's garb? I know not, and the question is one of
perfect indifference to me. But the clang of iron bars and padlocks
being replaced on the door, all this noise of iron, which so painfully
affected me an hour ago, I now listen to with a sigh of relief.
[Illustration: "TURNING TOWARDS ME, SHE EXTENDS HER RIGHT ARM."]
This noise, and possibly my cry, appears to have awakened some of the
other prisoners. I hear blows struck on the doors; voices, unknown to
me, or rendered unrecognisable by reason of the thickness of these
cursed walls, appear to be crying out and questioning. The questions
remain unanswered, but they tell me that I am not alone; that I need
only cry for help in order, if need be, to put the entire prison in a
state of revolt. This idea soothes my nerves, and I lie close against
the humid wall, behind which I feel there is an unknown but blessed
protection, and with my face pressed into the hard horsehair pillow, I
give vent to my first prisoner's tears; tears of agony and impotent
revolt, tears of farewell to life.
By daylight the appearance of my cell is not improved. The narrow door
made from rough oak is crossed on the inside with iron bars, while those
on the outside, together with the locks and padlocks, render it almost
as solid as the walls. As to the latter, white at night, they appear in
the day, thanks to the moisture with which they are covered, a bluish
grey. The window, placed high in a niche of the wall, is about twenty
inches square, and is protected on the inner side by a grating. It is
double, composed of eight small panes, those on the inner side being of
fluted ground-glass, so that it is impossible to see what is going on
outside. As the window is never opened, the dust has accumulated, and
the light that now filters through is dull and grey. Grey are the stone
blocks of which the floor is composed; grey the oak door, the furniture,
and the walls; grey the narrow bed, with coarse grey covering, and all
this grey, of which afterwards I learned to distinguish the shades,
constitutes a cloud which presses and weighs upon the prisoner. Later
on, in the Swiss mountains, it sometimes happened that I was enveloped
in a cloud which, intercepting light and sound, cut me off from the rest
of the world. A sojourn in one of these clouds gives to the surprised
traveller, by reason of its rarity, a series of curious impressions. But
twenty-seven months in a cloud is a long time! A very long time! Three
times each day, with a noise of falling iron, the door of my cell
opened, and on the threshold appeared two men in blue uniforms braided
with silver, and armed with swords and revolvers. A third, dressed as an
orderly, entered my cell carrying a tray, on which, morning and evening,
was placed a glass, a teapot, sugar, and bread--at noon, a bowl of soup,
and a plate containing the daily ration of meat and vegetables, all cut
in small pieces. In the morning the orderly swept out my cell, filled my
water-jug, and, if so desired, opened a movable pane at the top of the
window, which when closed was secured by a catch.
These three silent and regular visits were the sole events of the day.
Outside of these--an absolute void, a heavy silence, broken from time to
time by the clang of a sword-scabbard on the pavement or the jingle of a
spur, instantly suppressed.
This silence, this void, I feel but in a slight degree during the first
days after my arrest--that is to say, physically. Morally, however,
although separated from the world by these thick walls, I am still too
near to it. At every hour of the day I can picture to myself what is
taking place at home and amongst my friends, and I live their life. The
desire to know if the others have been arrested, and under what
circumstances, mingles with the anxiety which preoccupies me. I await
with impatience the first interrogatory examination, for the questions
then asked are for the political prisoner the only indications
obtainable from which he can form an idea of why he has been arrested,
what are the charges against him, and what fate he may expect!
[Illustration: TELEGRAPHIC SIGNALS.]
I am very weary because of sleepless nights, partly due to being obliged
to lie down in my clothes, and also because of excitement, which tends
to keep me awake. My days I spend in alternately feverishly promenading
my cell and lying on my bed in a state which is neither sleeping nor
waking. Gradually I learn to correspond with my neighbours by means of
telegraphic signals. Ah! those signals! How carefully should they be
studied by all those whose fate it may one day be to be confined in a
political prison, and who in Russia is not liable to such a fate? I know
the signals theoretically--that is to say, I know how the alphabet is
produced. But from theory to practice is a long stride, and to what
movements of impatience have I given way, how desperately in my unnerved
state have I struggled in order to learn the meaning of the light blows
struck against the walls, and to understand the precious words that were
addressed to me.
After a fortnight of such days, each of which, taken by itself, seemed
more empty and slower than the previous one, but which, taken as a
whole, appeared, by reason of their absolute uniformity, to have passed
like a dream, I am at last summoned to the cabinet of the director of
the prison, in order to be interrogated. The cabinet is at the other end
of the corridor, and only separated from the latter by an antechamber,
the doors and windows of which are barred and grilled in the same manner
as the cells. Notwithstanding this, and although the distance is so
short, an escort, composed of an officer of constabulary, two
subalterns, and a private, await me outside my cell, armed with
revolvers in their belts and sword-bayonets in their hands. This display
of force for a woman prisoner, who is little more than a child, causes
me to smile.
Arrived at the Director's cabinet, a large whitewashed room, in the
centre of which is a table covered by a green cloth, and on which are
papers, I find myself in the presence of three gentlemen. The first of
these is a short, fat man, with bald pointed head, sharp, crafty grey
eyes, and he reminds me of one of the rats with which the prison
abounds, but it is a rat in uniform. This is the director of the prison,
Capt. W----. The second is Col. P----, who, a fortnight ago, arrested
me. He is still young, tall, broad-shouldered, and his constabulary
uniform seems almost too tight for him. His face, square and massive, is
pitted with smallpox, his moustache small and fair, and his eyes sharp
and ferret-like. The third, who is in mufti, is Mr. N----, the procurer
to the Chamber of Judgments.[2] Tall, stout, with an insignificant face,
brown eyes, and a brown beard shaved on the chin, he is still a young
man. In the town of X----, where he is a stranger, he enjoys a
reputation for ability and intelligence in conducting examinations. I
know him by sight, and his presence gives me cause for inquietude, for,
as a rule, in ordinary cases he is satisfied to leave their conduct to
one of his substitutes. I cannot help noticing the air of wellbeing and
repose which characterises these gentlemen, as compared with my nervous
and fatigued state, and the comparison puts me on my guard.
[2] Court of Justice which, if necessary, revises the judgements of the
other courts, and deals with cases of exceptional gravity. Doubting the
best judges--since the acquittal of Vera Vassoulitch--the Government no
longer confides political cases to civil courts, but hands them over
either to martial courts, or the Chamber of Judgments. This latter court
has no examining judge, that function being undertaken by the procurer.
I mistrust the half-closed eyes, apparently tired and sleepy, with
which Mr. N---- examines me, and I also mistrust my outspoken
nature and the ease with which I am carried away, characteristics which
Serge and Aunt Vera have so often tried to repress. On the table is the
parcel of books found at my home at the time of my arrest. Where they
come from remains an enigma which I fear to touch, because its solution
may compromise some of my relatives and friends. Therefore, after I have
replied to sundry questions concerning my social status, I refuse to
answer any other. My refusal provokes much dissatisfaction, especially
on the part of Colonel P----, who resorts to heroic measures, promising,
if I speak, to immediately set me at liberty, but threatening, if I
refuse, a long imprisonment and, possibly, hard labour. After
half-an-hour devoted to a discussion, in which Mr. N---- takes
only a very small part, I am escorted to my cell, and informed that I
have a week in which to reflect. Tired out, nervously excited, I have
learnt nothing as to my probable fate. On the other hand, the large
sheet of white paper, which was intended for my confession, only bears
my name, age, address, and the statement that, _as to my political
opinions_, I am a revolutionary socialist, and this document I have
signed.
[Illustration: COLONEL P----.]
The scene in the Director's cabinet is renewed two or three times. I
take advantage of these examinations to ask for books and the removal of
the "blue angel," whose almost continual presence at the wicket of my
door is intended to keep me from communicating with my neighbours, to
render my life more miserable, to force me to confess, and to make it a
matter of impossibility for me to change my garments, or enjoy any
repose. Aunt Vera, to whom, according to prison regulations, I am
allowed to write once a month, works towards the same end. At last, one
fine day, Capt. W---- comes to my cell and informs me that,
morning or evening, when I desire it, I can dismiss the sentry for
half-an-hour. Two men who follow Capt. W---- bring in my large
travelling trunk, in which, among other things, I find part of my
boarding school trousseau, including bedding and the numbered knife,
fork, and spoon. At the same time, I obtain permission to take books
from the prison library. These consist principally of various editions
of the Gospels, and the dull "lives" of saints who never troubled
themselves about earthly affairs.
Thanks to these books, of which I soon get a selection, to be later on
replaced by others sent by Aunt Vera; thanks to the whiteness of my
quilt and tablecloth[3]; and, lastly, to a few toilet objects found in
my trunk, and an alarm clock, which I still possess, my cell appears
less repulsive than heretofore. And when at night, dressed in one of
those long white flannel dressing-gowns, which Aunt Vera has made
especially for me, I stretch myself in my bed, I am happy as one rarely
is between those walls covered with the dew of prisoners' tears, and
dream of immense steppes, the blue sea, and a vast expanse free and
flooded in sunlight.
[3] The regulations admit only articles in white, black, or grey.
[Illustration: AT NIGHT.]