This period, so poor in events, is for me most memorable, for it is the
commencement of my monotonous life as a prisoner. I spend the greater
portion of my time reading. Pen, ink, and paper are forbidden to
political prisoners, as are also newspapers, reviews, and other works
dealing with current events. Even the books allowed, although they have
already been passed by the Public Censor, are again examined by Colonel
P----, who rigorously eliminates every line even distantly hinting at
politics or social life, or which may appear to him "subversive." Thanks
to this system, I for some time read nothing but scientific and
philosophic works, for which classes of reading I am too young and but
ill-prepared. Gradually, however, these works take hold upon me; they
appeal to my pride, and I struggle to vanquish the difficulties of
understanding these vast systems which rule the world, of which I know
so little. They cause me to reflect, and appeal to my imagination.
Outside of these works, I write Aunt Vera to send me those of different
poets and celebrated novelists, and to send them as much as possible in
chronological order, so that I may improve my knowledge of literature.
This simple desire is in opposition to Colonel P----'s system.
Fortunately, he does not know foreign languages, and such books are sent
for approval to Mr. N----, who, more intelligent than his colleague,
does not need to read a book through to grasp its motive, and so he
signs most of what is presented to him, and then they are sent to me.
Reading, with short intervals for needlework or embroidery, constitutes
my daily life, excepting for the interruptions for meals and the daily
walk in the narrow prison yard. There is very little to attract in this
solitary walk in a small paved court-yard, surrounded by high walls, and
with a soldier or policeman at each corner. The walk is soon over,
however, for only one prisoner is allowed there at one time, and there
are many prisoners, and the winter days are short. The most peaceable
time is the twilight hour. Then the feeble light reflected from the
snow and filtered through the frost-covered panes of my window rapidly
declines. Then I am forced to drop work or reading, and I abandon myself
to the current of my sad thoughts. I feel tired and discouraged. The
slow course of a political trial of which the preliminary examinations
often extend over several years; the absolute and arbitrary character of
the proceedings, the ready-made verdict sent from St. Petersburg; the
prisoner's ignorance of the offence of which he is accused, and of which
he seldom obtains details until the trial is ended; the disastrous
influence which prison life exercises, even on the strongest, all tend
to prove that, once in prison, one can never be certain of regaining
liberty. This idea, which the anxiety and the fatigue of the first few
days chases away, returns later on with renewed force. Then another, not
less painful and more important, creeps into the brain, namely, the
absolute inutility of all that one can do or learn. At such times, in
the semi-obscurity of my cell, when the wind is shaking my window as
though it would tear it from its stone casing, I, who am only eighteen
or nineteen years of age, ask myself, with infinite agony of soul, of
what use are these books, of what use is life, if it is only to be a
longer or shorter suffering, without the opportunity of being useful for
something or to somebody?
To escape from these thoughts, I often pass the twilight hour at my
window. The prison regulations forbid it, but prisoners pay little
attention to this or any other rule, and our keepers, soldiers,
officers, or Captain W---- passing by, and noticing a prisoner at
the window, simply shrug their shoulders as who would say, "What can
they see?" And after all they are right, for there is little to be seen.
Above, a small patch of sky; below, under the window, a sentry pacing up
and down; farther on, the wall surrounding the prison; beyond that, the
outside wall surrounding the fortress; and lastly, a plain, through
which a river takes its course. At times on this plain I notice moving
figures. Sometimes, too, the evening breeze brings to my ears the sound
of laughter, a call, or a soldier's song. These indications of life in
the distance are so feeble that in reality they amount to very little.
And yet, in order to catch them on the wing, I sometimes pass hours at
the little open square in my window, in spite of the cold and the snow
and rain beating upon my face.
[Illustration: IN THE PRISON YARD.]
But now it is night. Tea is served, together with cold meat, purchased
with money deposited at the prison office by prisoners or their
friends. The little lamp above the door is lighted, the cell is locked,
and the key handed over to the prison director. This regulation is not
without its dangers[4], but I am thankful to know that, although I
cannot go out, nor even receive the friends I so much desire to see,
still there is no fear of a sudden visit from Colonel P---- or
his soldiers; nor of one of those examinations that sometimes take place
in the cells. I also like the lamplight at night. Too dim to read or
work by, it enlarges and transforms my little cell, so sad and grey by
daylight, and in filling it with a golden mist produces an illusion of
warmth and life. Besides, the evening is the time for telegraphic
communications with neighbours, conversations which, thanks to the
impossibility of the "blue angel's" interruption, are often prolonged
far into the night. This is also the hour for memories and dreams. Tired
of counting the rapid and hardly perceptible blows, and putting together
the letters and words composing the sentences they convey, I stretch
myself upon my bed; I gaze into the dim and golden mist, and gradually
people it with life and movement. Again I see our immense plains, the
towns, the country with its innumerable natural riches, and the
suffering and misery which our _regime_ imposes upon the inhabitants,
and the view of which agonises my heart. The scene is gradually peopled
with known and loved faces, amongst which those of Serge and Aunt Vera
oftenest appear. Sometimes the figures appear one after the other, then
in groups, bringing back details of their life and of mine. These
figures appearing before me stand out in such strong relief, they are so
truly alive, that I sometimes forget my past and try to read the future
of those for whom it exists--and for others I build castles in Spain.
Often, too, joining my desires to all that my intelligence and
imagination can create that is beautiful, I indulge in Utopias, and
before my eyes, enlarged by the feverish dream, pass immense crowds,
free, good, beautiful and happy, crowds grand as humanity.
[4] In 1877, or '78, an Odessa prisoner, named Solomine, in an access of
melancholia, tied himself on his bed and then set fire to the bedding.
The smoke issuing through the door cracks warned the keepers, but the
key had been handed to the director, and he was in town. When the door
was at last forced open there only remained the ashes of the bedding and
a partly carbonised corpse.
The noise of footsteps, or the closing of a door, a groan or a cry,
sometimes disperse these memories and dreams; for in the prison no doors
open at night save to commit fresh prisoners, and no cries are heard
save cries for help. Uneasy, I rise, as others did the night I was
brought here, and listen. If the noise or the groan is prolonged, if
the cry is repeated, I and others knock on the wicket of our doors in
order to call the attention of the "blue angel." As he is not allowed to
speak to the prisoners, he generally indicates by dumb motions that all
is well and that one may sleep in peace. But as he opens the wicket we
obtain a glimpse of part of the corridor, and that often enables us to
judge of what is taking place. Besides, these signals are intended to
convey to the new arrival, or the comrade taken ill, that he is not
alone, and that we are watching. Generally this suffices, but if not,
then one or more of the prisoners takes up some hard object, such as a
bottle or stool, and commences to knock on the door. In an instant the
prison is alarmed, the prisoners, suddenly awakened, call for an
explanation, often difficult to furnish, and in turn seize their stools
and strike. The din produced by these blows, struck simultaneously, is
enormous, and I know and can imagine nothing more frightfully
lugubrious than to be suddenly awakened by this awful noise, and to find
oneself in a cold cell from which there is no issue.
[Illustration: "GHOSTS."]
This method, one of the few employed by prisoners for the purpose of
imposing their collective will, is only resorted to in exceptional
cases, as, for instance, when it is necessary to force the warders and
the director to attend to a sick comrade, or to summon the doctor at an
unusual hour.
Outside of these events, outside of memories and dreams, my prison life
has also its joys. These consist in the letters I receive from Serge and
Aunt Vera. The former are full of a forced gaiety, short and
commonplace, for the prison regulations forbid prisoners to write on
other subjects save their health, clothes, and books, and they are all
read by a constabulary officer, who acts as censor.
Aunt Vera's letters are long, and she tries to encourage me by a recital
of the efforts she is making in order to obtain an interview with me,
and each of her dear letters ends with "until we meet." But that "until"
is long, and lasts eight months. At last, one day, at the commencement
of summer, I hear a male voice in the corridor cry, "No. 16 for an
interview." My heart throbs as though it would burst, and as soon as my
door is opened I rush into the corridor, and then into the antechamber.
I push the door pointed out by the warder, who enters with me, and
instead of finding myself in Aunt Vera's arms, rush against a wire
screen, light but strong, and closely woven. This network is high, and
stretched entirely across the room. A few steps beyond is a similar
screen, and between, as in a cage, is a constabulary officer with red,
bloated face, who, with hands behind his back, walks slowly up and down.
This officer, these nets, this drunkard's face, blot out at intervals
the gentle form of Aunt Vera, who, on the other side of the cage, is
doing her utmost to smile at me through her tears. Later on I get
accustomed to all this, but at this first interview, so much desired, so
long waited for, I feel choking with rage and despair. I do not know how
to reply to Aunt Vera's enquiries, and, when I do, my voice is so
strange that it causes her to murmur in despair--"My God, how you are
changed, my little one!"
Changed! It is possible! The prison so crushes its victims that it is no
wonder they change, especially when they are young and stay there a long
time. Of the changes in myself I am aware only much later. In waiting,
my slow, dull life is passed in a cloud, which covers and presses upon
the prisoner until the day when the lightning flash and the tempest
rends the clouds and brings down showers of tears and blood.
(_To be continued._)
_The Legs of Sister Ursula._