ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL.
Petropavlovsk is in itself a giant fastness, covering, as it does,
three-quarters of a square mile, and divided into so many rambling
corridors, barracks, ravelins, bastions, curtains, and store-houses, as
to be for the most part unknown even to the officials who form its
_ménage_, and who, having certain portions of the immense structure set
apart for their duties, live out their lives without exploring, or being
permitted to explore beyond their individual domains.
The boulevard and the canal intersect the building, and separate the
citadel proper from what is known as the "crown work," which lies to
the rear.
Dreary indeed is the outlook for the unfortunate political suspect who
is hurried by night, blindfolded and closely guarded, into this living
tomb. To him, hastened along through unfamiliar passages and by echoing
walls, conveyed hither and thither through succeeding gates and vaulted
corridors, no possible effort of memory, or mathematical calculation,
can ever aid him to determine which one of the many courts, bastions, or
redoubts is that selected for his incarceration.
Nor, indeed, will he ever know, for when at last the _gendarmes_ halt,
and he is allowed the use of his eyes, he finds himself in a small
court-yard completely enclosed by high walls, above which only a limited
sky line is visible. And where this court-yard is situated, to what
bastion it appertains, whether it faces the river or lies back from it,
what is its relation to the door of egress, or its connection with the
other casemates of the prison, not the wildest conjecture can
establish, or the keenest intuition demonstrate.
The part of the fortress, however, which the Tsar had selected for his
inspection, was that known as the Trubetskoi bastion, one of the largest
and most impregnable, projecting as it does well on to the river side,
in the direction of the Bourse. The shape of this bastion resembles as
much as possible a bishop's mitre, as worn by the Western Church; it is
built, in two storeys of stone and brick, around a court-yard of its
own, which extends beyond the building proper and terminates in high
thick walls, that completely shut it out and in from all communication
save that afforded by a narrow vaulted passage, always strongly guarded.
The interior consists of two tiers of casemates, opening on to narrow
corridors, two dark punishment cells, overseers' rooms, kitchen and
soldiers' quarters. In the court-yard are a bath house and one or two
stunted shrubs.
Nothing more gloomy and horrible can be imagined than imprisonment
within one of these casemates, of which the Trubetskoi bastion boasts
seventy-two, thirty-six on each tier. As they were originally designed
for cannon they are considerably larger than an ordinary prison cell,
but size is no mitigation of their horrors. Each casemate has a window,
but it opens upon the baffling stone walls of the narrow outer
court-yard, and is moreover set nine feet above the floor, in a deep
arched recess, and guarded by heavy iron bars. The massive wooden door
is equally disappointing, giving as it does on to the stone corridor
that lies between the cells and inner court-yard; in the centre of each
is a square aperture, which can be opened or closed at the will of the
jailer, by a swinging panel, acting like a miniature portcullis, and
which, when horizontal, serves as a shelf for the prisoner's food.
Directly above this panel is that horrible contrivance--more loathed and
detested by the incarcerated wretch than any other of the diabolical
arrangements--the "Judas" hagioscope or Squint, and which resembles a
slit for letters more than anything else, with a nicely adjusted strip
of wood that can be noiselessly raised or lowered from the outside, and
through which the eyes of the guard can spy at any moment upon the
occupant of the cell.
Only those who have tasted of this unending inevitable surveillance can
appreciate its horrors. To be never free, never for one moment, whether
in grief, or pain, or despair, from the espionage of unsympathetic eyes.
To throw oneself upon one's knees before the image of Our Lady, with
which each cell is supplied, to pour out all the woe and misery of one's
breaking heart in the abandonment of desolation, and then, to hear the
faint click of the revolving slide, and starting back, find the argus
eyes of one's jailer peering through the detestable "Judas;" and to know
the very words of supplication and invocation will be used against one
to condemnation.
What wonder then that many who have entered Petropavlovsk bravely and
with a good courage, believing their imprisonment to be but an affair of
days, are never seen again, never emerge alive from its terrible
dungeons; or lose mind and reason waiting for the day of deliverance
that never comes?
No words can paint the growing horror and despair of a prisoner thus
incarcerated. Day by day his terror expands and magnifies as hope dies
in his heart, and the inexorable hand of Russia crushes out his very
life.
Within the casemates there are, for furniture, an iron bedstead and
table bolted into the wall, an iron oven of the commonest description, a
stationary iron wash-hand basin and a statue of the Virgin, beneath
which hangs a tin cup for catching the dripping moisture that exudes
constantly from the stone walls.
On entering his cell for the first time, the poor victim is stripped of
his clothes and given in exchange a loose blue linen dressing-gown, grey
linen trousers and shirt, and a pair of soft noiseless list slippers.
The guard, after making a minute personal examination, in search of some
possible criminal matter, withdraws; the heavy door swings to with a
dull echo, the bolts slip into the padlock, and the prisoner is left
alone, in the midst of a stillness and silence like that of death.
Gloomy, forbidding, sombre, the walls and vaulted ceiling rise about and
above him, the air is heavy and lifeless, the silence is profound; not
even an echoing footstep in the corridor makes a welcome noise, for the
guards creep about in felt slippers as noiseless and as muffled as his
own. And thus the purgatory of his sentence begins; and who, save
Almighty God, can say when it shall end! While hour by hour the chimes
of the fortress-cathedral ring out their triumphant notes--a mockery of
the poor soul in torment--or toll the _miserere_, that sounds a knell to
all his hopes.
It was at the entrance to the Trubetskoi bastion that the Imperial party
alighted. Extraordinary reports as to the violence and cruelty practised
within the walls of Petropavlovsk had lately become so widely
disseminated throughout Petersburg, mingled with such threats of summary
justice to be shortly meted out to the officials by the hands of the
enraged populace, and such sinister warnings of personal vengeance, that
the press of all parties called upon the Tsar to prove himself Emperor
in his own domains, by investigating and abolishing the scandals.
It was a time of grave anxiety; but he, listening to the counsels of
those who had in past difficulties proved their loyalty and
disinterestedness, yielded at last to their persuasions, and resolved to
adopt the extreme measure of a personal inspection of the maligned
fortress. The Empress, on hearing this decision, and who, despite her
gentle looks and quiet manner, owned the courage and high spirit of her
Danish ancestors, at once determined to accompany her husband.
The populace should see that their Tsar and Tsarina neither feared to
trust themselves to the people, nor shrank from redressing wrong when
brought before their notice, though indeed none knew better than she how
purely perfunctory and ceremonious would be the inspection and its
results.
The governor of Petropavlovsk and the lieutenant of the Trubetskoi
bastion received the distinguished guests, and welcomed them with
apparent relief and pleasure, throwing open the doors of the casemates
one by one, and standing back deferentially, with more of sorrow than of
anger on their official countenances; for was not theirs a sad example
of unrequited and misjudged zeal, since even they could be regarded
with suspicion and doubted in their humanity?
Most of the casemates were found to be unoccupied, and Patouchki, who
walked beside the Emperor, never failed on each such occasion to draw
his Imperial Highness's attention to the fact.
"I believe, sir," he said, as they entered the last of the lower range
of cells, and found it like its predecessors, empty, swept, and
garnished, "that one of the most formidable counts in the public
indictment against Petropavlovsk, is the over-crowding of its cells, and
their uncleanly condition. Your Majesty has now visited thirty-five of
these casemates, the greater number of which have been found unoccupied,
and all of them in perfect sanitary order. I think, sir, this answers
that complaint."
The Tsar sighed, but made no reply. Perhaps he, like Patouchki, wished
to make the best of everything and see only the brightest side; but
even he could not still the premonitions of evil that arose thick and
fast in his mind, as he comprehended the immensity and power of this
Imperial prison house of Russia.
Of the few victims found in the cells none recognised the Royal party.
They were for the most part political offenders from the interior
provinces, who had never before been in Petersburg, and to whom the face
of their new Tsar was not as yet sufficiently familiar to make
recognition possible, especially as his dress differed in no respect
from that of the officers accompanying him. Little did the poor victims
imagine, as they were hurriedly changed, early that morning, from one
part of the fortress to another, that it was to avoid any accidental
recognition on the part of those, who, being the last to enter the
prison, still retained memories of the outer world, and sentiments of
Imperial justice--believing that their Tsar, once convinced of their
innocent incarceration, would order their instant release--that this
transfer was made. Any possible outbreak was to be avoided at all
hazards, since any such _émeute_ could not but end awkwardly for the
Imperial inspectors, and disastrously for the officials.
Had these poor wretches but suspected that the tall, soldierly man,
wearing a scarlet kaftan, without ribbon or order, and who looked gloomy
and thoughtful beneath the military helmet, was their Tsar--their little
father, the great Emperor of all the Russias--how they would have fallen
at his feet, praying his interference; protesting their loyalty, and
maintaining their innocence! Or had the faintest doubt crossed their
minds, that the slight upright woman, clad in those closely-clinging,
sombre robes, whose eyes looked so pitifully forth, and whose face was
so wan and pale, might perchance be their Tsarina, what tears and sobs,
what pleadings and supplications would have rent the air, as they kissed
her hands, or grasped wildly at her garments!
But fate was against them; their opportunity came to them unsought, and
they passed it by unknowing. How should they know, poor souls, to whom
even a word of ordinary greeting from their jailers was denied, and to
whom no echo of news ever penetrated, how should they know, that at the
very moment, as they were praying passionately for some means of
communication with their Emperor, he himself stood before them, and that
had they but put out their hands they could have touched him?
It was the cruel irony of fate; the bitter obligation of destiny.
As the guards threw open the massive casemate doors in silence, most of
the inmates did not so much as raise their heads or change their
attitudes. Why should they? It was only another of those many
interruptions in their day's vacuity, in which the jailer played the
part of inspector with maddening sameness. What call had they to look
more often on his hated face than was needful?
Scarce a word passed between the Tsar and Tsarina, or their suite; the
pall of absolute silence which enfolds great Petropavlovsk in the dark
mantle of submission, had descended also upon them, and so held them
captive as to kill any outward expression of inward emotion. Sometimes
it was the "Judas" only that was lifted, and then the Tsarina would turn
away her eyes and refuse to look, standing apart with anxiety and
sadness written on her pale face; and when this happened, Olga would
separate herself from Ivor, and waiting silently by her Royal mistress,
watch her every motion with the sympathy of comprehension.
And so the weary task dragged on its heavy chain; there remained but one
more cell, and then this horrible nightmare of duty, this travesty of
inspection, would be over, and they might hurry away from out this gloom
and depression, and seek once more the brilliant sunshine, the
gaily-thronged streets, where at least the grim spectres of despair and
desperation, if they stalked among the careless mummers, were
out-balanced by the laughter and jesting of the merry-makers.
At length they reached the last casemate of all, and as the door was
unbolted and thrown open, the Emperor and Patouchki stepped across the
threshold. Seated on the iron pallet, his arms thrown out across the
table, was an old man, whose head was white with the snows of many
winters. He neither moved nor spoke as those without came towards him;
his hands were waxen in colour, nerveless, and attenuated; the blue
dressing-gown hung loosely upon his emaciated form; his face was hidden
on his arm. Something in the intense stillness and rigidity of the
attitude, in the absolute rest that had fallen upon him, startled the
beholders with a vague sense of fear.
At a word from the Tsar, Patouchki crossed the cell and laid his hand
upon the bowed shoulders. A shudder passed over the form, followed by a
long and weary sigh, and then the head was lifted, and two feverish,
bright eyes gazed out of the hollow sockets. For a moment he looked at
them bewildered, and then, with a sudden, thrilling cry, he flung
himself forward and fell at the feet of the Tsar, exclaiming in broken,
feeble tones:
"Blessed be God in Sion; He has heard my prayer! Blessed be our Lady of
Kazan! It is the face of my Tsarawich I see once more; it is the face of
my little father--my Tsar! Oh, my Emperor, I am Alexis--Alexis of
Battenkoff. I am an old man of over four-score, who, for fifty long
years, served your father--my Tsar Alexander--and who, after all that
time of faithful love and devotion, have been left to rot in this
terrible pest-house for two long weary years. Pardon me, little father,
pardon me! I have done no wrong, believe me. I have never plotted
against my sovereigns; I have loved them always, and served them to the
extent of my poor abilities. I had no hand in that bloody murder; I was
innocent of all participation in it. I would have given my life's blood
to save my Emperor. Why should I seek his death! Pardon me, my little
father, as your sire, whose soul sees me now, would have pardoned me!"
As the last words passed from his lips the old man sank back, his hands
twitched convulsively, and he fell on the floor in a swoon. So sudden
had been his movement forward and so rapid his utterance, neither the
officials nor Patouchki had time to interpose, but the latter now
stepped quickly forward, as the Tsar, with a gesture, motioned to him to
approach, and after giving him some directions, speaking earnestly and
decisively, turned abruptly and left the cell. Neither the Tsarina nor
Olga Naundorff had entered this casemate, the Empress's tender heart had
therefore been spared the harrowing scene.
As the Imperial party drove away from the terrible fortress, and the
brilliant sunshine caught at the glittering harness and bright
trappings of the guard, a cry arose on the boulevard: "It is the Tsar,
and our Tsarina! Long live the little father! Long live the Tsar!" But
neither God's sunshine, nor the loyal shouts of his people could bring
back the colour to the Emperor's face, or banish the look of care and
anxiety that rested so heavily upon it.
The next morning an Imperial pardon was sent to Petropavlovsk for Alexis
Battenkoff, but it came too late. The weary spirit and sorely wounded
heart were at rest in eternity; the old man's soul had passed beyond all
earthly pardon, into the Almighty hands of justice and recompense.