[Illustration: "AT BREAKFAST."]
Eight o'clock in the morning. I am taking my tea while idly turning over
the leaves of a book, when the noise of an explosion causes me to
suddenly raise my head. Explosions are not of rare occurrence at the
fortress of X----, of which the outer wall encloses several hundred
barrack rooms and places where the garrison are exercised, and I am
quite accustomed to the noise of cannon and small arms. This solitary
explosion, however, seemed so close at hand, and has so strongly shaken
the prison, that, anxious to know what has happened, I rise and approach
the door and listen. A few moments of silence--then, suddenly, from
somewhere in the corridor, comes the jingle of spurs, the clash of
swords, and the sound of voices. At first, all this noise is stationary,
then gradually it grows and appears to spread on all sides. Something
extraordinary has surely happened behind this heavy door, something is
now happening which causes me anxiety. But what is it? Standing on
tip-toes, I try to look through the small square of glass covering the
wicket, but the outside shutter is closed, and in spite of the habit
which I and other prisoners have of finding some small aperture through
which a glimpse of the corridor may be obtained, to-day I can see
nothing. Only the noise of heavy and rapid footsteps, each moment
stronger and more distinct, comes to my ears. I seem to hear in the
distance the choked and panting voice of Captain W---- asking some
question, then another nearer and unknown voice replies--"Oh! yes,
killed! Killed outright!"
[Illustration: "BREAKING THE CELL DOORS."]
Killed? Who? How and why? Killed? My God! Have I heard aright? Killed!
No, no; it is impossible! Breathless, and with beating heart, I consider
for a moment in order to find some pretext for having this heavy door
opened. Shall I ask to see the director--or the doctor--or say I am
thirsty and have no water? The latter is the most simple, and, my jug
hastily emptied, I return to the wicket to knock. In ordinary times the
slightest blow struck on the little square of glass brings my "blue
angel," the warder. Now, I knock loudly, and again and again. The
intervals seem like an eternity, but the little shutter remains closed,
while the sound of spurs, swords, and voices cross each other in the
corridor, sometimes near, then dying away into the distance. A few
moments more of anxious waiting and agony almost insupportable, then I
raise my arm determined to break the window, when a new noise from the
outside causes a shudder to run through me.
Clear and sharp, the noise is that of windows broken in rapid
succession; it is the signal that the prisoners have revolted. Distant
at first, the noise approaches with lightning-like rapidity on the side
of the principal building of the prison, and as it approaches it is
accompanied by cries and loud questioning. Without knowing the cause of
the outbreak, I seize the first hard object that comes to my hand, a
dictionary, and with one bound I am on my table, and in my turn break
the glass of my window, the fragments of which ring gaily as they fall,
some into the court-yard, and the others on the stone floor of my cell.
As the window falls to pieces a flood of light invades my cell, and I
feel the warm air, and smell a perfume as of new-mown hay. For a moment
I am blinded, suffocated, then with both hands I seize the iron bars and
draw myself up to the narrow window ledge. A confused noise of breaking
glass gradually passing away in the distance, and the cracking of wood
fills the pure air of the glorious summer morning; while on all sides
are heard the voices of anxious men and women, all asking the same
questions, "What has happened? Why are we revolting?"
[Illustration: "SHOT HIM THROUGH THE HEAD."]
For a long time these questions remain unanswered, then at last a new
and distant voice--at times rendered inaudible by the wind--announces
that a warder, or a guard, has killed one of our comrades, the prisoner
Ivanoff, in his cell, and that the prisoners in the other buildings are
breaking the furniture and the cell doors.
This reply, which comrades transmit from window to window, petrifies me.
After hearing the explosion and the words spoken in the corridor; after
a long and anxious incertitude; after this announcement of a revolt in
which I myself am taking part--the reply is not unexpected. And yet I
understand nothing of the matter; I am thoroughly upset, and my brain
refuses to understand and believe. Killed? Ivanoff, the youth whom, by
the way, I do not know personally. Killed? But why? Without weapons and
under lock and key, what can he have done to deserve death? Has he
attempted to escape? But does one attempt such an enterprise in open
day and under the eyes of sentries and warders? Besides, Ivanoff had
committed no other crime than fetching from the post-office a letter
intended for one of his friends whose name he refused to give, while the
friend, arrested since, has assumed the responsibility of the
correspondence. Ivanoff was to have been liberated on bail in the course
of a few days, and do those in such a position attempt escape on the eve
of their release? But why, why has he been killed?
These questions I ask myself while the sound of breaking glass
continues. My neighbours appear to have been pursuing a train of thought
similar to mine, for I hear several of them calling to our informant,
and enquiring, "How and why was he killed?"
Then a long, long, anxious wait, and then the reply, "Yes, killed!" Not
by a warder, but by a sentry on guard in the court-yard, who, seeing
Ivanoff at his window, shot him through the head. The occupier of a
neighbouring cell, also at that moment at his window, saw the shot
fired. Others heard the fall of the body. Some have called to him, and
received no reply; therefore Ivanoff is dead. As to why he was
assassinated, nobody knows.
This recital, several times interrupted by noises and screams, is
nevertheless clear and precise. My neighbours, one after the other,
descend from their windows, and commence to break up furniture and
attack the doors. I follow their example, and recommence my work of
destruction. Water-bottle, glass, basin, the wicket in the door, and all
that is fragile in my cell flies to pieces, and, with the broken glass
from the window, covers the floor. In spite of the feverish haste with
which I accomplish this sad task, my heart is not in the work. All this
is so unexpected, so unreal, so violent, that it bewilders me. But
through the bewilderment the questions, "Is it possible? And why?"
continue to force their way. Then I say to myself, "If this man, this
soldier, has really killed Ivanoff, it was, perhaps, in a fit of
drunkenness; or, perhaps, his gun went off accidentally; or, perhaps,
seeing a prisoner at a window, he thought it an attempt at escape."
While these ideas, rapid and confused, rush through my brain, I continue
to break everything breakable that comes under my hands--because the
others are doing the same--because, for prisoners, it is the only means
of protest. The sentiment, however, which dominates me is not one of
rage, but of infinite sadness, which presses me down and renders weak my
trembling arms.
But now the uproar augments. Several prisoners have demolished their
beds, and with the broken parts are attacking the doors. The noise of
iron hurled with force against the oak panels dominates all others.
Through my broken wicket, I hear the voice of the Commandant ordering
the soldiers to fire on any prisoner leaving his cell, and to the
warders to manacle all those who are attempting to break down their
doors.
[Illustration: "NADINE'S DOOR FORCED."]
All these noises, blended with screams and imprecations, the jingle of
spurs, the clatter of sword-scabbards crossing and recrossing each
other, excite and intoxicate me. Wild at my lack of energy and strength,
I seize with both hands my stool. It is old and worm-eaten, and after I
have several times flung it on the floor, the joints give way, and it
falls to pieces. As I turn to find some other object for destruction, a
flushed and agitated face appears at the wicket, and a moment later the
door is partly opened, and a warder pushes with violence a woman into my
cell. So great is the force employed, and so rapid the movement, that I
have difficulty in seizing her in my arms to prevent her falling upon
the floor amongst the broken glass and _debris_ of furniture.
This unexpected visitor is one of my friends and fellow-captives, Nadine
B----. Surprised at this unexpected meeting, and the conditions under
which it takes place, we are for some instants speechless, but during
those few moments I again see all our past, and also note the changes
which ten months' imprisonment have wrought in my friend; then, very
pale, and trembling with nervous excitement, Nadine explains that her
door having been forced during a struggle in the corridor, an officer
ordered her to be removed and locked up with another female prisoner.
Her cell was in the same corridor as that of Ivanoff, and of the death
of the latter there is no doubt. Several comrades, her neighbours, have
seen the body taken away. As to the grounds for his assassination, she
heard a group of officers, before her door, conversing, and one said
that the Commandant, not satisfied with the manner in which the warders
in the corridors discharged their duties in watching the prisoners, gave
orders to the sentries to watch from the court-yard and to shoot any
prisoner who appeared at his window.
This, then, is the reason for this assassination, in open day, of a
defenceless prisoner! The penalty of death for disobedience to one of
the prison regulations. Is this, then, a caprice, or an access of
ill-temper, on the part of an officer who has no authority in this
matter, since prisoners awaiting trial are only responsible to the
representatives of our so-called justice? Like a thunderclap this
explanation drives away my hesitation and sadness, which are now
replaced by indignation and a limitless horror; and while Nadine, sick
and worn, throws herself upon my bed, I mount to my window in order to
communicate the news to my neighbours. The narrow court-yard, into which
the sunshine streams, is, as usual, empty, excepting for the sentry on
his eternal march. Above the wall I see a row of soldiers and
workwomen's faces, all pale, as they look at the prison and listen to
the noises. As I appear at the window a woman covers her face with her
hands and screams, and I recognise her as the wife of one of our
comrades, a workman. This cry, this gesture, the word "torture" that I
hear run along the crest of the wall--all this at first surprises me.
As, however, I follow the direction of the eyes of those gazing at me, I
discover the cause. My hands, by which I am holding myself to the window
bars, are covered with blood, the result of my recent work of
destruction of glass and woodwork. There is blood, too, on my
light-coloured dress. Poor woman! By voice and gesture I try to calm
her. But does she hear me down there? The sentry looks towards me. He is
young and very pale, and in his eyes, stupefied by what is going on
around him, there is a world of carelessness and passiveness, and as I
look into them a shudder of agony and despair passes through me.
The voice of Nadine calling brings me to her side. Partly unconscious,
she sobs in the commencement of a nervous crisis, and asks for water.
Water! I have none. Not a drop! What is to be done?
[Illustration: "A SOLDIER SEIZES THEM."]
And while I try to calm her with gentle words and caresses, and look
round in the vain hope that some few drops of the precious fluid may
have escaped my notice, the door of the cell is suddenly opened, and
several soldiers, drunk with the uproar and the fight, rush in. A cry of
horror escapes me, and instinctively I retreat behind my bed. The noise
of chains and the voice of the Commandant ordering that all prisoners be
immediately manacled, reassures me. Ah! the chains! Only the chains! I
do not intend to resist. All resistance on my part would be useless.
Besides, I am anxious to be rid of the presence of these soldiers, and
would willingly hold out to them my bleeding hands, if a confused idea
in my brain did not tell me that such an act would be one of cowardice.
And now a soldier seizes them, and drawing them behind my back, fastens
heavy iron manacles to my wrists. Another attempts a similar operation
upon Nadine, who, frightened, struggles and screams. Making an effort to
calm her, I try to approach, but a sudden jerk on the chain attached to
my manacles causes intense pain in my arms, and a rough voice cries
"Back." Back? Why? I do not want to abandon Nadine, and instinctively I
grasp the bed behind me. Another and a stronger jerk, I stumble, and a
piece of broken glass pierces my thin shoe, and cuts my foot, and I am
pulled backwards. I am now against that part of the wall where, at the
height of about three feet, there is an iron ring, and whilst one of the
soldiers attaches my chain to this ring Nadine is dragged towards the
opposite wall.
All this passes quickly in our cell, and the soldiers are soon gone and
the door closed and locked. But in other cells prisoners resist, and as
the struggle goes on and the noise increases so does the beating of my
heart, and to me the tumult takes the proportions of a thunderstorm,
and, broken down, I listen for some time without understanding the
reason for the uproar.
Slowly the noises die away. Nadine, either calmed or worn out, sobs
quietly, and in this relative peace, the first for several hours, my
mind becomes clearer, and I begin to have some idea of what is passing
in and around me.
My principal preoccupation is Nadine. She is pale, and appears to be so
exhausted that I momentarily expect her to faint and remain suspended by
the chains that rattle as she sobs. With a negative motion of her head
and a few words, she assures me that the crisis is passed, that her arms
pain her very much, and that she is very thirsty. Chained a few steps
away, I cannot render her the slightest aid, and the thought of my
helplessness is a cruel suffering. I, too, suffer in the arms. Heavy,
they feel as though overrun and stung by thousands of insects, and, when
I move, that sensation is changed to one of intense pain. My foot, too,
is very painful, and as the blood oozes from my shoe it forms a pool,
and I am very thirsty. All these sensations are lost in my extreme
nervous excitement and anxiety for the others, who are now quiet, and
for Nadine, from whom I instinctively turn my eyes.
It is very warm, and through the broken window I see a large patch of
sky, so transparent and luminous that my eyes, long accustomed to the
twilight of my cell, can hardly stand the brightness. There is light
everywhere. The walls, dry and white at this period of the year, are
flooded with light, and the sun's rays, as they fall on the broken glass
on the floor, produce thousands of bright star-like points, flashing and
filling the cell with iridescent stars.
[Illustration: "CHAINED AND THROWN FACE DOWNWARD."]
With all this light there is the perfume-laden air blowing in at the
window, and bringing the odours of the country in summer. Such is the
quiet reigning that I can hear the sound of a distant church bell, can
count the steps taken by the sentry in the court-yard below, and can
hear the rustle of leaves of an open book on the floor, turned over by
the gentle breeze.
But this silence is only intermittent. In one of the cells during the
struggle preceding the putting on of chains the soldiers threw a
prisoner on the ground, and, in order to keep him still, one of them
knelt upon his chest. Fainting, and with broken ribs, the unfortunate is
rapidly losing his life's blood. His brother, a youth, who has been
thrown into his cell as Nadine was into mine, grows frantic at the sight
of the blood pouring from the victim's mouth, and screams for help. In
another cell a prisoner who for a long time past has suffered from
melancholia, suddenly goes mad, and sings the "Marseillaise" at the top
of his voice, laughs wildly, and then shouts orders to imaginary
soldiers. Elsewhere, of two sisters who for a long time past have shared
the same cell, the eldest, chained to the wall, is shrieking to her
sister, who, owing to the rupture of a blood-vessel, has suddenly died.
At intervals she screams--"Comrades! Helena is dying--I think she is
dead." Below, beneath our feet, a prisoner, too tightly manacled, his
hands and feet pressed back and chained behind and thrown face downward,
after making desperate efforts to turn over or keep his head up, at last
gives up the struggle, and with his mouth against the cold stones and a
choking rattle in his throat, he at intervals moans, "Oh! oh!"
Each of these cries, accompanied by the strident clank of chains,
produces upon me the effect of a galvanic battery, and I am obliged to
put forth all that remains to me of moral strength to prevent myself
from screaming and moaning like the others. With my feet in blood and my
eyes burning with weeping, and the effect of the strong light, I try to
maintain my upright position by leaning against the wall. Then from the
depths of my heart something arises which causes it to throb as though
it would burst.
I have never hated! My participation in the revolutionary movement was
the outcome of my desire to soothe suffering and misery, and to see
realised the dream of a universal happiness and a universal brotherhood;
and even here in prison, even this morning, within a few steps of an
assassinated comrade, I sought explanations, that is to say, excuses; I
thought of an accident, of a misunderstanding. Now, I hate. I hate with
all the strength of my soul this stupid and ferocious _regime_ whose
arbitrary authority puts the lives of thousands of defenceless human
beings at the mercy of any one of its mercenaries. I hate it, because of
the sufferings and the tears it has caused; for the obstacles it throws
in the way of my country's development; for the chains which it places
on thousands of bodies and thousands of souls; because of this thirst
for blood which is growing within me. Yes! I hate it, and if it sufficed
to will--if this tension of my entire being could resolve itself into
action--oh! there would at this instant be many heads forming a
_cortege_ to the bloody head of the comrade who has been so cowardly and
ferociously assassinated.
* * *
[Illustration: "REMOVED BEFORE OUR CHAINS WERE TAKEN OFF."]
Eight o'clock at night. Nadine, very ill, sleeps upon my bed, groaning
plaintively each time that an unconscious movement causes her to touch
her arms, whilst I, like all the other prisoners not invalided, remain
at my window. In spite of the silence of several months which has
imposed upon us, the conversation flags. We are too tired, and there are
too many sick amongst us; there are also the dead. Where are they now?
Removed before our chains were taken off, they will this night be buried
with other corpses of political prisoners, secretly hid away to rest by
the police in order to avoid any public manifestation on the part of
friends, or remarks on the part of the local population. These thoughts,
at intervals, awaken our anger, and then murmurs are heard. As the night
grows deeper, and the sounds of evening are lost in the mists, covering
the country as with a veil, our sick nerves become calmer, and our
hatred gives place to an immense and tender sadness. Then we talk of our
mothers, of the mother of Helena Q----, and of Ivanoff's mother, both of
whom are probably still in ignorance of the death of their children, and
are still waiting and hoping. And then we talk of the impression made
upon our parents and friends when the echoes of this terrible day reach
their ears.
Just as the rattle of drums announces that the gates of the fortress are
about to be closed for the night, we hear the tramp of soldiers and the
jingle of sword-scabbards in the ground-floor corridor. It is a
detachment of soldiers, accompanied by their officers and Captain W----,
who have come to fetch away two of our comrades in order to escort them
to the military prison. Young and vigorous, these two prisoners fought
fiercely before they were overpowered and chained, and as the Commandant
of the fortress, impatient at the duration of the struggle, took part in
it, he was roughly handled. Blows struck at a superior officer
constitute a crime for which the offenders are to be tried by
court-martial. They know it, and we know it. But this haste on the part
of the Commandant to have them in his hands--this order to transfer them
at night--which is given by the Director in a trembling voice--is it a
provocation or a folly? The outer court-yard is gradually and silently
filling with moving shadows. Rifles, of which the barrels glitter in the
starlight, are pointed towards our windows. This mute menace of a
massacre in the darkness finds us indifferent, and not one of us leaves
his or her place at the window. But some are ill, and all wounded and
tired out by the emotions and struggles of the day, and having been
without food for over twenty-six hours; and can we revolt again? As
regards the court-martial, none fear, and all would be willing to be
tried by it. Its verdicts are pitiless, terrible; but they are verdicts,
and it is an end. To-morrow, one after the other, we shall go to the
Director's cabinet, and there sign a declaration of our entire
solidarity with those who are now being taken away, and that
declaration, every word of which will be an insult thrown in the face of
the Government, will terminate by a demand for trial by court-martial,
not only of ourselves, but also of the Commandant of the fortress. This
demand, as usual, will be supported by famine, by the absolute refusal
of all prisoners to take any nourishment whatsoever, a process which
kills the prisoners, but before which the Government, anxious to avoid
the disastrous impression which these numerous deaths produce, yields,
at least in appearance. Whilst we wait all is darkness, for the warders
have not lit the little lamps. Through the disordered cells run strange
murmurs, and passions are again aroused; while below, those who are
being taken away make hasty preparations for their short journey.
I do not know them. We are about a hundred prisoners, arrested in
different parts of the province at different times, and in spite of our
being described as "accomplices," many of us have never met or heard of
each other.
[Illustration: "TIRED OUT."]
A few days later, before the windows are replaced, and the dull grey
cloud again presses upon us, the desire to see and know each other
suggests an idea. Each prisoner, standing at the window, holds a mirror
which he or she passes outside the bars. Held at an angle these pieces
of glass throw back floating images of pale, phantom-like faces, many of
them unknown or unrecognisable. Those who are to-night leaving the
prison are, for me, not even phantoms, but only voices heard for the
first time this morning, and now so soon to be silenced, by the cord of
Troloff, or in some cell at Schlusselbourg or the Cross.[11] And yet, as
I listen to these voices dying away in the dark distance, I again
experience all the despair and all the hate of the day, and my last
"adieu" is choked in a sob--and when, a few moments later, the heavy
outer door is closed, a great shudder as of death passes over the
prison.
(_To be continued._)
[11] Troloff--the Russian public executioner. Schlusselbourg and the
Cross--names of central prisons where the prisoners, placed in small
cells, are always chained. Deprived of books or tools, not allowed to
see their friends, forbidden to write or receive letters, those subject
to the treatment, after a few months, become mad and die.
_A Slave of the Ring._