A FRIENDLY JAILER
MICHAEL, feeling greatly disgusted by Markovin's cowardice, threw
open the door boldly. The visitor, who was carefully wrapped up in a
huge sheepskin coat, was no other than the friendly warder from the
jail—Pafnutitch.
"Why—why—why!" he stammered. "Who thought of seeing you here?"
"Then you know me?" said Michael, in equal astonishment.
"Of course I do," answered the warder; "it's part of our business to
know folks again. You're the young cock-of-the-walk that crowed so loud
and ready to thrust your head into Kovylsk Jail last spring, to have a
look at my jail-birds. Your father's one of them now. A good man; oh,
as good almost as Loukyan the saint! What do you say to trying a rig
like that?"
"Hush!" whispered Michael, pointing to the door of Markovin's bedroom.
"Hush! It would kill him with fright. To see my father! Oh, I'm ready!
When will it be?"
"Now! To-night," answered Pafnutitch. "Oh, what luck I came here
to-night! Our head men are all going to the governor's ball, and we
intend to have a jolly night of it. But you shall see your little
father first; only you must have a bag o' tools, or something—"
"I have this," said Michael, throwing his well-filled sack over his
shoulder.
"That will do," agreed the warder; "and don't you speak if anybody
speaks to you. They'll think you are Mitiushka, my sister's son by her
first husband, but he was flogged once for talking to a Stundist, and
now he won't answer anybody he doesn't know very well. His mother,
Matriona, had two husbands—but there, I can't tell you all about it
now. I must be at my post in an hour. Tell Markovin Petrovitch you are
going out a little while on business, but don't mention me. Now, then,
Nephew Mitiushka."
Michael followed Pafnutitch through the streets, his heart beating high
with courage. The wind was piercing, but he did not feel it. The stars
glittered in the narrow strip of sky between the roofs of the houses;
and he fancied they looked down on him like kindly eyes in heaven. Once
again he had the strange sensation of feeling his mother near to him,
walking unseen at his side, and telling him, without words, not to be
afraid.
When they reached the jail the gatekeeper, who was playing at cards
with a comrade, admitted them, with scarcely a glance at Michael. The
light from the lamp was dull, and the man held a good hand of cards,
which he was eager to play. The small door constructed in the heavy
gates, through which they passed, clanged behind them, and the strong
bolts were shot back into their places. Michael felt already the
depressing and stifling atmosphere of a prison.
They went through long dark passages, and up two flights of stairs. On
the topmost floor was a corridor, dimly lighted by one oil lamp at the
head of the stairs. On each side were a number of little cells. Another
warder met them half-way down this corridor, and gazed suspiciously at
Michael.
"Go on, Mitiushka," said Pafnutitch. Drawing the other warder aside,
"He's bringing some victual for the heretics," he whispered, "they've
got powerful rich friends in town—friends that pay well; and I said my
nephew, Mitiushka, should bring them some comforts. There's a bottle
of the best vodka ever went down a man's throat—for me, you know; the
poor heretics don't drink vodka. I'm just mad to taste it, and you and
me 'll go and have some. I'll just turn Mitiushka in here," he added,
stopping at the door of Alexis Ivanoff's cell; "you know he's a poor
softy and won't, talk to anybody. I'll lock the door on him; and we'll
see what the vodka is like."
He pushed Michael into the cell, and turned the key loudly in the lock.
There was not a gleam of light, except that just under the ceiling
a little square of sky, with two or three stars in it, was visible.
Michael heard his father's voice in the darkness.
"Who is there?" he asked.
"It's me, father," he cried; "Michael!"
Groping till they felt one another in the narrow cell, the father
and son stood for a few minutes clasped in one another's arms. Never
had Michael felt a rapture so pure and overwhelming. For the moment
he forgot they were in a prison. They were together again—he and his
father. But very soon both of them remembered how precious time was.
They sat down side by side on the wooden plank, which served for seat
and bed, and Michael told briefly how it happened he was there. There
was so much to say, and so short a time to say it in. Alexis gave
Michael some news of the prisoners to take home, and messages to carry
to sundry friends in Kovylsk, who were stretching to the utmost their
influence on behalf of the imprisoned Stundists.
"For me," he said calmly, "it must be either Siberia or the Caucasus
sooner or later. If it is sooner, before you are fifteen, you may get
permission to go with me as my child. Tatiania and Sergius and Marfa
will go with Khariton Kondraty. But we must leave Velia and little
Clava behind us. They will never give back to us the little ones they
have robbed us of."
"Father Cyril cares for them as if they were his own," said Michael.
"Ah! That is my only comfort," Alexis went on. "But oh, my boy, they
will be brought up in the practices we denounce, and for which we are
suffering even unto death! But we must leave them in God's hands, He
loves them more than we can. If they keep us in prison for years, as
some of our brethren have been, you and Sergius will be too old to go
with us—"
"We will follow you wherever you go," interrupted Michael, "if we have
to walk every step of the way. Paraska is saving up every kopek she can
get to join her husband in Irkutsk. If a woman can do it, we can. If it
was all round the world, we would follow you."
He threw his arms round his father's neck, and laid his head on his
shoulder. Oh, if he could but remain with him now, and share his prison
cell! By this time his eyes had grown used to the darkness, and he
could see the dim outline of his father's face. He told him how he had
fancied his mother was walking at his side as he came to the jail.
"Why not?" said Alexis. "Surely she loves us better than she did while
she was here."
"But will not this make her miserable?" asked Michael.
"Not more miserable than our Lord," he answered; "what He can bear
to see, she can bear. They know the end. Your mother has joined the
cloud of witnesses which compasses us about; and though they see our
afflictions, they also see the far more exceeding and eternal weight of
glory laid up for us if we fight a good fight. It is even here a glory
and a joy to suffer for Christ's sake."
Alexis spoke in a tone of sober gladness. But before he could say more,
they heard the voice of Pafnutitch speaking loudly in the corridor.
"I'd clean forgotten the lad," he said; "he'll be scared out of his
poor wits at being shut up in the dark with a cursed heretic. Come
out, my poor boy, come out! Good sakes! This key wants oiling, I can
scarcely turn it."
He fumbled at the lock for some seconds, giving Michael and his father
time for a last embrace and farewell. Michael was breathing hard with
stifled sobs as he stumbled out of the cell.
"Poor lad! Poor lad!" exclaimed Pafnutitch, catching him by the arm,
and hurrying down the corridor, "Scared almost to death! Ay, scared to
death! And he was always something of a softy. I'll put him out into
the street, and be back in a jiffy."
His fellow-warder winked slowly behind his back, and wondered what
heavy bribe Pafnutitch had received. If possible, he would make
him share it. The vodka had been very good, but that was not what
had made Pafnutitch run such a risk as this. Should he report the
little incident to the governor? No. They were good friends; besides,
Pafnutitch knew too much of what he had done himself. It was best to
keep a still tongue in his head.