THE PRISON HOSPITAL
TWO days later the exiles reached the city prison, larger than the
roadside étapes, which possessed a hospital. Anna Grigorovna had been
looking forward eagerly to the hour when she would be delivered from
the suffocating dust, the burning sun, and the jolting cart, and lie
down in a quiet cot in a hospital ward, which she would never leave
again. She had kept herself aloof from her fellow-convicts, and there
would be no painful last farewells.
The last evening, when they reached the half-way étape, she sought
the company of the Stundists. It had become the custom, as far as
possible, for the better class of exiles to keep together in the
kameras, avoiding the drunken and more degraded convicts. The Stundist
men alone mingled freely with them, seeking earnestly any opportunity
of lifting them a little out of the deep mire of their debasement. The
band of exiles had been so long together, that they knew one another
as intimately as the inhabitants of the same village. On the whole,
the Stundists, both men and women, were regarded favourably by their
fellow-exiles, to whom they were always ready to render any kindness.
Anna Grigorovna, who had seldom spoken to anyone, seemed to-night
anxious to talk with the kindly comrades who must leave her for ever
to-morrow. She sat on the edge of the nari, where Tatiania was lying
speechless and tearless, and listened attentively to Alexis as he
explained to her the simple creed of his sect.
"It is very beautiful," she said, with a sigh; "you believe that in
very truth Jesus Christ, being equal with God, left His throne in
heaven and came down to this earth, becoming a poor working-man, and
dying a shameful death for our sakes. So He sacrificed all for our
salvation."
"We believe it," said Alexis; and Khariton bowed his head in assent.
Tatiania lifted up her trembling hand; and Michael and Sergius cried,
"Yes, we believe it!"
"You believe," she went on, "that He who was crucified Himself knows
all your sorrows and sufferings;—nay! I've heard you say He is here,
seeing all and knowing all."
"Yes," answered Alexis; "because He said, 'Lo, I am with you alway,
even unto the end of the world.'"
"You believe," she continued, "that without any priest, or any form of
prayer, you may ask God Almighty for all you want, as a child asks his
father."
"We believe it," replied Alexis, "but with this reservation, that what
we ask is in accord with His will. A child may ask for a scorpion or
for a burning coal."
"Would to God I could believe as you do!" said Anna, with a sob. "Do
you know that I, too, have sacrificed all, and given up my life for the
sake of the people?"
"We know it," answered Alexis; "and God knows it. Be sure He who made
the greatest sacrifice of all will not overlook it. He is not far from
you, and you are drawing nigh to Him."
It was the evening of the next day when they reached the prison, where
there was a hospital. It stood in one corner of the high stockade which
enclosed all the prison buildings, a low-roofed kamera, very much like
the rest. There was to be the usual third days' halt here, and the next
morning the prison-yard was thronged with exiles. The men lounged under
the walls, smoking and gambling, whilst the women washed and mended,
or crouched on the ground gossiping. It was intensely hot again, and
all were glad to rest as quietly as possible. Before the day was over,
Michael and Sergius heard their names called in a shrill voice. A woman
was standing at the door of the hospital, and they ran to her.
"A convict who came in here last night wants to see you," she said,
looking with open admiration at the two sturdy, sunburnt boys; "she
says she is fond of boys, and I don't wonder at it. We don't see many
of your sort here."
They followed the woman into a filthy corridor, where the floor was
thickly covered with all kinds of sweepings and slops from the wards.
A noisome stench pervaded it, even worse than the foul air of the
kamera to which they were so well used. With the tainted atmosphere of
disease and rotting refuse was mingled the sickening odour of drugs and
liniments. Michael and Sergius could hardly breathe, but they followed
the woman in silence, keeping their lips closely shut.
But if the air was poisonous in the corridor, it was far worse in
the women's ward. There were a number of low, narrow cots, placed so
close together that there was barely room to pass between each pair of
them, and as the suffering women lay, they breathed and coughed into
each other's faces. But those who lay in the cots were well off, for
the dirty floor was strewn with wretched creatures wherever there was
sufficient space for them. These were packed as closely as the convicts
in the kameras, and could not stir without disturbing their companions
on either side. There was no ventilation except a few holes in the
walls, for the windows would not open, and the cots were ranged against
them. There was a dim light only, for the glass panes were thick with
dust, and had, moreover, a coat of white paint obscuring them. In the
grey gloom, surrounded by pallid and fevered faces, the boys were at a
loss to find Anna, until they heard the racking cough with which they
had grown familiar during Marfa's illness. They stepped carefully among
the crowd of sick folk.
Anna was stretched on the ground, almost under a cot. A thin straw
palliasse lay below her, but the sheet which had been thrown over
her was ragged and bloodstained. It was impossible for her to raise
herself, even when her throat and chest were most convulsed with
coughing. She was choking now; and Michael knelt beside her, and put
his arm under her head, until the paroxysm had passed away.
"This is hell!" she gasped, as soon as she could speak.
"Man makes it, not God!" cried Michael. Father Cyril's letter came
into his mind, and he said in a low voice, "'If I make my bed in hell,
Thou art there!'"
The dying woman looked up at him with anguish in her eyes.
"Thank God, Marfa died before we came here!" exclaimed Sergius, looking
round with horror at the agonised forms and distorted faces of the
women, whose mouths were open, gasping for breath in the suffocating
atmosphere, and whose staring, feverish eyes wandered hopelessly in
search of relief.
In a corner, on a layer of straw, five children were huddled together.
The eldest was about seven years old, the youngest about five months.
They were tossing to and fro, and wailing with the peculiarly piteous
cry of ailing children. Sergius went to them, and sat down on the floor
with the baby in his arms, after he had soothed the elder children, and
given each of them some tepid water to drink.
"Their crying maddens me," said Anna; "all night long they were
moaning, and I could do nothing for them, poor little creatures! We
were locked up all night, with no nurse to help any one of us. One of
the women died in the night, and lay there till the morning. Michael,
this is the worst hell of all! I prayed to God to let me die too, but
He did not hear me."
"He must have heard you," Michael answered, "because He is here."
"Not here! Not here!" cried Anna.
"I'm only a boy, and I hardly know how to say it," answered Michael,
"but if I was here, I'd rather think God was here too, knowing all
about me, and all I had to bear, than think that the devil was reigning
here, with nobody stronger than he was, like the Czar."
"But how can God let it be?" she asked.
"We don't know yet," replied Michael, looking round with appalled eyes,
"but this I do know, I'd rather be here than be one of the people who
send us here. God knows them too! Oh, I wish my father could come and
pray for you!"
"Do you pray for me," she said; "God will listen to an innocent soul
like yours. Beseech Him to let me die this minute! Beseech Him to send
the angel of death to sweep this place of all its misery. Let us all
die at once, and then something will be done. But we go one by one, and
nobody cares."
Her voice fell into sobs.
Michael was still kneeling beside her, and over him hung the yellow,
withered face of an old woman, in the cot above listening eagerly to
what was being said.
"I dare not ask God that," he answered; "our Lord does not teach us to
pray for things like that. He bade us say, 'Thy kingdom come. Thy will
be done.' I can say our Lord's Prayer for you."
"Say it," she whispered.
The boy's clear young voice sounded distinctly through the ward, as he
lifted up his head, and said "'Our Father!'"
The moans and cries ceased for the time, and pallid faces were turned
to him. Some of the parched lips murmured the familiar words, as
the women recalled the years when they were children, and said this
prayer at their mothers' sides, in the old church at home. For a
very brief space there was a lull in their misery—a moment or two of
forgetfulness. They too, even they, had a Father in heaven.
Anna lay passive, with tears stealing down her cheeks.
"That is good," she said, when the prayer was ended. "After all, I
shall soon know the great secret. Michael, I have a commission to
charge you with."
She begged him to let her friends know that she was dead, as soon as
he could, but not to pain them by details of her misery. He repeated
the address she gave to him, and called Sergius to commit it to memory.
Then Anna lifted up her feeble hand and touched his cheek.
"Kiss me!" she said. "I have a young brother Michael like you at
home. Oh, how he will miss me, and mourn for me! Kiss me, and bid me
good-bye."