[Illustration: “I rushed wildly up and endeavoured to stop the horrible
punishment.”
_A Secret Service._] [_Page 33_
]
A SECRET SERVICE
BEING
STRANGE TALES OF A NIHILIST
BY
WILLIAM LE QUEUX
AUTHOR OF
“_Zoraida_,” “_The Great War in England in 1897_,” “_Guilty
Bonds_,” “_Stolen Souls_,” “_The Temptress_,” “_Devil’s Dice_,”
_&c._
_SECOND EDITION_
London:
Ward, Lock & Co., Limited
Warwick House, Salisbury Square, E.C.
New York and Melbourne
1896
[_All rights reserved_]
PREFACE.
While writing for _The Times_ a series of articles dealing with the
Russian Revolutionary movement and the condition of political exiles
in Siberia, I became acquainted with the original of Anton Prèhznev.
Strange as his stories chronicled in these pages may appear, there
are nevertheless in London at the present moment many refugees from
the Tzar’s empire who could relate facts of an even more startling
character. Tzaricide is unfortunately as popular in Russia as it ever
was, and the so-called Nihilists have, since the accession of Nicholas
II., relinquished none of their activity. There was but little genuine
mourning for Alexander III., and the feigned national affliction was
speedily succeeded by joyful anticipations of a new and prosperous
era. But Russia has already found that her golden hopes have faded.
The powerful, unscrupulous officials surrounding the young sovereign,
prompted by those evil principles that made Russia under Alexander III.
a blot upon European civilisation, have, by painting in lurid colours
a rude and ungrateful nation whom to govern is now his thankless task,
quickly succeeded in crushing any projected reforms. Thus the despairing
nation continues to writhe under the oppression of corrupt officials,
and those who dare lift their voices in protest are arrested and hurried
without trial to far Siberia. The land is inundated with the swelling
flood of the people’s sorrow as rivers in spring, abundant with water,
overflow the fields, and it will always be as long as an irresponsible,
cruel, and despotic autocracy holds and directs her destinies.
The Tzar knows little of the horrors committed in his name. He has never
been inside the tenth pavilion in Warsaw Citadel, where starving people
have, times without number, been knouted to death. He knows nothing of
the dark underground dungeons overrun with vermin in the Peter-Paul
Fortress; he has never breathed their fœtid, poisoned atmosphere. Even
when he crossed Siberia the officials who surrounded him took every
precaution to prevent him from witnessing the troops of wretched,
shivering humanity trudging through trackless snows and driven to their
gloomy tombs with knouts and butt-ends. Revolutionists are the creation
of circumstances, of the general discontent of the people, of the
striving of Russia after a new social framework. Discontent only grows
the more when it is repressed. For this reason the places of slain and
imprisoned Revolutionists are constantly taken by individuals who come
forth from among the people in ever-increasing numbers, and who are still
more embittered, still more energetic. Truly the Imperial Autocracy is
tottering towards its doom.
By a special order issued from the Press Bureau at St. Petersburg copies
of this book are prohibited from entering the Russian Empire, while, not
content with the formal interdiction of my novel, “Guilty Bonds,” which
deals with a political conspiracy, the Russian Government has also sent
one of its emissaries to my house in London to inform me of the fact.
This, I believe, is a personal attention received by no other English
author. The methods of the agents of the Russian Secret Police in London
and the measures taken by the Revolutionists to repress their activity
will probably be a revelation to English readers, some of whom will
doubtless recognise a few of the following chapters as having appeared
in my “Strange Tales of a Nihilist,” now out of print. That I have been
compelled to bestow fictitious names upon the actors in these dramas, add
and suppress certain incidents, and change the scene in more than one
instance, is obvious; nevertheless, I anticipate that many will recognise
in Anton Prèhznev’s stories solutions of more than one sensational
mystery that has startled Europe.
WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. WHY I BECAME A NIHILIST 11
II. ON TRACKLESS SNOWS 35
III. MY FRIEND, THE PRINCESS 56
IV. THE BURLESQUE OF DEATH 77
V. SOPHIE ZAGAROVNA’S SECRET 99
VI. BY A VANISHED HAND 117
VII. A ROMANCE OF THE STEPPE 139
VIII. THE VELVET PAW 151
IX. THE JUDAS-KISS 172
X. AN IMPERIAL SUGAR PLUM 192
XI. THE CONFESSION OF VASSILII 212
XII. FALSE ZERO 231
XIII. THE FATE OF THE TRAITOR 250
XIV. AN IKON OATH 271
XV. THE TZAR’S SPY 294
A SECRET SERVICE.
BEING STRANGE TALES OF A NIHILIST.
CHAPTER I.
WHY I BECAME A NIHILIST.
Brief forewords are necessary to this record of an adventurous life.
At the outset it is my earnest desire to disabuse the minds of English
readers that the Narodnaya Volya, or the Party of Freedom, are mere
murder leagues. Unfortunately, English writers, unacquainted with Russian
life, ignorant of the true objects of the organisation, or of its inner
working, and only recognising its far-reaching influence, have surrounded
Nihilism with a glamour and mystery that would be highly amusing to us
were it not for the fact that their sensational and sanguinary narratives
injure our cause. So little does the average Englishman know of the
conditions of life under the Tzar, that any argument in favour of
Nihilism would be useless and wearisome, therefore I leave him to decide
for himself, after reading the exciting episodes of a strange career,
whether Autocracy or Freedom is to be preferred.
I, Anton Prèhznev, subject of the Tzar, now in exile in England, hereby
make free and full confession of my secret alliance with the so-called
and mis-called Nihilist Party. We, who are struggling to effect a change
for the better in the internal and economical condition of the Russian
people, look with envy upon every Englishman, at the same time regarding
him as a brother. To overthrow the dynasty by murder is not our object,
although, alas! human life has been sacrificed, as my narrative will
show. We desire peace; and while staying our hand and refraining from
dealing the blows that are at this moment in our power to strike at the
Imperial Autocracy, we are living in the expectation that the flood of
popular indignation will sweep off the face of the Russian soil the
bureaucracy, the _tchinovniks_, and the present ruinous and shameful
system of organised robbery and tyranny, and create something better than
the existing brutality and corruption that has plunged so many millions
in abject misery.
Prior to narrating the exciting incidents of my career, it will be
necessary, in order that it should be rightly understood why I lifted a
hand against the rule of the Tzar, Alexander III., or his successor the
Tzar Nicholas, to describe the tragic events which led to the overflow of
my indignation against tyranny, and caused my subsequent alliance with
the Brothers of Freedom.
Few English readers rightly understand the claims of the Russian
Revolutionists, therefore it will be well to make an explanation, and I
cannot do better than quote from the secretly printed manifesto issued
by the Narodnoe Pravo (“Popular Right”) Party. This manifesto, which was
recently circulated widely by clandestine means throughout the Russian
Empire, and even in Siberia, points out in forcible language that Russia
must now determine her further destinies, and consider the question of
political freedom. It proceeds as follows:—
“As there is not, and cannot be, a hope that the Government will
willingly enter upon the path indicated, there is but one course
remaining to the people, to oppose by the force of organised public
opinion the inertness of the Government and the narrow dynastic interests
of the autocracy. The Narodnoe Pravo has in view the creation of this
force. In the opinion of the Party popular right includes in itself alike
the conception of the right of the people to political freedom, and the
conception of its right to secure its material needs upon the basis of
national production. The Party considers the guarantees of this right to
be:—Representative government on the basis of universal suffrage; freedom
of religious belief; independence of the Courts of Justice; freedom
of the Press; freedom of meeting and association; inviolability of the
individual, and of his rights as a man.
“Thus understanding popular right, the Party sets itself the task of
uniting all the oppositional elements of the country, and of organising
an active force which should, with all the spiritual and material means
at its disposal, attain the overthrow of autocracy, and secure to every
one the rights of a citizen and a man.”
I commenced life under a disadvantage, for I am a Jew.
In Russia the law declares all Hebrews to be “aliens whose several rights
are regulated by special ordinances,” and my race is regarded as a pariah
caste in consequence. The memory of my earlier years it is unnecessary
to recall. My father, Isaac Prèhznev, was a well-known operator on the
Bourse in Petersburg, and he and my mother moved in good society. Our
house in the Isàkievskaya was well known to people with long-sounding
titles and long pedigrees, and, as children, my sister Mascha and I had
made a practice of standing upon the stairs on Thursday nights, watching
the arrival of the uniformed and much-decorated men and handsome ladies
who attended the receptions which my parents gave weekly during the
season.
Mascha, three years my junior, was petted by the guests and servants none
the less than I had been, for we were a pair of over-indulged children,
and lived a life of uninterrupted happiness.
At last I arrived at an age when departure from home became compulsory,
and one eventful day I bade farewell to those I loved and was drafted to
Vologda to perform my military service. From a life of luxurious ease to
a soldier’s existence in the barren district around Lake Kubinskoi was
by no means a pleasurable change, especially as, according to law, no
Jew can rise to the rank of officer, although he is bound to serve in
the rank and file like all other Russians. Nevertheless, I endured the
wearying monotony of eternal drill, receiving occasional letters that
came from my distant home like brief rays of sunshine upon my otherwise
dark, unhappy life. Suddenly, when I had been at Vologda about two
years, they ceased. Several times I wrote, but received no answer. I
telegraphed, but with the same result. I wrote to relatives in Petersburg
inquiring the cause of my parents’ strange silence, yet even these
letters remained unanswered.
Unable to obtain leave of absence, the days passed slowly, and I grew
sorely puzzled at the mystery.
Imagine my feelings when one morning a comrade, who had had a _Novoë
Vremya_ sent to him, handed me the newspaper and pointing to a line,
asked—
“Is he any relation of yours?”
I looked eagerly where he indicated. My heart stood still, and the paper
fell from my nerveless grasp.
It was an announcement to the effect that “Isaac Prèhznev, Jew, of the
Isàkievskaya, St. Petersburg,” had formed one of the convoy of prisoners
exiled by administrative process to Siberia during the past week!
Ignorant of the whereabouts of my mother and sister, and apprehensive
regarding their future, I was refused leave and forced to continue my
military service until the day arrived when I was free to return and seek
them.
To preserve the continuity of this narrative, events must here be
described which were afterwards related to me by Mascha.
From some unknown cause my unfortunate father had fallen into disfavour
with the Tzar, although nothing was known of it until one night, during
the progress of a ball at home, half-a-dozen men from the _Okhrannoë
Otdelenïe_,[1] entered and arrested him. A fortnight later he was sent,
without trial, to the mines of the Trans-Baikal, all he possessed was
confiscated by the Government, and my mother and sister turned into the
streets to starve.
Our relations were poor and could do little to assist them; therefore, in
order to hide their poverty, Mascha and her mother went to Mstislavl, a
small sleepy town in the Government of Moghilev, where for nearly a year
they earned a precarious livelihood by doing needlework and making lace.
But the year was disastrous to Russia, for a terrible famine spread over
the land, and, alas! for my unfortunate family, its effects were keenly
felt in Moghilev. At the time I arrived at Petersburg in search of them,
they had no work and were starving.
Stretched upon a straw mattress in the corner of a cold, bare room in a
wretched _isba_, lay my mother, her thin, haggard face, protruding cheek
bones, and sunken eyes showing unmistakably that death was at hand.
Mascha stood, pale and motionless, looking sorrowfully down upon her.
In the grey light of the brief autumn day the dismal place presented a
woeful aspect, being almost devoid of furniture, the round discoloured
stove having gone out several days ago. Notwithstanding her plain shabby
dress, it was certain that Mascha was beautiful; all Mstislavl, if called
upon, would bear witness to this fact. About eighteen years of age, she
was tall, slender, graceful, with beautifully rounded throat and arms,
fair wavy hair drawn back upon her brow, a dazzling complexion, and eyes
of clear child-like blue. When she smiled her charms were enhanced by an
expression of indescribable simplicity and frankness.
At this moment, however, she presented a sad picture, for her hair had
fallen dishevelled about her handsome face, and her eyes were red with
weeping. As her mother tossed wearily upon her pallet, moaning in pain,
Mascha fell upon her knees and kissed the cold, drawn face.
“Are you suffering much, mother dearest?” she asked, tenderly, smoothing
away the dark hair from the clammy forehead.
“Yes—I—I’m sinking fast, my child,” she replied in a faint, hoarse voice.
“I shall leave you very soon, Mascha, and you will be alone, with no
other protector except God, to whose mercy I confide you. Trust in Him
in the hours of affliction or misfortune, and by His infinite power He
will guide your footsteps and protect you from all harm.” She paused, and
added, “Though you may be scoffed at and persecuted by Orthodox Russians,
never forget that you are one of God’s chosen, and while resenting
insult, always refrain from revenge.”
“I can’t bear to hear you talk like this,” cried my sister, bursting into
tears. “You must not—you shall not die!” Springing suddenly to her feet,
she stifled her sobs, and said, “You sha’n’t starve! I’ll save you, even
if compelled to beg bread from the Gentiles. I shall not be long, and I
will bring you food.”
With these words, she threw a cloak around her shoulders, and opening the
door, disappeared; while her mother closed her wearied eyes and prayed
earnestly for succour.
Through the old uncleanly Ghetto—the quarter in which Jews were suffered
to reside—Mascha wandered aimlessly, wondering where she could discover
a person generous enough to give her a morsel of bread. She knew it was
useless to ask for food of the people of her own faith, for they were
all in terrible distress. Owing to the failure of the harvest for two
consecutive seasons food was so scarce in Western Russia, that in many
places the peasants were subsisting on grass and roots, while hundreds
were dying daily of sheer starvation. But worst of all, the feeling
against the Jews had become greatly embittered, from the fact that the
moujiks, in their ignorant fanaticism, had been taught to believe by the
village _popes_ that the Hebrews had brought the famine upon the land.
Hence Jew-baiting had become rife. Unfortunate Israelites were cuffed and
assaulted in the open streets, and were unable to obtain redress, and in
dozens of towns in Little and Central Russia the Ghettos had been looted
and afterwards burned.
In these anti-Semitic excesses Jews were treated worse than dogs, often
ruthlessly murdered without a hand being stretched forth to save them,
while women were outraged in sight of their children, and there were
committed diabolical atrocities that had raised the indignation of every
European nation. Murder and pillage ran riot through the Tzar’s domains,
side by side with the grim spectre Famine, that had spread starvation and
death through the great Empire from the White Sea to the Caucasus.
The Ghetto at Mstislavl was the oldest quarter of the little town,
consisting of one dark, evil-smelling street, into which the sun never
seemed to shine. The black wooden houses, with numerous poles projecting
from the windows, further increased the darkness of the narrow lane. From
end to end Mascha walked through it, but found no one who could render
her assistance. The place seemed deserted, the houses were all closed;
the usually noisy colony seemed hushed by death.
Leaving the Jews’ quarter, she made her way through the town and entered
the market-place, where a little business was still being carried on.
Groups of moujiks in their dirty sheepskins were standing about idly,
their thin, pinched faces showing that they, too, were feeling the effect
of the dearth of food. While wandering along, engrossed in her own sad
thoughts, Mascha chanced to look up, and her eyes fell upon a buxom young
woman, who held a large piece of bread in her hand, from which she was
feeding a great black dog.
The thought flashed across her mind that she must get food by some means,
and save her mother’s life. Without a moment’s reflection, she stifled
her pride, and rushing wildly across to where the woman stood, begged for
a portion of the bread.
“You!—Give bread to you!” cried the woman, with a harsh, brutal laugh.
“Hebrews are dogs, but this”—and she pointed to the animal at her
feet—“this is a Christian dog, and I would rather feed him than you.”
“For my mother’s sake!” implored Mascha. “She’s dying!”
“Bah! If she dies it will be one Jewess the less. Your people are our
curse. Go home and die too!”
And the woman spat upon her contemptuously, and turning her back upon the
supplicant, continued feeding the dog.
Mascha, crestfallen and dejected, was walking slowly away when she
suddenly felt a heavy hand upon her shoulder.
“Now, girl; what do you want here?” inquired a rough, coarse voice.
Glancing up quickly, she recognised the sinister features and shifty
feline eyes of Ivan Osnavitsch, the _ispravnik_.[2]
“I want bread; my mother is starving,” she replied.
“Starving? Like all the other dogs that infest the Ghetto kennels, eh?
Well, you’ve no right to beg of Christians. The law of the Mir forbids
it, and I ought to take you to prison as a vagabond. If you want food
you should go to the Governor. His Excellency has received relief for
distribution, and if you call upon him he may probably give you some.
Tell him that I sent you.”
“Oh, thank you,” she replied, gratefully; “I’ll go at once.”
Turning, she directed her steps hurriedly towards the palace of the
Government, about a mile from the town on the Lubkovo road, while the
_ispravnik_ laughed, muttering as he watched her retreating figure: “His
Excellency is a connoisseur of pretty faces. He will thank me for sending
her.”
Feeling that not a moment was to be lost, Mascha walked quickly along the
muddy highway, that ran through a bare, barren country, beside the sedgy
bank of the swiftly-flowing Soj.
Only by repute was General Martianoff, the Governor of Mstislavl, known
to her. She knew that by the inhabitants of the Ghetto he was dreaded as
a cruel, drunken, and depraved official, and she had heard the Rabbi warn
them against breaking any of the thousand tyrannical laws which comprise
the _Swod_, or penal code. A Russian District Governor is locally as
much of an autocrat as his Imperial Master, the Tzar. He can do exactly
what he pleases with the poor, cringing wretches over whom he is given
authority. He can condemn Jew or Gentile to prison without trial; he can
order any one who displeases him to be knouted, and with his colleague,
the _ispravnik_, and his myrmidons, can enforce inhuman tortures not a
whit the less terrible than those of the Spanish Inquisition.
General Martianoff, an average specimen of the _nachalniki_, ruled
his district with the knout, and hating Jews, considered death without
torture too good for them. He had even ordered unoffending Hebrews to be
flogged because their children omitted to doff their caps to Government
officials whom they met in the streets!
It was of this harsh, inhuman Governor that my poor, trusting sister,
famished and desperate, sought aid for her dying mother.
The General was lazily smoking a cigar and reading the _Novosti_ in his
own well-furnished room, when a man-servant entered, and, after saluting,
said, “A young girl desires to see your Excellency. I told her you could
not give audience to any one.”
“Idiot! Why did you send her away?”
“She was only a Jewess, your Excellency. But she is still here. She’s the
daughter of the financier Prèhznev, of Petersburg, who was sent to the
mines.”
“Prèhznev!” repeated the General, in surprise. “Ah! Show her in—and—and
see we are not disturbed, Ivanovitch—you understand.”
“Yes, your Excellency.” And the man saluted and disappeared.
In a few seconds Mascha, pale and trembling, advanced timidly into the
room. The Governor was standing near the door when she entered, and as he
closed it after her he pushed the small brass bolt into its socket. Then
he turned sharply, and asked—
“Well, girl, what do you want?”
“Your Excellency,” said Mascha, bowing with that fawning humility which
every Hebrew is bound to show towards Government officials, “I have been
sent by our good _ispravnik_, Ivan Osnavitsch.”
“Very kind of him to select beauty for me and send it to my door, I’m
sure,” remarked the General, under his breath.
Continuing, Mascha briefly explained that she and her mother were
starving, and that her parent was dying of sheer want.
“But you are a Jewess,” he said sternly. “The relief which my Imperial
Master has entrusted me to distribute is only for Orthodox Russians.”
“Have pity; have mercy upon us,” she cried earnestly. “I know that I, a
Jewess, have no right to ask a favour of your Excellency, but my dear
mother is dying!”
“I cannot prevent that, my pretty one,” he said more kindly, stroking her
fair, dishevelled hair.
With a quick movement he placed his arm around her waist, and grasping
her tightly, pressed her against his breast, adding, “Come, I must have a
kiss!”
Before she could evade him, she felt his hot breath upon her face, and
his lips pressed her soft, dimpled cheek. Trembling with fear and flushed
with indignation, she struggled and succeeded in freeing herself from his
hateful clutches. But she did not upbraid him, although her face became
more woeful than before.
Frowning, he regarded her with an expression of displeasure, saying: “The
wife and child of a political exile classed among dangerous Nihilists can
expect no relief from His Majesty’s private purse.”
“It is to your sympathy that I appeal,” Mascha exclaimed imploringly.
“Although my people and yours are of different creed, we all adore the
same Father, our Tzar.”
“And Isaac Prèhznev was sent to Siberia by _étape_ for conspiring against
his life! Curious adoration, eh?”
“It’s false!” she cried hotly. “He was wrongly accused; denounced by
some unknown enemy, and sent straight to Irkutsk without any chance of
defence.”
“Ha! ha! my pretty champion. So that is the way you speak of the justice
of His Majesty! Your words betray you: they show that you, too, have
become imbued with the revolutionary teaching of the propaganda.”
Mascha saw she had been trapped. In a moment she knew that he suspected
her of Nihilistic tendencies.
Martianoff noticed her alarm, and said: “You need not fear. I don’t
intend that you should share your father’s fate. You are too pretty for
that.”
“Have you decided to give me food?” she demanded, her brows knit in
displeasure.
His coarse, sensual features again relaxed into a leering smile, as he
suddenly flung his arm around her neck. Bending, he placed his lips close
to her ear, and whispered some words.
“No! no!” she cried wildly. “God protect me!” And she struggled to free
herself from his hateful embrace.
“You refuse?” he said, in a stern, harsh voice.
“I would rather die than agree to such terms,” she replied, her eyes
flashing with indignation.
“Very well,” he snarled, as he thrust her from him impatiently. “Go back
to your hovel and die, you daughter of a dog. Begone!”
“But your Excellency—I——”
“No more words,” he thundered, adding a curse. “Go! or I’ll fling you
out.”
Staggering to the door, sorrowful and crestfallen, she drew back the bolt
and went out, her eyes half-blinded by tears.
The moment she had gone, the General touched a gong, at the same time
muttering: “The dainty, obstinate little bird must be brought to her
senses. She must be put into a cage and tamed.”
“Ivanovitch,” he said aloud, addressing his servant. “That Jewess is a
Nihilist. Order Osnavitsch to have her closely watched.”
Then he viciously bit the end off another cigar, and taking up the paper,
resumed his reading.
Mascha, after leaving the Palace of the Governor, had wandered about for
several hours in search of some one who would give her bread; but all
her efforts were futile, and when she returned to the Ghetto she had
found that her mother had passed away.
With the moonlight full upon her she was kneeling beside the body, her
face buried in the ragged covering, and sobbing as if her heart would
break. Unable to restrain her flood of emotion, she did not notice the
cautious opening of the door, or the entrance of a tall, dark figure that
crept noiselessly up behind her and stood in the shadow watching, and
listening to her murmurings.
“It’s cruel,” she said aloud, suddenly drawing a long breath and
clenching her teeth in despair. “To the Tzar is due the dire misfortune
that has fallen upon our house. He has taken our money and cast us forth
to die like dogs! It is he—the Tzar—the murderer!—who is responsible for
my mother’s death. He is a vampire who lives on the blood of such as us.”
Raising her white, tear-stained face and looking up to the bright moon,
she cried despairingly: “What can I do? My father exiled, my mother dead,
Anton on military service, and I am left alone—alone!” she added, in a
half-fearful whisper, “to seek revenge!”
“Very pretty sentiments indeed,” remarked a gruff, harsh voice.
Springing to her feet, she confronted General Martianoff.
“You!” she gasped. “Why—why do you come here?”
“To see you, my pretty one,” he replied, throwing off his great
sable-lined _shuba_. He endeavoured to place his arm around her waist,
but she drew back quickly.
“And you have followed me here,” she said, in a tone full of reproach
and disgust; “here, into the room where my mother lies dead, in order to
continue your hateful attentions—to insult me before her corpse!”
“Ho! ho!” he exclaimed, annoyed. “Then you have not reconsidered your
decision?”
“No,” she replied firmly. “Have I not already told you that I prefer
death?”
He argued with her, flattered her, laughing all the time at her
indignation, and treating it with flippancy. Suddenly she turned upon him
with angry passion, saying: “I desire none of your detestable caresses.
It is such heartless officials as you who curse our country, who carry
out the ukases of the Autocrat with fiendish delight, and who are the
catspaws of the Persecutor of our race. What mercy ought I to expect
from you, General Martianoff, who sent Anna Ivanovna to the mines merely
because she displeased you, and who condemned Paul Souvaroff to solitary
confinement in Petropaulovsk for no offence except that he endeavoured to
save a defenceless woman from your merciless clutches. It is——”
“Silence! Wench!” he thundered.
“I will not be hushed when you insult me! You talk of love—you—whose
dissolute habits are as well-known as the yellow ticket of shame you
would thrust upon us Jewesses. I begged bread from you, and you refused.
See! there is the result!” and she pointed to where the body lay.
His face had grown livid, and rushing towards her, he grasped her roughly
by the shoulder. “I have not come here on a fool’s errand,” he said
fiercely; “I don’t intend that you shall evade me—you understand?”
“Let me go!” she demanded, struggling to get free. “Help! help!” she
cried.
“Silence! Curse you!” he growled, striking her a heavy blow upon the
mouth. Although stunned for a few moments she continued to struggle
desperately.
Suddenly he lifted her from her feet and tried to drag her by sheer force
to the door leading to the room beyond. She saw his intention, and for
several minutes fought fiercely with a renewed strength of which she had
not believed herself capable.
Presently, in the heat of the struggle, something heavy fell from his
pocket. She stooped and snatched it up. At that moment she felt her
strength failing, and exerted every muscle.
“Will you let me go?” she shrieked, her lips cut and swollen by the cruel
blow he had dealt her.
“No, I will not,” he replied, with an imprecation.
As he uttered the words something bright glittered in her hand. He
grasped her arm, endeavouring to gain possession of it, but was too late.
There was a flash, a loud report, and General Martianoff staggered back
against the wall with an agonised cry.
“You—you’ve shot me!” he gasped hoarsely, and then sank upon a chair,
inert and helpless, with blood streaming from a wound in his shoulder.
Mascha, in desperation, had resorted to the last extremity in defence of
her honour.
That night was an eventful one in Mstislavl.
The ignorant moujiks, encouraged by the officials of the Government,
had heaped every indignity possible upon the Jews, and the anti-Semitic
feeling reached a climax when it became known that a Jewess had attempted
to assassinate the Governor.
Led by a wild-haired local agitator, a mob of a thousand persons
proceeded to the Ghetto and carried out a frightful work of destruction.
They surged down the narrow street, and after entering the houses and
treating the inmates with shocking brutality, looted and set fire to
their homes. The enraged rioters wrecked the Synagogue and killed the
Rabbi, shouting, “Clear out the rats’ nest! Kill them all!” Screams of
pain mingled with wild yells of triumph, and through the long night the
Ghetto was a veritable Pandemonium.
The scene was terrible. The street ran with blood. Many Jewish women fell
victims to the brutal lust and frantic frenzy of the mob, and were so
barbarously maltreated that eleven succumbed, while a dozen men were shot
or stabbed.
Before dawn the Ghetto had been totally destroyed and its unfortunate
inhabitants, having lost everything they had, were compelled to seek
shelter in the forest on the Kritchev road, where many afterwards died of
exposure and starvation.
General Martianoff lost no time in wreaking vengeance upon my hapless
sister. She had been arrested and taken to prison immediately after
firing the shot, and he had condemned her to receive fifty lashes of the
knout. Such a sentence was tantamount to death, for punishment by the
knout is so barbarous a torture that few strong men could survive so many
strokes. Yet whippings were of everyday occurrence in the Tzar’s empire,
and even women are not spared by the officials.
It was about ten o’clock on the following morning when Mascha emerged
from the grimy portals of the prison, and under a strong escort walked
across the market-place to the temporary platform that had been erected.
A great crowd had assembled to witness the chastisement of “the pretty
Jewess,” and as she mounted the steps, with pale, determined face, they
greeted her with fierce yells of triumph.
She looked round upon the sea of upturned countenances contemptuously.
On the platform there had been set up a square wooden frame.
Unceremoniously, the brutal moujiks, who assisted the executioner,
grasped her with their coarse, dirty hands and tore off her clothing,
exposing her bare, white back down to the waist.
The mob roared with approbation when they saw this preparation. A few
moments later she was forced upon the black frame, and her wrists and
ankles secured so tightly that the tension almost caused dislocation of
the joints. Then the executioner, whose duty it was to carry out the
sentence, seized the knout—a number of triangular thongs of leather fixed
into a short whip handle—and looked round for the signal to commence. As
he did so, General Martianoff, with his shoulder bandaged, made his way
through the expectant crowd, and shouted—
“Come, get to work. Don’t spare her, but keep the death-blow till last.”
Hushed and open-mouthed, the spectators awaited the result of the first
blow.
The executioner receded, swung the terrible torture instrument over his
head, and giving it a peculiar twist, brought it down upon the victim’s
back with a sound like a pistol-shot.
The cruel thongs cut their way into the flesh and the blood gushed
forth. Time after time the blows fell monotonously, until the quivering
flesh was beaten to a pulp, and both victim and executioner were covered
with blood.
Such was the scene of fiendish brutality that met my gaze on my arrival
at Mstislavl, after having traced my mother and sister from Petersburg.
I was making my way through the shouting populace when, out of mere
curiosity, I glanced at the face of the unfortunate girl, and recognised
her.
Was it surprising that I rushed wildly up and endeavoured to stop the
horrible punishment? So suddenly did it all happen, however, that I
remember very little about it, except that in my wrathful indignation I
cursed the Tzar’s myrmidons, and struck in the face the inhuman Governor
who attempted to throw me from the platform. Thinking that I was Mascha’s
lover, and enraged at the blow, he thereupon ordered me to receive thirty
lashes.
I saw them carry away the insensible, mutilated form of my poor sister.
Then they tied me to the frame.
I felt the thongs cut into my back like knives. Once! Twice! Thrice! The
pain became excruciating. My head reeled, and a moment later all became
blank.
When I regained consciousness I found myself in the prison hospital with
warders rubbing salt into my wounds. I asked after Mascha, and was
informed that she was still alive, and recovering.
One morning, while exercising in the prison yard, I saw her for a few
brief moments, and she told me the story I have narrated.
Two days later my warder announced that we had both been condemned by
General Martianoff as assisting in the dissemination of revolutionary
propaganda, and sentenced to hard labour for life in the Siberian mines!
Then I made a solemn vow of revenge, and from that moment became a
Nihilist.
FOOTNOTES
[1] “Security Section” of the Secret Police.
[2] Chief of police.