position. But to find the clue in such cases is easy only to those who,
having long resided in the city, have many connections in society. Olga
had never stayed more than a few days in the capital. Her acquaintances
among “legal” people were very few in number, and then she had reached
St. Petersburg in the month of August, when every one of position is
out of town. With only sixty kopecks in her pocket, for in her great
haste she had been unable to obtain a sufficient sum of money, she
dragged her limbs from one extremity of the capital to the other. She
might have dropped in the street from sheer exhaustion, and been taken
up by the police as a mere vagabond, had not the idea occurred to her
to call upon a distant relative whom she knew to be in St. Petersburg.
She was an old maid, who affectionately welcomed her to the house,
although, at the mere sight of Olga, her hair stood on end. She
remained there two days; but the fear of the poor lady was so extreme
that Olga did not care to stay longer. Supplied with a couple of
roubles, she recommenced her pilgrimage, and at last met a barrister
who, as luck would have it, had come up that day from the country on
business.
From that moment all her tribulations ended. The barrister, who had
known her previously, placed his house at her disposal, and immediately
communicated the news of her arrival to some friends of his among
the affiliated. The next day the good news spread throughout all St.
Petersburg of the safe arrival of Olga Liubatovitch.
She was immediately supplied with money and a passport, and taken to a
safe place of concealment, secure against police scrutiny.
III.
It was at St. Petersburg that I first met her.
It was not at a “business” gathering, but one of mere pleasure, in a
family. With the “legal” and the “illegal” there must have been about
fifteen persons. Among those present were some literary men. One of
them was a singular example of an “illegal” man, much sought for at
one time, who, living for six or seven years with false passports,
almost succeeded in legalising himself, as a valuable and well-known
contributor to various newspapers. There was a barrister who, after
having defended others in several political trials, at last found
himself in the prisoner’s dock. There was a young man of eighteen in
gold lace and military epaulettes, who was the son of one of the most
furious persecutors of the Revolutionary party. There was an official
of about fifty, the head of a department in one of the ministries, who,
for five years running, was our Keeper of the Seals—who kept, that is
to say, a large chest full to the brim of seals, false marks, stamps,
etc., manufactured by his niece, a charming young lady, very clever in
draughtsmanship and engraving. It was a very mixed company, and strange
for any one not accustomed to the singular habits of the Palmyra of the
North.
With the freedom characteristic of all Russian gatherings, especially
those of the Nihilists, every one did as he liked and talked with
those who pleased him. The company was split up into various groups,
and the murmur of voice filled the room and frequently rose above the
exclamations and laughter.
Having saluted the hosts and shaken hands with some friends, I joined
one of these little groups.
I had no difficulty in recognising Olga Liubatovitch, for the portraits
of the principal prisoners in the trial of the “fifty,” of whom she was
one of the most distinguished figures, circulated by thousands, and
were in every hand.
She was seated at the end of the sofa, and, with her head bent, was
slowly sipping a cup of tea. Her thick black hair, of which she had
an abundance, hung over her shoulders, the ends touching the bottom
of the sofa. When she rose it almost reached to her knees. The color
of her face, a golden brown, like that of the Spaniards, proclaimed
her Southern origin, her father and grandfather having been political
refugees from Montenegro who had settled in Russia. There was nothing
Russian, in fact, in any feature of her face. With her large and black
eyebrows, shaped like a sickle as though she kept them always raised,
there was something haughty and daring about her, which struck one at
first sight, and gave her the appearance of the women belonging to her
native land. From her new country she had derived, however, a pair of
blue eyes, which always appeared half-closed by their long lashes, and
cast flitting shadows upon her soft cheeks when she moved her eyelids,
and a lithe, delicate, and rather slim figure, which somewhat relieved
the severe and rigid expression of her face. She had, too, a certain
unconscious charm, slightly statuesque, which is often met with among
women from the South.
Gazing at this stately face, to which a regular nose with wide nostrils
gave a somewhat aquiline shape, I thought that this was precisely
what Olga Liubatovitch ought to be as I had pictured her from the
account of her adventures. But on a sudden she smiled, and I no longer
recognised her. She smiled, not only with the full vermilion lips of a
brunette, but also with her blue eyes, with her rounded cheeks, with
every muscle of her face, which was suddenly lit up and irradiated like
that of a child.
When she laughed heartily she closed her eyes, bashfully bent her head,
and covered her mouth with her hand or her arm, exactly as our shy
country lasses do. On a sudden, however, she composed herself, and her
face darkened and became gloomy, serious, almost stern, as before.
I had a great desire to hear her voice, in order to learn whether it
corresponded with either of the two natures revealed by these sudden
changes. But I had no opportunity of gratifying this desire. Olga did
not open her mouth the whole evening. Her taciturnity did not proceed
from indifference, for she listened attentively to the conversation,
and her veiled eyes were turned from side to side. It did not seem,
either, to arise from restraint. It was due rather to the absence of
any motive for speaking. She seemed to be quite content to listen and
reflect, and her serious mouth appeared to defy all attempts to open it.
It was not until some days afterwards, when I met her alone on certain
“business,” that I heard her voice, veiled like her eyes, and it was
only after many months’ acquaintance that I was able to understand
her disposition, the originality of which consisted in its union
of two opposite characteristics. She was a child in her candor,
bordering on simplicity, in the purity of her mind, and in the modesty
which displayed itself even in familiar intercourse and gave to her
sentiments a peculiar and charming delicacy. But at the same time this
child astounded the toughest veterans by her determination, her ability
and coolness in the face of danger, and especially by her ardent and
steadfast strength of will, which, recognising no obstacles, made her
sometimes attempt impossibilities.
To see this young girl, so simple, so quiet, and so modest, who
became burning red, bashfully covered her face with both hands,
and hurried away upon hearing some poetry dedicated to her by some
former disciple—to see this young girl, I say, it was difficult to
believe that she was an escaped convict, familiar with condemnations,
prisons, trials, escapes, and adventures of every kind. It was only
necessary, however, to see her for once at work to believe instantly
in everything. She was transformed, displaying a certain natural and
spontaneous instinct which was something between the cunning of a
fox and the skill of a warrior. This outward simplicity and candor
served her then like the shield of Mambrino, and enabled her to issue
unscathed from perils in which many men, considered able, would
unquestionably have lost their lives.
One day the police, while making a search, really had her in their
grasp. A friend, distancing the gendarmes by a few moments, had merely
only time to rush breathless up the stairs, dash into the room where
she was, and exclaim, “Save yourself! the police!” when the police were
already surrounding the house. Olga had not even time to put on her
bonnet. Just as she was, she rushed to the back stairs, and hurried
down at full speed. Fortunately the street door was not yet guarded
by the gendarmes, and she was able to enter a little shop on the
ground floor. She had only twenty kopecks in her pockets, having been
unable, in her haste, to get any money. But this did not trouble her.
For fifteen kopecks she bought a cotton handkerchief, and fastened it
round her head in the style adopted by coquettish servant-girls. With
the five kopecks remaining she bought some nuts, and left the shop
eating them, in such a quiet and innocent manner that the detachment
of police, which meanwhile had advanced and surrounded the house on
that side, let her pass without even asking her who she was, although
the description of her was well known, for her photograph had been
distributed to all the agents, and the police have always strict orders
to let no one who may arouse the slightest suspicion leave a house
which they have surrounded. This was not the only time that she slipped
like an eel through the fingers of the police. She was inexhaustible
in expedients, in stratagems, and in cunning, which she always had at
her command at such times; and with all this she maintained her serious
and severe aspect, so that she seemed utterly incapable of lending
herself to deceit or stimulation. Perhaps she did not think, but acted
upon instinct rather than reflection, and that was why she could meet
every danger with the lightning-like rapidity of a fencer who parries a
thrust.
IV.
The romance of her life commenced during her stay in St. Petersburg
after her escape. She was one of the so-called “Amazons,” and was one
of the most fanatical. She ardently preached against love and advocated
celibacy, holding that with so many young men and young girls of the
present day love was a clog upon revolutionary activity. She kept her
vow for several years, but was vanquished by the invincible. There was
at that time in St. Petersburg a certain Nicholas Morosoff, a young
poet and brave fellow, handsome, and fascinating as his poetic dreams.
He was of a graceful figure, tall as a young pine-tree, with a fine
head, an abundance of curly hair, and a pair of chestnut eyes, which
soothed, like a whisper of love, and sent forth glances that shone like
diamonds in the dark whenever a touch of enthusiasm moved him.
The bold “Amazon” and the young poet met, and their fate was decided. I
will not tell of the delirium and transports through which they passed.
Their love was like some delicate and sensitive plant, which must not
be rudely touched. It was a spontaneous and irresistible feeling. They
did not perceive it until they were madly enamoured of each other.
They became husband and wife. It was said of them that when they were
together inexorable Fate had no heart to touch them, and that its cruel
hand became a paternal one, which warded off the blows that threatened
them. And, indeed, all their misfortunes happened to them when they
were apart.
This was the incident which did much to give rise to the saying.
In November 1879, Olga fell into the hands of the police. It should be
explained that when these succeed in arresting a Nihilist they always
leave in the apartments of the captured person a few men to take into
custody any one who may come to see that person. In our language, this
is called a trap. Owing to the Russian habit of arranging everything
at home and not in the cafés, as in Europe, the Nihilists are often
compelled to go to each other houses, and thus these traps become
fatal. In order to diminish the risk, safety signals are generally
placed in the windows, and are taken away at the first sound of the
police. But, owing to the negligence of the Nihilists themselves,
accustomed as they are to danger, and so occupied that they sometimes
have not time to eat a mouthful all day long, the absence of these
signals is often disregarded, or attributed to some combination
of circumstances—the difficulty, or perhaps the topographical
impossibility, of placing signals in many apartments in such a manner
that they can be seen from a distance. This measure of public security
frequently, therefore, does not answer its purpose, and a good half of
all the Nihilists who have fallen into the hands of the Government have
been caught in these very traps.
A precisely similar misfortune happened to Olga, and the worst of
it was that it was in the house of Alexander Kviatkovsky, one of
the Terrorist leaders, where the police found a perfect magazine of
dynamite, bombs, and similar things, together with a plan of the
Winter Palace, which, after the explosion there, led to his capital
conviction. As may readily be believed, the police would regard with
anything but favorable eyes every one who came to the house of such a
man.
Directly she entered, Olga was immediately seized by two policemen, in
order to prevent her from defending herself. She, however, displayed
not the slightest desire to do so. She feined surprise, astonishment,
and invented there and then the story that she had come to see some
dressmakers (who had, in fact, their names on a door-plate below, and
occupied the upper floor) for the purpose of ordering something, but
had mistaken the door; that she did not know what they wanted with
her, and wished to return to her husband, etc.; the usual subterfuges
to which the police are accustomed to turn a deaf ear. But Olga played
her part so well that the _pristav_, or head of the police of the
district, was really inclined to believe her. He told her that anyhow,
if she did not wish to be immediately taken to prison, she must give
her name and conduct him to her own house. Olga gave the first name
which came into her mind, which naturally enough was not that under
which she was residing in the capital, but as to her place of residence
she declared, with every demonstration of profound despair, that she
could not, and would not, take him there or say where it was. The
_pristav_ insisted, and, upon her reiterated refusal, observed to the
poor simple thing that her obstinacy was not only prejudicial to her,
but even useless, as, knowing her name, he would have no difficulty in
sending some one to the Adressni Stol and obtaining her address. Struck
by this unanswerable argument, Olga said she would take him to her
house.
No sooner had she descended into the street, accompanied by the
_pristav_ and some of his subalterns, than Olga met a friend, Madame
Maria A., who was going to Kviatkovsky’s, where a meeting of Terrorists
had actually been fixed for that very day. It was to this chance
meeting that the Terrorists owed their escape from the very grave
danger which threatened them; for the windows of Kviatkovsky’s rooms
were so placed that it was impossible to see any signals there from the
street.
Naturally enough the two friends made no sign to indicate that they
were acquainted with each other, but Madame Maria A., on seeing Olga
with the police, ran in all haste to inform her friends of the arrest
of their companion, about which there could be no doubt.
The first to be warned was Nicholas Morosoff, as the police in a short
time would undoubtedly go to his house and make the customary search.
Olga felt certain that this was precisely what her friend would do, and
therefore her sole object now was to delay her custodians so as to give
Morosoff time to “clear” his rooms (that is to say, destroy or take
away papers and everything compromising), and to get away himself. It
was this that she was anxious about, for he had been accused by the
traitor Goldenberg of having taken part in the mining work connected
with the Moscow attempt, and by the Russian law was liable to the
penalty of death.
Greatly emboldened by this lucky meeting with her friend, Olga,
without saying a word, conducted the police to the Ismailovsky Polk,
one of the quarters of the town most remote from the place of her
arrest, which was in the Nevsky district. They found the street and
the house indicated to them. They entered and summoned the _dvornik_
(doorkeeper), who has to be present at every search made. Then came the
inevitable explanation. The _dvornik_ said that he did not know the
lady, and that she did not lodge in that house.
Upon hearing this statement, Olga covered her face with her hands, and
again gave way to despair. She sobbingly admitted that she had deceived
them from fear of her husband, who was very harsh, that she had not
given her real name and address, and wound up by begging them to let
her go home.
“What’s the use of all this, madam?” exclaimed the _pristav_. “Don’t
you see that you are doing yourself harm by these tricks? I’ll forgive
you this time, because of your inexperience, but take care you don’t
do it again, and lead us at once to your house, or otherwise you will
repent it.”
After much hesitation, Olga, resolved to obey the injunctions of the
_pristav_. She gave her name, and said she lived in one of the lines of
the Vasili Ostrov.
It took an hour to reach the place. At last they arrived at the house
indicated. Here precisely the same scene with the _dvornik_ was
repeated. Then the _pristav_ lost all patience, and wanted to take
her away to prison at once, without making a search in her house.
Upon hearing the _pristav’s_ harsh announcement, Olga flung herself
into an arm-chair and had a violent attack of hysterics. They fetched
some water and sprinkled her face with it to revive her. When she had
somewhat recovered, the _pristav_ ordered her to rise and go at once
to the prison of the district. Her hysterical attack recommenced. But
the _pristav_ would stand no more nonsense, and told her to get up, or
otherwise he would have her taken away in a cab by main force.
The despair of the poor lady was now at its height.
“Listen!” she exclaimed. “I will tell you everything now.”
And she began the story of her life and marriage. She was the daughter
of a rustic, and she named the province and the village. Up to the age
of sixteen she remained with her father and looked after the sheep. But
one day an engineer, her future husband, who was at work upon a branch
line of railway, came to stop in the house. He fell in love with her,
took her to town, placed her with his aunt, and had teachers to educate
her, as she was illiterate and knew nothing. Then he married her, and
they lived very happily together for four years; but he had since
become discontented, rough, irritable, and she feared that he loved her
no longer; but she loved him as much as ever, as she owed everything
to him, and could not be ungrateful. Then she said that he would be
dreadfully angry with her, and would perhaps drive her away if she went
to the house in charge of the police; that it would be a scandal; that
he would think she had stolen something; and so on.
All this, and much more of the same kind, with endless details and
repetitions, did Olga narrate; interrupting her story from time to time
by sighs, exclamations, and tears. She wept in very truth, and her
tears fell copiously, as she assured me when she laughingly described
this scene to me afterwards. I thought at the time that she would have
made a very good actress.
The _pristav_, though impatient, continued to listen. He was vexed at
the idea of returning with empty hands, and he hoped this time at all
events her story would lead to something. Then, too, he had not the
slightest suspicion, and would have taken his oath that the woman he
had arrested was a poor simple creature, who had fallen into his hands
without having done anything whatever, as so frequently happens in
Russia, where houses are searched on the slightest suspicion. When Olga
had finished her story the _pristav_ began to console her. He said that
her husband would certainly pardon her when he heard her explanation;
that the same thing might happen to any one; and so on. Olga resisted
for a while, and asked the _pristav_ to promise that he would assure
her husband she had done nothing wrong; and more to the same effect.
The _pristav_ promised everything, in order to bring the matter to an
end, and this time Olga proceeded towards her real residence. She had
gained three hours and a half; for her arrest took place at about two
o’clock, and she did not reach her own home until about half-past five.
She had no doubt that Morosoff had got away, and after having “cleared”
the rooms had thrice as much time as he required for the operation.
Having ascended the stairs, accompanied by the _dvorniks_ and the
police, she rang the bell. The door opened and the party entered, first
the antechamber, then the sitting-room. There a terrible surprise
awaited her. Morosoff in person was seated at a table, in his dressing
gown, with a pencil in his hand and a pen in his ear. Olga fell into
hysterics. This time they were real, not simulated.
How was it that he had remained in the house?
The lady previously mentioned had not failed to hasten at once and
inform Morosoff, whom she found at home with three or four friends. At
the announcement of the arrest of Olga they all had but one idea—that
of remaining where they were, of arming themselves, and of awaiting
her arrival, in order to rescue her by main force. But Morosoff
energetically opposed this proposal. He said, and rightly said, that it
presented more dangers than advantages, for the police being in numbers
and reinforced by the _dvorniks_ of the house, who are all a species of
police agents of inferior grade, the attempt at the best would result
in the liberation of one person at the cost of several others. His view
prevailed, and the plan, which was more generous than prudent, was
abandoned. The rooms were at once “cleared” with the utmost rapidity,
so that the fate of the person arrested, which was sure to be a hard
one and was now inevitable, should not be rendered more grievous. When
all was ready and they were about to leave, Morosoff staggered his
friends by acquainting them with the plan he had thought of. He would
remain in the house alone and await the arrival of the police. They
thought he had lost his senses; for everybody knew, and no one better
than himself, that, with the terrible accusation hanging over his
head, if once arrested it would be all over with him. But he said he
hoped it would not come to that—nay, he expected to get clear off
with Olga, and in any case would share her fate. They would escape or
perish together. His friends heard him announce this determination
with mingled feelings of grief, astonishment, and admiration. Neither
entreaties nor remonstrances could shake his determination. He was
firm, and remained at home after saying farewell to his friends, who
took leave of him as of a man on the point of death.
He had drawn up his plan, which by the suggestion of some mysterious
instinct perfectly harmonised with that of Olga, although they had
never in any way arranged the matter. He also had determined to feign
innocence, and had arranged everything in such a manner as to make it
seem as though he were the most peaceful of citizens. As he lived under
the false passport of an engineer, he covered his table with a heap of
plans of various dimensions, and, having put on his dressing-gown and
slippers, set diligently to work to copy one, while waiting the arrival
of his unwelcome guests.
It was in this guise and engaged in this innocent occupation that he
was surprised by the police. The scene which followed may easily be
imagined. Olga flung her arms round his neck, and poured forth a stream
of broken words, exclamations, excuses, and complaints of these men who
had arrested her because she wished to call upon her milliner. In the
midst, however, of these exclamations, she whispered in his ear, “Have
you not been warned?”
“Yes,” he replied in the same manner, everything is in order. “Don’t be
alarmed.”