this scandal. After a little scolding and then a little consolation, he
turned to the _pristav_ and asked him for an explanation, as he could
not quite understand what had happened from the disconnected words of
his wife. The _pristav_ politely told the whole story. The engineer
appeared greatly surprised and grieved, and could not refrain from
somewhat bitterly censuring his wife for her unpardonable imprudence.
The _pristav_, who was evidently reassured by the aspect of the husband
and of the whole household, declared nevertheless that he must make a
search.
“I hope you will excuse me, sir,” he added, “but I am obliged to do it;
it is my duty.”
“I willingly submit to the law,” nobly replied the engineer.
Thereupon he pointed to the room, so as to indicate that the _pristav_
was free to search it thoroughly, and having lit a candle with his
own hand, for at that hour in St. Petersburg it was already dark, he
quietly opened the door of the adjoining room, which was his own little
place.
The search was made. Certainly not a single scrap of paper was found,
written or printed, which smelt of Nihilism.
“By rights I ought to take the lady to prison,” said the _pristav_,
when he had finished his search, “especially as her previous behavior
was anything but what it ought to have been; but I won’t do that. I
will simply keep you under arrest here until your passports have been
verified. You see, sir,” he added, “we police officers are not quite so
bad as the Nihilists make us out.”
“There are always honest men in every occupation,” replied the engineer
with a gracious bow.
More compliments of the same kind, which I need not repeat, were
exchanged between them, and the _pristav_ went away with most of his
men, well impressed with such a polite and pleasant reception. He left,
however, a guard in the kitchen, with strict injunctions not to lose
sight of the host and hostess, until further orders.
Morosoff and Olga were alone. The first act of the comedy they had
improvised had met with complete success. But the storm was far from
having blown over. The verification of their passports would show that
they were false. The inevitable consequence would be a warrant for
their arrest, which might be issued at any moment if the verification
were made by means of the telegraph. The sentinel, rigid, motionless,
with his sword by his side and his revolver in his belt, was seated in
the kitchen, which was at the back, exactly opposite the outer door,
so that it was impossible to approach the door without being seen by
him. For several hours they racked their brains and discussed, in a low
voice, various plans of escape. To free themselves by main force was
not to be thought of. No arms had been left in the place, for they had
been purposely taken away. Yet without weapons, how could they grapple
with this big sturdy fellow, armed as he was? They hoped that as the
hours passed on he would fall asleep. But this hope was not realised.
When, at about half-past ten, Morosoff, under the pretext of going into
his little room, which was used for various domestic purposes, passed
near the kitchen, he saw the man still at his post, with his eyes wide
open, attentive and vigilant as at first. Yet when Morosoff returned
Olga would have declared that the way was quite clear and that they had
nothing to do but to leave, so beaming were his eyes. He had, in fact,
found what he wanted—a plan simple and safe. The little room opened
into the small corridor which served as a sort of antechamber, and its
door flanked that of the kitchen. In returning to the sitting-room,
Morosoff observed that when the door of the little room was wide open,
it completely shut out the view of the kitchen, and consequently hid
from the policeman the outer door, and also that of the sitting-room.
It would be possible, therefore, at a given moment, to pass through
the antechamber without being seen by the sentinel. But this could not
be done unless some one came and opened the door of the little room.
Neither Olga nor Morosoff could do this, for if, under some pretext,
they opened it, they would of course have to leave it open. This would
immediately arouse suspicion, and the policeman would run after them
and catch them perhaps before they had descended the staircase. Could
they trust the landlady? The temptation to do so was great. If she
consented to assist them, success might be considered certain. But if
she refused! Who could guarantee that, from fear of being punished as
an accomplice, she would not go and reveal everything to the police? Of
course she did not suspect in the least what kind of people her lodgers
were.
Nothing, therefore, was said to her, but they hoped nevertheless to
have her unconscious assistance, and it was upon that Morosoff had
based his plan. About eleven o’clock she went into the little room,
where the pump was placed, to get the water to fill the kitchen
cistern for next day’s consumption. As the room was very small, she
generally left one of the two pails in the corridor, while she filled
the other with water, and, of course, was thus obliged to leave the
door open. Everything thus depended upon the position in which she
placed her pail. An inch or two on one side or the other would decide
their fate; for it was only when the door of the little room was wide
open that it shut out the view of the kitchen and concealed the end
of the antechamber. If not wide open, part of the outer door could be
seen. There remained half an hour before the decisive moment, which
both employed in preparing for flight. Their wraps were hanging up in
the wardrobe in the antechamber. They had, therefore, to put on what
they had with them in the sitting-room. Morosoff put on a light summer
overcoat. Olga threw over her shoulders a woollen scarf, to protect
her somewhat from the cold. In order to deaden as much as possible
the sounds of their hasty footsteps, which might arouse the attention
of the sentinel in the profound silence of the night, both of them
put on their goloshes, which, being elastic, made but little noise.
They had to put them on next to their stockings, although it was not
particularly agreeable at that season, for they were in their slippers,
their shoes having been purposely sent into the kitchen to be cleaned
for the following day, in order to remove all suspicion respecting
their intentions.
Everything being prepared, they remained in readiness, listening to
every sound made by the landlady. At last came the clanging of the
empty pails. She went to the little room, threw open the door, and
began her work. The moment had arrived. Morosoff cast a hasty glance.
Oh, horror! The empty pail scarcely projected beyond the threshold, and
the door was at a very acute angle, so that even from the door of the
sitting-room where they were part of the interior of the kitchen could
be seen. He turned towards Olga, who was standing behind him holding
her breath, and made an energetic sign in the negative. A few minutes
passed, which seemed like hours. The pumping ceased; the pail was full.
She was about to place it on the floor. Both stretched their necks and
advanced a step, being unable to control the anxiety of their suspense.
This time the heavy pail banged against the door and forced it back on
its hinges, a stream of water being spilt. The view of the kitchen was
completely shut out, but another disaster had occurred. Overbalanced
by the heavy weight, the landlady had come half out into the corridor.
“She has seen us,” whispered Morosoff, falling back pale as death.
“No,” replied Olga, excitedly; and she was right. The landlady
disappeared into the little room, and a moment afterwards recommenced
her clattering work.
Without losing a moment, without even turning round, Morosoff gave the
signal to his companion by a firm grip of the hand, and both issued
forth, hastily passed through the corridor, softly opened the door, and
found themselves upon the landing of the staircase. With cautious steps
they descended, and were in the street, ill clad but very light of
heart. A quarter of an hour afterwards they were in a house where they
were being anxiously awaited by their friends, who welcomed them with a
joy more easy to imagine than to describe.
In their own abode their flight was not discovered until late in the
morning, when the landlady came to do the room.
Such was the adventure, narrated exactly as it happened, which
contributed, as I have said, to give rise to the saying that these two
were invincible when together. When the police became aware of the
escape of the supposed engineer and his wife, they saw at once that
they had been outwitted. The _pristav_, who had been so thoroughly
taken in, had a terrible time of it, and proceeded with the utmost
eagerness to make investigations somewhat behindhand. The verification
of the passports of course showed that they were false. The two
fugitives were therefore “illegal” people, but the police wished to
know, at all events, who they were, and to discover this was not very
difficult, for both had already been in the hands of the police, who,
therefore, were in possession of their photographs. The landlady and
the _dvornik_ recognised them among a hundred shown to them by the
gendarmes. A comparison with the description of them, also preserved in
the archives of the gendarmerie, left no doubt of their identity. It
was in this manner the police found out what big fish they had stupidly
allowed to escape from their net, as may be seen by reading the report
of the trial of Sciriaeff and his companions. With extreme but somewhat
tardy zeal, the gendarmes ransacked every place in search of them. They
had their trouble for nothing. A Nihilist who thoroughly determines
to conceal himself can never be found. He falls into the hands of the
police only when he returns to active life.
When the search for them began to relax, Olga and Morosoff quitted
their place of concealment and resumed their positions in the ranks.
Some months afterwards they went abroad in order to legitimatise their
union, so that if some day they were arrested it might be recognised by
the police. They crossed the frontier of Roumania unmolested, stopped
there some time, and having arranged their private affairs went to
reside for awhile at Geneva, where Morosoff wished to finish a work of
some length upon the Russian revolutionary movement. Here, Olga gave
birth to a daughter, and for awhile it seemed that all the strength
of her ardent and exceptional disposition would concentrate itself in
maternal love. She did not appear to care for anything. She seemed even
to forget her husband in her exclusive devotion to the little one.
There was something almost wild in the intensity of her love.
Four months passed, and Morosoff, obeying the call of duty, chafing at
inactivity, and eager for the struggle, returned to Russia. Olga could
not follow him with her baby at the breast, and, oppressed by a
mournful presentiment, allowed him to depart alone.
A fortnight after he was arrested.
On hearing this terrible news, Olga did not swoon, she did not wring
her hands, she did not even shed a single tear. She stifled her grief.
A single, irresistible, and supreme idea pervaded her—to fly to him;
to save him at all costs; by money, by craft, by the dagger, by poison,
even at the risk of her own life, so that she could but save him.
And the child? That poor little weak and delicate creature, who needed
all her maternal care to support its feeble life? What could she do
with the poor innocent babe, already almost an orphan?
She could not take it with her. She must leave it behind.
Terrible was the night which the poor mother passed with her child
before setting out. Who can depict the indescribable anguish of her
heart, with the horrible alternative placed before her of forsaking her
child to save the man she loved, or of forsaking him to save the little
one. On the one side was maternal feeling; on the other her ideal, her
convictions, her devotion to the cause which he steadfastly served.
She did not hesitate for a moment. She must go.
On the morning of the day fixed she took leave of all her friends, shut
herself up alone with her child, and remained with it for some minutes
to bid it farewell. When she issued forth, her face was pale as death
and wet with tears.
She set out. She moved heaven and earth to save her husband. Twenty
times she was within an ace of being arrested. But it was impossible
for her efforts to avail. As implicated in the attempt against the life
of the Emperor, he was confined in the fortress of St. Peter and St.
Paul; and there is no escape from there. She did not relax her efforts,
but stubbornly and doggedly continued them, and all this while was in
agony if she did not constantly hear about her child. If the letters
were delayed a day or two, her anguish could not be restrained. The
child was ever present in her mind. One day she took compassion on a
little puppy, still blind, which she found upon a heap of rubbish,
where it had been thrown. “My friends laugh at me,” she wrote, “but I
love it because its little feeble cries remind me of those of my child.”
Meanwhile the child died. For a whole month no one had the courage to
tell the sad news. But at last the silence had to be broken.
Olga herself was arrested a few weeks afterwards.
Such is the story, the true story, of Olga Liubatovitch. Of Olga
Liubatovitch, do I say? No—of hundreds and hundreds of others. I
should not have related it had it not been so.—_Cornhill Magazine_.
AMONG THE TRAPPISTS.
A GLIMPSE OF LIFE AT LE PORT DU SALUT.
BY SURGEON-GENERAL H. L. COWEN.
The monastic order of Trappists—a branch of the Cistercian—possesses
monasteries in many parts of Europe, one, composed of German brethren,
being in Turkey. Some of these establishments are agricultural or
industrial associations; others are reformatories for juvenile
delinquents; while some have been instituted for effecting works that
might be dangerous to health and life, such as draining marshy lands
where the fatal malaria broods.
The Monastery of La Trappe le Port du Salut, the subject of the present
description, stands near the village of Entrammes, at Port Raingeard,
on the river Mayenne, on the borders of Maine, Anjou, and Brittany.
Its site has been most picturesquely chosen in a charming nook, where
the stream having rapidly passed through some rocky cliffs suddenly
expands, and flows slowly through rich pasture-lands. With its church,
farms, water-mill, cattle-sheds, gardens, and orchards, the whole
settlement looks like a hamlet surrounded with an enclosure (_clôture_)
marking the limits of the ecclesiastical jurisdiction. A narrow
passage between two high walls leads to the entrance-gate, bearing the
inscription, “Hic est Portus Salutis,”—“Here is the haven of safety.”
A long chain with an iron cross for a handle being pulled and a bell
rung, a porter opens a wicket, bows his head down to his knees—the
obligatory salutation of the Trappist—and in silence awaits the
ringer’s interrogation. The latter may have come simply from curiosity,
or he may be a traveller seeking for shelter and hospitality, a beggar
asking alms, or even a wrong-doer in search of an asylum; he may be
rich or poor, Christian, Jew, or Mohammedan—no matter! the porter at
once grants admittance, conducts him to the guests’ reception-room, and
summons the hostelier.
A monk in white robes appears, his head shaven with the exception
of a ring of hair. He bows as did the porter. If the visitor only
contemplates a stay of a few hours no formality is gone through;
a meal and refreshments are offered, and he is conducted over the
monastery. But if he proposes to sleep there, the monk, whose rules are
to consider that every guest has been guided to the place by our Lord
Himself, says, “I must worship in your person Jesus Christ, suffering
and asking hospitality; pray do not heed what I am about to do.” He
then falls prostrate on the ground, and so remains for a short time,
in silent devotion. After this he leads the way to an adjoining room,
and requests the visitor to write his name in a book, open here, as
elsewhere in France, for the inspection of the police. The entry made,
the father hostelier (as he is called) reads from “The Imitation of
Jesus Christ” the first passage that attracts his eye. In the case of
our informant it was “I come to you, my son, because you have called
me.” But whatever the text may be, he adds, “Let these words form the
subject of your meditations during your stay at La Trappe.”
The _Communauté_ is the name of the monks’ private buildings, where
no strangers are permitted to penetrate, except by special permission
and accompanied by a father. Here perpetual silence is prescribed,
save during the times of religious service, and the visitor is warned
that in his tour around the domicile he is to kneel, pray, and make
the sign of the cross when and where he sees his companion do so. This
proceeding would at first sight seem to exclude from the monastery all
non-Roman Catholics. The member of any religious communion, however, is
welcome, provided he pays a certain deference to the rules, and as the
Trappist guide walks in advance, and never turns round to observe how
his guest is engaged, all derelictions in minor matters are purposely
allowed to escape his notice. Were it otherwise, he would at once
retrace his steps, lead the way to the entrance-door, show the visitor
out, and without uttering a single word, bow and leave him there.
The church is a part of the _Communauté_, and is plain in architecture
and simple in ornamentation. Here it is that each Trappist is brought
to die. Whenever any monk is in the throes of death, an assistant
of the hospital runs about the monastery striking with a stick on a
board. At that well-known summons the brethren flock to the church,
where their dying brother has been already laid on ashes strewn on the
stones in the shape of a cross, and covered with a bundle of straw.
A solemn joy lights up every face, and the Trappist passes away amid
the thanksgiving of his companions who envy his happiness. It is the
_finis coronat opus_ of his life-work.
The Trappist must always be ready for the grave, and as he is to be
buried in his religious vestments, so he is bound to sleep in those
same vestments, even to the extent of keeping his shoes on. The
dormitory is common to all, the abbot included. The beds are made
of quilted straw, as hard as a board, and are separated by a wooden
partition, without doors, reaching more than half way to the ceiling.
There is not the least distinction of accommodation. The Superior rests
not more luxuriously than the brethren, because equality rules here as
elsewhere in the monastery. For La Trappe is a republic governed by a
Chapter, the abbot being only the executive for all temporal affairs,
and wielding absolute power in spiritual matters alone. But although
he holds authority from the see of Rome, yet he is elected by the
brethren, who may if they choose elevate the humblest official of the
monastery. There are no menial occupations, as the world esteems them,
inside the religious houses of the order. The commonest duties may be
performed by inmates of the highest social rank.
The Chapter House answers the double purpose of a hall for meetings and
of a reading-room. The Chapter assembles daily at 5 A.M.—the
fathers in their white gowns, the brethren in their brown ones—in
order to discuss any matter, temporal or spiritual, interesting to
the general community. When the secular business of the day has been
gone through the abbot says, “Let us speak concerning our rules,”
implying that any derelictions which may have occurred during the
past twenty-four hours are to be considered. Then all the monks in
succession, as they may have occasion, accuse themselves of any
neglect, even the most trivial. One may say, “Reverend Father,”
addressing the abbot, “I accidentally dropped my tools when working;”
another, “I did not bow low enough when Brother Joseph passed me;” a
third, “I saw that Brother Antony carried a load that was too heavy,
and I did not assist him.” These and such like self-accusations may
seem puerile, but they lead up to the preservation of some of the
essential precepts of the order, unremitting attention while at labor,
deferential demeanor and Christian courtesy towards brethren.
But if any brother may have omitted to mention derelictions of which he
himself was not aware it then devolves upon his companions, with the
view of maintaining rules, on the observance of which the happiness
of all is concerned, to state to the abbot what those faults may have
been. For instance, one will say, “When Brother Simeon comes to the
Chapter he sometimes forgets to make the sign for the brethren who
stood up on his arrival to sit down again, and yesterday Brother Peter
remained standing for one hour, until another brother came in and made
the sign to be seated.” Thus warned Brother Simeon rises and kisses the
informant, thanking him in this way for kindly reproving him. These
accusations are considered by the brethren as showing their zeal for
reciprocal improvement.
The Trappist is bound to make the abbot acquainted at once with
everything that occurs within the precinct of the monastery, and
minutiæ of the most trifling and sometimes even ludicrous nature must
be reported without delay. To the same ear, and in private, must also
be communicated those confessions in which personal feelings—even
against himself—are concerned. To quote a single instance. It once so
happened that a brother of Le Port du Salut took a dislike to
Dom. H. M., the abbot, and came to tell him of it.
“Reverend Father, I am very unhappy.”
“Why so, brother?”
“Reverend Father, I cannot bear the sight of you.”
“Why so?”
“I do not know; but when I see you I feel hatred towards you, and it
destroys my peace of mind.”
“It is a temptation as bad, but not worse, than any other,” replied the
abbot; “bear it patiently; do not heed it; and whenever you feel it
again come at once and tell me, and especially warn me if I say or do
anything that displeases you.”
The common belief that Trappists never speak is altogether erroneous.
They do speak at stated times and under certain conditions, and
they make use besides of most expressive signs, each of which is
symbolical. Thus joining the fingers of both hands at a right angle,
imitating as it does the roof of a house, means _house_; touching the
forehead signifies the _abbot_; the chin, a _stranger_; the heart, a
_brother_; the eyes, to _sleep_, and so on with some hundreds of like
signs invented by Abbé de Rance, the founder of the order. Trappists
converse in this manner with amazing rapidity, and may be heard
laughing heartily at the comicality of a story told entirely by signs.
Strange to say there is no austere gloom about the Trappist. His face
invariably bears the stamp of serenity, often that of half-subdued
gaiety. The life he leads is nevertheless a very hard one. No fire is
allowed in the winter except in the _chauffoir_ or stove-room, and
there the monks are permitted during excessive cold weather to come
in for fifteen minutes only, the man nearest the stove yielding his
place to the new-comer. The _chauffoir_ and the hospital are the only
artificially heated apartments in the building.
The Trappist takes but one meal and a slight refection per day. He is
the strictest of all vegetarians, for he is not allowed to partake of
any other food except milk and cheese. From the 14th of September to
the Saturday in Passion week, he must not even touch milk. Vegetables
cooked in water, with a little salt, together with some cider apples,
pears and almonds, being all that is permitted him, and during that
long period he takes food but once daily. The diet is not precisely
the same in all monasteries, certain modifications being authorised,
according to the produce of the monastic lands. Thus at Le Port du
Salut they brew and drink beer and at other places where wine is made
they use that in very limited quantities, largely diluted with water.
Trappists wait in turn at table upon their brethren. No one, not even
the abbot, is to ask for anything for himself, but each monk is bound
to see that those seated on either side of him get everything they are
entitled to, and to give notice of any omission by giving a slight tap
upon the table and pointing with the finger to the neglected brother.