Curiously enough, I must actually have started for Russia on the same day
that Sigismund Zaluski was summoned by his uncle at St. Petersburg to
return on a matter of urgent business. I learnt afterwards that the
telegram arrived at Muddleton on the afternoon of one of those sunny
September days and found Zaluski as usual at the Morleys. He was very
much annoyed at being called away just then, and before he had received
any reply from Gertrude's uncle as to the engagement. However, after a
little ebullition of anger, he regained his usual philosophic tone, and,
reminding Gertrude that he need not be away from England for more than a
fortnight, he took leave of her and set off in a prompt, manly fashion,
leaving most of his belongings at Ivy Cottage, which was his for another
six weeks, and to which he hoped shortly to return.
After a weary time of imprisonment in my envelope, I at length reached my
destination at St. Petersburg and was read by Dmitry Leonoff. He was a
very busy man, and by the same post received dozens of other letters. He
merely muttered--"That well-known firm! A most unlikely story!"--and
then thrust me into a drawer with other letters which had to be answered.
Very probably I escaped his memory altogether for the next few days:
however, there I was--a startling accusation in black and white; and, as
everybody knows, St. Petersburg is not London.
The Leonoff family lived on the third storey of a large block of
buildings in the Sergeffskaia. About two o'clock in the morning, on the
third day after my arrival, the whole household was roused from sleep by
thundering raps on the door, and the dreaded cry of "Open to the police."
The unlucky master was forced to allow himself, his wife, and his
children to be made prisoners, while every corner of the house was
searched and every book and paper examined.
Leonoff had nothing whatever to do with the Revolutionary movement, but
absolute innocence does not free people from the police inquisition, and
five or six years ago, when the Search mania was at its height, a case is
on record of a poor lady whose house was searched seven times within
twenty-four hours, though there was no evidence whatever that she was
connected with the Nihilists; the whole affair was, in fact, a
misunderstanding, as she was perfectly innocent.
This search in Dmitry Leonoff's house was also a misunderstanding, and in
the dominions of the Czar misunderstandings are of frequent occurrence.
Leonoff knew himself to be innocent, and he felt no fear, though
considerable annoyance, while the search was prosecuted; he could hardly
believe the evidence of his senses when, without a word of explanation,
he was informed that he must take leave of his wife and children, and go
in charge of the gendarmes to the House of Preventive Detention.
Being a sensible man, he kept his temper, remarked courteously that some
mistake must have been made, embraced his weeping wife, and went off
passively, while the pristav carried away a bundle of letters in which I
occupied the most prominent place.
Leonoff remained a prisoner only for a few days; there was not a shred of
evidence against him, and, having suffered terrible anxiety, he was
finally released. But Mr. Crichton-Morley's letter was never restored to
him, it remained in the hands of the authorities, and the night after
Leonoff's arrest the pristav, the procurator, and the gendarmes made
their way into the dwelling of Sigismund Zaluski's uncle, where a similar
search was prosecuted.
Sigismund was asleep and dreaming of Gertrude and of his idyllic summer
in England, when his bedroom door was forced open and he was roughly
roused by the gendarmes.
His first feeling was one of amazement, his second, one of indignation;
however, he was obliged to get up at once and dress, the policeman
rigorously keeping guard over him the whole time for fear he should
destroy any treasonable document.
"How I shall make them laugh in England when I tell them of this
ridiculous affair!" reflected Sigismund, as he was solemnly marched into
the adjoining room, where he found his uncle and cousins, each guarded by
a policeman.
He made some jesting remark, but was promptly reprimanded by his gaoler,
and in wearisome silence the household waited while the most rigorous
search of the premises was made.
Of course nothing was found; but, to the amazement of all, Sigismund was
formally arrested.
"There must be some mistake," he exclaimed, "I have been resident in
England for some time. I have no connection whatever with Russian
politics."
"Oh, we are well aware of your residence in England," said the pristav.
"You left St. Petersburg early in March 1881. We are well aware of
that."
Something in the man's tone made Sigismund's heart stand still. Could he
possibly be suspected of complicity in the plot to assassinate the late
Czar? The idea would have made him laugh had he been in England. In St.
Petersburg, and under these circumstances, it made him tremble.
"There is some terrible mistake," he said. "I have never had the
slightest connection with the revolutionary party."
The pristav shrugged his shoulders, and Sigismund, feeling like one in a
dream, took leave of his relations, and was escorted at once to the House
of Preventive Detention.
Arrived at his destination, he was examined in a brief, unsatisfactory
way; but when he angrily asked for the evidence on which he had been
arrested, he was merely told that information had been received charging
him with being concerned in the assassination of the late Emperor, and of
being an advanced member of the Nihilist party. His vehement denials
were received with scornful incredulity, his departure for England just
after the assassination, and his prolonged absence from Russia, of course
gave colour to the accusation, and he was ordered off to his cell "to
reflect."