Even before we left Riga,—where we were delayed for a couple of days getting our goods through the Customs and on to the train,—I realized somewhat at least of the meaning of Mishka’s enigmatic utterance. Not that we experienced any adventures. I suppose I played my part all right as the American mechanic whose one idea was safeguarding the machinery he was in charge of. Anyhow we got through the necessary interviews with truculent officials without much difficulty. Most of them were unable to understand the sort of German I chose to fire off at them, and had to rely on Mishka’s services as interpreter. The remarks they passed upon me were not exactly complimentary,—low-grade Russian officials are foul-mouthed enough at the best of times, and now, imagining that I did not know what they were saying, they let loose their whole vocabulary,—while I blinked blandly through the glasses I had assumed, and, in reply to a string of filthy abuse, mildly suggested that they should get a hustle on, and pass the things promptly.
I quite appreciated the humor of the situation, and I guess Mishka did so, too, for more than once I saw his deep-set eyes twinkle just for a moment, as he discreetly translated my remarks, and, at the same time, cordially endorsed our tyrants’ freely expressed opinions concerning myself.
“You have done well, ‘Herr Gould,’ yes, very well,” he condescended to say, when we were at last through with the troublesome business. “We are safe enough so far, though for my part I shall be glad to turn my back on this hole, where the trouble may begin at any moment.”
“What trouble?” I asked.
“God knows,” he answered evasively, with a characteristic movement of his broad shoulders. “Can you not see for yourself that there is trouble brewing?”
I had seen as much. The whole moral atmosphere seemed surcharged with electricity; and although as yet there was no actual disturbance, beyond the individual acts of ruffianism that are everyday incidents in all Russian towns, the populace, the sailors, and the soldiery eyed each other with sullen menace, like so many dogs, implacably hostile, but not yet worked up to fighting pitch. A few weeks later the storm burst, and Riga reeked with fire and carnage, as did many another city, town, and village, from Petersburg to Odessa.
I discerned the same ominous state of things—the calm before the storm—at Dunaburg and Wilna, but it was not until we had left the railroad and were well on our two days’ cross-country ride to Zostrov that I became acquainted with two important ingredients in that “seething pot” of Russian affairs,—to use Mishka’s apt simile. Those two ingredients were the peasantry and the Jews.
Hitherto I had imagined, as do most foreigners, whose knowledge of Russia is purely superficial, and does not extend beyond the principal cities, that what is termed the revolutionary movement was a conflict betweenthe governing class,—the bureaucracy which dominates every one from the Tzar himself, an autocrat in name only, downwards,—and the democracy. The latter once was actively represented only by the various Nihilist organizations, but now includes the majority of the urban population, together with many of the nobles who, like Anne’s kindred, have suffered, and still suffer so sorely under the iron rule of cruelty, rapacity, and oppression that has made Russia a byword among civilized nations since the days of Ivan the Terrible. But now I realized that the movement is rendered infinitely complex by the existence of two other conflicting forces,—themoujiksand the Jews. The bureaucracy indiscriminately oppresses and seeks to crush all three sections; the democracy despairs of themoujiksand hates the Jews, though it accepts their financial help; while themoujiksdistrust every one, and also hate the Jews, whom they murder whenever they get the chance.
That’s how the situation appeared to me even then, before the curtain went up on the final act of the tragedy in which I and the girl I loved were involved; and the fact that all these complex elements were present in that tragedy must be my excuse for trying to sum them up in a few words.
I’ve knocked around the world somewhat, and have had many a long and perilous ride through unknown country, but never one that interested me more than this. I’ve said before that Russia is still back in the Middle Ages, but now, with every verst we covered, it seemed to me we were getting farther back still,—to the Dark Ages themselves.
We passed through several villages on the first day,all looking exactly alike. A wide thoroughfare that could not by any stretch of courtesy be called a street or road, since it showed no attempt at paving or making and was ankle-deep in filthy mud, was flanked by irregular rows of low wooden huts, reeking with foulness, and more like the noisome lairs of wild beasts than human habitations. Their inhabitants looked more bestial than human,—huge, shaggy men who peered sullenly at us with swinish eyes, bleared and bloodshot with drunkenness; women with shapeless figures and blunt faces, stolid masks expressive only of dumb hopeless endurance of misery,—the abject misery that is the lot of the Russian peasant woman from birth to death. I was soon to learn that this centuries’ old habit of patient endurance was nearly at an end, and that when once the mask is thrown aside the fury of the women is more terrible, because more deliberate and merciless, than the brutality of the men.
At a little distance, perhaps, would be a small chapel with the priest’s house adjacent, and the somewhat more commodious houses of the tax-gatherer andstarosta—the head man of the village, when he happened to be a farmer. Sometimes he was a kalak keeper, scarce one degree superior to his fellows. One could tell the tax-gatherer’s house a mile away by its prosperous appearance, and the kind of courtyard round it, closed in with a solid breast-high log fence; for in these days the hated official may at any moment find his house besieged by a mob of vodka-maddenedmoujiksand implacable women. If he and his guard of one or two armedstragniki(rural police) are unable to hold out till help comes,—well, there is red murder, another house in flames, a vodka orgy in the frenzied village,and retribution next day or the day after, when the Cossacks arrive, and there is more red murder. Then every man, woman, and child left in the place is slaughtered; and the agglomeration of miserable huts that form the village is burned to the ground.
That, at least, is the explanation Mishka gave me when we rode through a heap of still smouldering and indescribably evil-smelling ruins, where there was no sign of life, beyond a few disreputable-looking pigs and fowls grubbing about in what should have been the cultivated ground. The peasant’s holdings are inconceivably neglected, for themoujikis the laziest creature on God’s earth. In the days of his serfdom he worked under the whip, but as a freeman he has reduced his labor to a minimum, especially since the revolutionary propagandists have told him that he is the true lord of the soil, who should pay no taxes, and should live at ease,—and in sloth.
The sight and stench of that holocaust sickened me, but Mishka rode forward stolidly, unmoved either physically or mentally.
“They bring it on themselves,” he said philosophically. “If they would work more and drink less they could live and pay their taxes well enough and there would be no trouble.”
“But why on earth didn’t they make themselves scarce after they’d settled scores with the tax collector, instead of waiting to be massacred?” I mused.
“God knows,” said Mishka. “Themoujikis a beast that goes mad at the sight and smell of blood, and one that takes no thought for the morrow. Also, where would they run to? They would soon be hunted down. Now they have had their taste of blood, and paid forit in full, that is all. There were no Jews there,” he jerked his head backwards, “otherwise they might have had their taste without payment.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Wait, and perhaps you will see. Have you never heard of apogrom?”
And that was all I could get out of him at the time.
We halted for the night at a small town, with some five or six thousand inhabitants as I judged, of whom three-fourths appeared to be Jews. Compared with the villages we had passed, the place was a flourishing one; and seemed quiet enough, though here again, as at Wilna and Riga, there was something ominous in the air. Nearly all the business was in the hands of the Jews; and their shops and houses, poor enough, according to civilized notions, were far and away more prosperous looking than those of their Russian neighbors; while their synagogue was the most imposing block in the town, which is not saying much, perhaps.
We put up at the best inn in the place, where we found fresh horses waiting us, as we had done at a village half-way on our day’s march, under the care of a couple of men in uniform. There was a telegraph wire to Zostrov, and Mishka had sent word of our coming. I learned later that, when the Grand Duke was in residence, a constant line of communication was maintained with relays of horses for carriages or riders between the Castle and the railroad.
I had wondered, when Mishka told me the arrangements for the journey, why on earth motor cars weren’t used over this last stage, but when I found what the roads were like, when there were any roads at all, Iguessed it was wise to rely on horses, and on the light and strong Russian travelling carriages that go gayly over the roughest track, rather than on the best built motor procurable.
The landlord of the inn was a Jew, of course,—a lean old man with greasy ear locks and a long beard, above which his hooked nose looked like the beak of a dejected eagle. He welcomed us with cringing effusion, and gave us of his best. I’d have thought the place filthy, if I hadn’t seen and smelt those Russian villages; but it was well appointed in a way. The dinner-table, set in the one bedroom which we were to share, so that we might dine privately and in state, was spread with a cloth, which, though grimy to a degree, was of fine damask, and displayed forks, spoons, and candlesticks of solid silver. The frowsy sheets and coverlids on the three beds were of linen and silk. Evidently Moses Barzinsky was a wealthy man; and his wife,—a fat dame, with beady eyes and a preposterous black wig,—served us up as good a meal as I’ve ever tasted. I complimented her on it when she brought in the samovar; for here, in the wilds, it didn’t seem to matter about keeping up my pretended ignorance of the language. She was flattered, and assumed quite a motherly air towards me; she didn’t cringe like her husband. As I sat there, sipping my tea, and chatting with her, I little guessed what would befall the comfortable, homely, good-tempered old lady a very few days hence. Mishka listened in disapproving silence to our interchange of badinage, and, when our hostess retreated, he entered on a grumbling protest.
“You are very indiscreet,” he grunted. “Why do you want to chatter with a thing like that?”
He jerked his pipe towards the doorway; Mishka despised the cigarette which, to every other Russian I have met, seems as necessary to life as the air he breathes; and when he hadn’t a cigar fell back on a distinctly malodorous briar.
“Why in thunder shouldn’t I talk to her?” I demanded. “She’s the only creature I’ve heard laugh since I got back into Holy Russia; it cheers one up a bit, even to look at her!”
“You are a fool,” was his complimentary retort. “And she is another—like all women—or she would know these are no days for laughter. But, I tell you once more, you cannot be too cautious. You must remember that you know no Russian. You are only an American who has come to help the prince while away his time of exile by trying to turn the Zostrovmoujiksinto good farmers. That, in itself, is a form of madness, of course, but doubtless they think it may keep him out of more dangerous mischief.”
“Who are ‘they’? I wish you’d be a bit more explicit,” I remonstrated. He did make me angry sometimes.
“That is not my business,” he answered stolidly. “My business is to obey orders, and one of those is to bring you safely to Zostrov.”
I could not see how my innocent conversation with the fat Jewish housewife could endanger the safety of either of us; but I had already learned that it was quite useless to argue with Mishka; so, adopting Brer Fox’s tactics, “I lay low and said nuffin.” We smoked in silence for some minutes, while I mused over the strangeness of my position. I had determined to return to Russia in search of Anne; had hailedMishka’s intervention, seized on the opportunity provided by the Grand Duke’s invitation, as if they were God-sent. And yet here I was, seemingly even farther from news of her than I had been in England, playing my part as a helpless pawn in a game that I did not understand in the least.
The landlord entered presently, and obsequiously beckoned Mishka to the far end of the room, where they held a whispered conversation, which I tried not to listen to, though I could not help overhearing frequent references to thestarosta(mayor), an important functionary in a town of this size, and the commandant of the garrison. From my post of observation by the window I had already noticed a great number of soldiers about; though whether there was anything unusual in the presence of such a strong military force I, of course, did not know.
Mishka crossed over to me.
“I am going out for a time. You will remain here?”
“I’ll see. Perhaps I’ll go for a stroll later,” I replied. It had occurred to me that he regarded me almost as a prisoner, and I wanted to make sure on that point.
“Please yourself,” he returned in his sullen manner. “But if you go, remember my warning, and observe caution. If there should be any disturbance in the streets, keep out of it; or, if you should be within here, close the shutters and put the lights out.”
“All right. I guess I’m fairly well able to take care of myself,” I said imperturbably; though I thought he might have given me credit for the possession of average common sense, anyhow!
I went out soon after he did, more as a kind of assertionof my independence than because I was inclined for a walk. It was some time since I’d been so many hours in the saddle as I had that day, and I was dead tired.
It was a glorious autumn evening, clear and still, with the glow of the sunset still lingering in the western sky, though the moon was rising, and putting to shame the squalid lights of the streets and shops. The sidewalks—a trifle cleaner and more level than the rutted roadway between them—were thronged with passers; many of them were soldiers swaggering in their disreputably slovenly uniforms, and leering at every heavy-visaged Russian woman they met. I did not see one woman abroad that evening who looked like a Jewess; though there were Jews in plenty, slinking along unobtrusively, and eying the Russian soldiers and townsmen askance, with glances compounded of fear and hatred.
I attracted a good deal of attention; a foreigner was evidently an unusual object in that town. But I was not really molested; and, acting on Mishka’s advice, I affected ignorance of the many and free remarks passed on my personal appearance.
I walked on, almost to the outskirts of the little town, and turned to retrace my steps, when I was waylaid by a pedler, who had passed me a minute or so before. He looked just like scores of others I had seen within the last few minutes, except that he carried a small but heavy pack, and walked heavily, leaning on his thick staff like a man wearied with a long day’s tramp.
Now I found he had halted, and as I came abreast with him, he held out one skinny hand with an arresting gesture. For a moment I thought he was merely begging, but his first words dispelled that notion.
“Is it wise of the English excellency to walk abroad alone,—here?” he asked earnestly, in a voice and patois that sounded queerly familiar. I stopped short and stared at him, and then, in a flash, I knew him, though as yet he had not recognized me, save as a foreigner.
He was the old Jew who had come to my flat on the night of Cassavetti’s murder!
Then, in a flash, I knew him. Page 228Then, in a flash, I knew him.Page228
“
It is less safe than the streets of London, perhaps,” I said quietly, in Russian. “But what of that? And how long is it since you left there, my friend?”
He peered at me suspiciously, and spread his free hand with the quaint, graceful gesture he had used before. I’d have known the man anywhere by that alone; though in some ways he looked different now, less frail and emaciated than he had been, with a wiry vigor about him that made him seem younger than I had thought him.
“The excellency mistakes!” he said. “How should such an one as I get to London?”
“That is for you to say. I know only that you are the man who wanted to see Vladimir Selinski. And now you’ve got to come and see me, at once, at the inn kept by Moses Barzinsky.”
“Speak lower, Excellency,” he stammered, glancing nervously around. “In God’s name, go back to your inn. You are in danger, as all strangers are here; yea, and all others! That is why I warned you. But you mistake. I am not the man you think, so why should I come to you? Permit me to go on my way.”
He made as if to move on, and I couldn’t detain him forcibly and insist on his accompanying me, for that would have drawn attention to us. Fortunately therewere few people hereabouts, but those few were already looking askance at us.
An inspiration came to me. I thought of the red symbol that had dangled from the key of Cassavetti’s flat that night, and of the signal and password Mishka had taught me in Petersburg.
In two strides I caught up with him, touched his shoulder with the five rapid little taps, thumb and fingers in succession, and said in his ear: “You will come to Barzinsky’s within the hour,—‘For Freedom.’ You understand?”
I guessed that would fetch him, for I felt him thrill—it was scarcely a start—under the touch.
“I will come, Excellency; I will not fail,” he answered promptly. “But go you now,—not hurriedly.”
I hadn’t the least intention of hurrying, but passed on without further parley, and reached the inn unhindered. Mishka had not yet returned, and I told the landlord a pedler was coming to see me, and he was to be brought up to my room at once.
As I closed the shutters I wondered if he would come, or if he’d give me the slip as he did in Westminster, but within half an hour Barzinsky brought him up. The landlord looked quite scared, his ear-locks were quivering with his agitation.
“Yossof is here, Excellency,” he announced, so he evidently knew my man.
I nodded and motioned him out of the room, for he hovered around as if he wanted to stay.
Yossof stood at the end of the room, in an attitude of humility, his gray head bowed, his dingy fur cap held in his skinny fingers; but his piercing dark eyes were fixed earnestly on my face, and, when Barzinsky wasgone and the door was shut, he came forward and made his obeisance.
“I know the Excellency now, although the beard has changed him,” he said quietly. His speech was much more intelligible than it had been that time in Westminster. “I remember his goodness to me, a stranger in the land. May the God of our fathers bless him! But I knew not then that he also was one of us. Why have you not the new password, Excellency?”
“I have but now come hither from England at the peril of my life, and as yet I have met none whom I knew as one of us,” I answered evasively. “What is this new word? It is necessary that I should learn it,” I added, as he hesitated.
“I will tell you its meaning only,” he answered, watching me closely. “It means ‘in life and in death,’—but those are not the words.”
“Then I know them:à la vie et à la mort; is it not so?” I asked, remembering the moment he spoke the names by which Anne was known to others besides members of the League; for the police officer who had superintended the searching of my rooms at Petersburg, and later, young Mirakoff, had both mentioned one of them.
I had hit on the right words first time, and Yossof, evidently relieved, nodded, and repeated them after me, giving a queer inflection to the French.
“And where is she,—the gracious lady herself?” I asked. It was with an effort that I forced myself to speak quietly; for my heart was thumping against my ribs, and my throat felt dry as bone dust. What could—or would—this weird creature tell me of Anne’s present movements; and could—or would—he tell methe secret of Cassavetti’s murder? Through all these weeks I had clung to the hope, the belief, that he himself struck the blow, and now, as he stood before me, he appeared more capable, physically, of such a deed than he had done then. But yet I could scarcely believe it as I looked at him.
He met my question with another, as Mishka so often did.
“How is it you do not know?”
“I have told you I have but now come to Russia.”
He spread his hands with a deprecatory gesture as if to soften his reply, which, however, was spoken decisively enough.
“Then I cannot tell you. Remember, Excellency, though you seem to be one of us, I have little knowledge of you. In any matter touching myself I would trust you; but in this I dare not.”
He was right in a way. Such knowledge as I had of the accursed League was gained by trickery; and to question him further would arouse his suspicion of that fact, and I should then learn nothing at all.
“Listen,” I said slowly and emphatically. “You may trust me to the death in all matters that concern her whom you call your gracious lady. I was beside her, with her father and one other, when the Five condemned her,—would have murdered her if we had not defended her. She escaped, God be thanked, but that I only learned of late. I was taken, thrown into prison, taken thence back to England, to prison again, accused of the murder of Vladimir Selinski,—of which I shall have somewhat more to say to you soon! When I was freed, for I am innocent of that crime, as you well know, I set out to seek her, to aid her if that might be;and, if she was beyond my aid, at least to avenge her. I was about to start alone when I heard that she was no longer threatened by the League; that she was, indeed, once more at the head of it; but I failed to learn where I might find her. Therefore I go to join one who is her good friend, in the hope that I may through him be yet able to serve her. For the League I care nothing,—all my care is for her. And therefore, as I have said, you may trust me.”
He watched me fixedly as I spoke, but his gaunt face remained expressionless; though his next words showed that he had understood me well enough.
“I can tell you nothing, Excellency. You say you care for her and not for the League. That is impossible, for she is its life; her life is bound up in it; she would wish your service for it,—never for herself! This I will do. If she does not hear otherwise that you are at Zostrov, as you will be to-morrow—though it is unlikely that she will not have heard already—I will see that she has word. That is all I can do.”
“That must serve. You will not even say if she is near at hand?”
“Who knows? She comes and goes. One day she is at Warsaw; the next at Wilna; now at Grodno; again even here. Yes, she has been here no longer than a week since, though she is not here now.”
So I had missed her by one week!
“I do not know where she is to-day, nor where she will be to-morrow; in this I verily speak the truth, Excellency,” he continued. “Though I shall perchance see her, when my present business is done. Be patient. You will doubtless have news of her at Zostrov.”
“How do you know I am going there?”
“Does not all the countryside know that a foreigner rides with Mishka Pavloff? God be with you, Excellency.”
He made one of his quaint genuflexions and backed rapidly to the door.
“Here, stop!” I commanded, striding after him. “There is more,—much more to say. Why did you not keep your promise and return to me in London? What do you know of Selinski’s murder? Speak, man; you have nothing to fear from me!”
I had clutched his shoulder, and he made no attempt to free himself, but drooped passively under my hand. But his quiet reply was inflexible.
“Of all that I can tell you nothing, Excellency. It is best forgotten.”
There was a heavy footstep on the stair and next moment the door was tried, and Mishka’s voice exclaimed: “It is I. Open to me, Herr Gould.”
There was no help for it, so I drew back the bolt. The door had no lock,—only bolts within and without.
As Mishka entered, the Jew bowed low to him, and slipped through the doorway. Mishka glanced sharply at me, muttered something about returning soon, and followed Yossof, closing the door behind him and shooting the outer bolt.
“
Will you never learn wisdom?” demanded Mishka, when, after a few minutes, he returned. “Why could you not rest here in safety?”
“Because I wanted to walk some of my stiffness off,” I replied coolly. “I had quite a good time, and met an old acquaintance.”
“Who gave you much interesting news?” he asked, with a sardonic inflection of his deep voice that made me guess Yossof had told him what passed at our interview.
“Why, no; I can’t say that he did that,” I confessed. Already I realized that I had learned absolutely nothing from the Jew save the new password, and the fact that he was, or soon would be, in direct communication with Anne.
Mishka gave an approving grunt.
“There are some who might learn discretion from Yossof,” he remarked sententiously.
“Just so. But who is he, anyhow? He might be ‘the wandering Jew’ himself, from the mysterious way he seems to get around the world.”
“Who and what he is? That I cannot tell you, for I do not know, or seek to know, since it is no business of mine. I go to bed; for we must start betimes in the morning.”
Not another word did he speak, beyond a surly “good night;” but, though I followed his example andgot into bed, with my revolver laid handily on the bolster as he had placed his, hours passed before sleep came to me. I lay listening to Mishka’s snores,—he was a noisy sleeper,—and thinking of Anne; thinking of that one blissful month in London when I saw her nearly every day.
How vividly I remembered our first meeting, less than five months back, though the events of a lifetime seemed to have occurred since then. It was the evening of my return from South Africa; and I went, of course, to dine at Chelsea, feeling only a mild curiosity to see this old school-fellow of Mary’s, whose praises she sang so enthusiastically.
“She was always the prettiest and smartest girl in the school, but now she’s just the loveliest creature you ever saw,” Mary had declared; and though I wasn’t rude enough to say so, I guessed I was not likely to endorse that verdict.
But when I saw Anne my scepticism vanished. I think I loved her from that first moment, when she came sweeping into Mary’s drawing-room in a gown of some gauzy brown stuff, almost the color of her glorious hair, with a bunch of white lilies at her bosom. She greeted me with a frank friendliness that was much more like an American than an English girl; indeed, even then, I never thought of her as English. She was, as her father had told his friend Treherne he meant her to be, “cosmopolitan to her finger-tips.” She even spoke English with a curious precision and deliberation, as one speaks a language one knows perfectly, but does not use familiarly. She once confided to me that she always “thought” either in French or German, preferably French.
Strange that neither Mary nor I ever imagined there was any mystery in her life; ever guessed how much lay behind her frank allusions to her father, and the nomadic existence they had led. I wondered, for the thousandth time, how it was that Jim first suspected her of concealing something. How angry I was at him when he hinted his suspicions; and yet he had hit on the exact truth! I knew now that her visit to Mary was not what it had seemed,—but that she had seized upon the opportunity presented by the invitation to snatch a brief interval of peace, and comparative safety. If she had happened to encounter Cassavetti earlier, doubtless her visit would have terminated then. Yes, that must be the explanation; and how splendidly she had played her dangerous part!
I hated to think of all the duplicity that part entailed; I would not think of it. The part was thrust on her, from her birth, by her upbringing, and if she played it gallantly, fearlessly, resourcefully, the more honor to her. But it was a bitter thought that Fortune should have thrust all this upon her!
As I lay there in that frowzy room, staring at a shaft of moonlight that came through a chink in the shutters, making a bar of light in the darkness like a great, unsheathed sword, her face was ever before my mind’s eyes, vividly as if she were indeed present,—the lovely mobile face, “growing and fading and growing before me without a sound,” now sparkling with mirth, now haughty as that of a petulant young queen towards a disfavored courtier. Mary used to call her “dear Lady Disdain” when she was in that mood. Again, it appeared pale and set as I had seen it last, the wide brilliant eyes flashing indignant defiance at her accusers;but more often with the strange, softened, wistful expression it had worn when we stood together under the portico of the Cecil on that fatal night; and when she waved me good-bye at Charing Cross.
In those moments one phase of her complex nature had been uppermost; and in those moments she loved me,—me, Maurice Wynn, not Loris Solovieff, or any other!
I would not have relinquished that belief to save my soul; although I knew well that the mood was necessarily a transient one. She had devoted her beauty, her talents, her splendid courage, her very life, to a hopeless cause. She was as a queen, whose realm is beset with dangers and difficulties, and who therefore can spare little or no thought for aught save affairs of state; and I was as the page who loved her, and whom she might have loved in return if she had been but a simple gentlewoman. Once more I told myself that I would be content if I could only play the page’s part, and serve her in life and death, “à la vie et à la mort” as the new password ran; but how was I even to begin doing that?
An unanswerable question! I must just go on blindly, as Fate led me; and Fate at this moment was prosaically represented by Mishka. Great Scott, how he snored!
We were astir early; I seemed to have just fallen asleep when Mishka roused me and announced that breakfast was waiting, and the horses ready.
We rode swiftly, and for the most part in silence, as my companion was even less communicative than usual. I noticed, as we drew near to Zostrov, a change for the better in the aspect of the country and the people. The last twenty versts was over an excellentroad, while the streets of the village where we found our change of horses waiting, and of two others beyond, were comparatively clean and well-kept, with sidewalks laid with wooden blocks. The huts were more weather-tight and comfortable,—outside at any rate. The land was better cultivated, too, and themoujiks, though most of them scowled evilly at us, looked better fed and better clothed than any we had seen before. They all wore high boots,—a sure sign of prosperity. Yesterday boots were the exception, and most of the people, both men and women, were shod with a kind of moccasin made of plaited grass, and had their limbs swathed in ragged strips of cloth kept clumsily in place with grass-string.
“It is his doing,” Mishka condescended to explain. “His and my father’s. He gives the word and the money, and my father and those under him do the rest. They try to teach these lazy swine to work for their own sakes,—to make the best of their land; it is to further that end that all the new gear is coming. They will have the use of it—these pigs—for nothing. They will not even give thanks; rather will they turn and bite the hand that helps them; that tries to raise them out of the mud in which they wallow!”
He spat vigorously, as a kind of corollary to his remarks.
As he spoke we were skirting a little pine wood just beyond the village, and a few yards further the road wound clear of the trees and out across an open plain, in the centre of which rose a huge, square building of gray stone, crowned with a cupola that gleamed red in the rays of the setting sun.
“The castle!” Mishka grunted.
“It looks more like a prison!” I exclaimed involuntarily. It was a grim, sinister-looking pile, even with the sun upon it.
Mishka did not answer immediately. There was a clatter and jingle behind us, and out of the wood rode a company of horsemen, all in uniform. Two rode ahead of the rest, one of them the Grand Duke himself.
Mishka reined up at the roadside, and sat at the salute, and I followed his example.
The Duke did not even glance in our direction as he passed, though he acknowledged our salute in soldierly fashion.
We wheeled our horses and followed well in the rear of the imposing escort,—a whole troop of cavalry.
“You are right,” Mishka said, in a husky growl, that with him represented a whisper. “It is a prison, and yonder goes the prisoner. You will do well to remember that in your dealings with him, Herr Gould.”
The castle stood within a great quadrangle, which we entered through a massive stone gateway guarded by two sentries. Two more were stationed at the top of a steep and wide marble stairway that led up to the entrance hall, and the whole place seemed swarming with soldiers, and servants in handsome liveries. A couple of grooms came to hold our horses, and a third took possession of my valise, containing chiefly a dress suit and some shirts. My other belongings were coming on in the wagon.
Mishka’s manner underwent a decided change from the moment we entered the castle precincts. The bluff and often grumpy air of familiarity was gone, and in its place was the surly deference with which he had treated me at first. As we neared the end of our journey, he had once more warned me to be on my guard, and remember that I must appear as an utter stranger to the Duke and all about him, except Mishka himself.
“You have never been in Russia before,” he repeated. “And you speak only a few words of Russian, which I have taught you on our way. That will matter little, since most here speak French and German.”
He parted from me with a deferential salute, after handing me over to the care of a gorgeously attired functionary, whom I found to be a kind of majordomo or house steward. This imposing person welcomed mevery courteously; and I gathered that I was supposed to be a new addition to the Grand Duke’s suite. I had rather wondered on what footing I should be received here, especially since Mishka’s remark, a while back, about the “prisoner.” But some one—Loris himself or Mishka, or both of them—had planned things perfectly, and I am sure that no one beyond ourselves and the elder Pavloff, who was also in the secret, had the slightest suspicion that I was other than I appeared to be.
My new acquaintance himself conducted me to the rooms prepared for me,—a spacious bedroom and sitting-room, with plain, massive furniture, including a big bookcase that occupied the whole of an alcove between the great Russian stove and the outer wall. Facing this was a door leading to a smaller dressing and bath room, where the lackey who had carried up my valise was in waiting.
“This Nicolai will be in attendance on you; he speaks German,” my courteous guide informed me in French. “He will bring you all you need; you have only to give him orders. You will dine at the officers’ mess, and after dinner his Highness will give you audience.”
“Does Monsieur Pavloff—the land steward—live in the castle?” I asked, thinking it wise to emphasize my assumed rôle. “I understand that I’ll have to work with him.”
“No; his house is some two versts distant. But he is often in attendance here, naturally. Perhaps you will see him to-night; if not, without doubt, you will meet him to-morrow. Nicolai awaits your orders, and your keys.”
He bowed ceremoniously, and took himself off.
That Nicolai was a smart fellow. He already had the bath prepared,—I must have looked as if I wanted one,—and when I gave him the key of my bag, he laid out my clothes with the quick deftness of a well-trained valet.
I told him I shouldn’t want him any more at present, but when I had bathed and changed, I found him still hovering around in the next room. He had set a tea-table, on which the silver samovar was hissing invitingly. He wanted to stay and wait on me, but I wouldn’t have that. Smart and attentive as he was, he got on my nerves, and I felt I’d rather be alone. So I dismissed him, and, in obedience to some instinct I didn’t try to analyze, crossed the room softly, and locked the door through which he had passed.
I had scarcely seated myself, and poured out a glass of delicious Russian tea,—which is as wine to water compared with the crude beverage, diluted with cream, which Americans and western Europeans call tea,—when I heard a queer little sound behind me. I glanced back, and saw that one section of the big bookcase had moved forward slightly. With my right hand gripping the revolver that I had transferred from my travelling suit to the hip pocket of my evening clothes, I crossed swiftly to the alcove, just as some three feet of the shelves swung bodily inwards, revealing a doorway behind, in which stood none other than Mishka.
“The fool has gone; but is the outer door locked?” he asked in a cautious undertone.
“Yes,” I answered, noticing as I spoke that he stood at the top of a narrow spiral staircase.
“That is well. Approach, Highness; all is safe,”he whispered down the darkness behind him, and flattened himself against the narrow wall space, as a second figure came into sight,—the Grand Duke Loris himself, who greeted me with outstretched hand.
“I do not care for this sort of thing,—this elaborate secrecy, Mr. Wynn,” he said softly in English. “But unfortunately it is necessary. Let us go through to your dressing-room. There it is less likely that we can be overheard.”
I followed him in silence. He sat himself down on the wide marble edge of the bath, and looked at me, as I stood before him, as though his brilliant blue eyes would read my very soul.
“So you have come; as I thought you would. And you are very welcome. But why have you come?”
“Because I hope to serve your Highness, and—she whom we both love,” I answered promptly.
“Yes, I was sure of that, although we have met only twice or thrice. I am seldom mistaken in a man whom I have once looked in the eyes; and I know I can trust you, as I dare trust few others,—none within these walls save the good Mishka. He has told you that I am virtually a prisoner here?”
I bowed assent.
“I am closely guarded, my every word, my every gesture noted; though when the time is ripe, or when she sends word that she needs me, I shall slip away! There is a great game, a stern one, preparing; and there will be a part for us both to play. I will give you the outline to-night, when I shall come to you again. That staircase yonder leads down to my apartments. I had it made years ago by foreign workmen, andnone save myself and the Pavloffs—and you now—know of its existence, so far. In public we must be strangers; after the formal audience I give you to-night I shall probably ignore you altogether. But as Gould, the American farming expert, you will be able to come and go, riding the estates with Pavloff—or without him—and yet rouse no suspicion. To-night I shall return as I said; and nowau revoir.”
He left just in time, for a minute or two after I had unlocked the door, Nicolai reappeared, and conducted me to an ante-room where I found quite a throng of officers, one of whom introduced himself as Colonel Grodwitz, and presented me to several of the others. They all treated me with the easy courtesy which well-bred Russians assume—and discard—with such facility; but then, and later, I had to be constantly on guard against innumerable questions, which, though asked in what appeared to be a perfectly frank and spontaneous manner, were, I was convinced, sprung on me for the purpose of ascertaining how much I knew of Russia and its complicated affairs.
But I was quite ready for them, and if they had any suspicions I hope they abandoned them for the present.
After dinner a resplendent footman brought a message to Grodwitz, who thereupon told me that he was to conduct me to his Highness, who would receive me now.
“Say, what shall I have to do?” I asked confidentially as we passed along a magnificent corridor. “I’ve been to a levee held by the King of England, but I don’t know anything of Russian Court etiquette.”
He laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
“There is no need for you to observe etiquette,mon ami. Are you not an American and a Republican? Therefore none will blame you if you are unceremonious,—least of all our puissant Grand Duke! Have you not heard that he himself is a kind of ‘Jacques bonhomme’?”
“That means just a peasant, doesn’t it?” I asked obtusely. “No, I hadn’t heard that.”
He laughed again.
“Did the good Mishka tell you nothing?”
“Why, no; he’s the surliest and most silent fellow I’ve ever travelled with.”
“He is discreet, that Mishka,” said Grodwitz, and drew himself up stiffly as the footman, who had preceded us, threw open a door, and ushered us into the Duke’s presence.
He was standing before a great open fireplace in which a log fire crackled cheerily, and beside him was the little fat officer I had seen him with before; while there were several others present, all ceremoniously standing, and looking more or less bored.
Our interview was brief and formal; but I noted that the fat officer and Grodwitz were keenly observant of all that passed.
“Well, that’s all right,” I said with a sigh of relief, when Grodwitz and I were back in the corridor again. “But there doesn’t seem to be much of the peasant about him!”
“I was but jesting,mon ami,” Grodwitz assured me. “But now your ordeal is over. You will take a hand at bridge,hein?”
That hand at bridge lasted till long past midnight, and I only got away at last on the plea that I was dead tired after my two days’ ride.
“Tired or not, you play a good hand,mon ami!” Grodwitz declared. We had been partners, and had won all before us.
“They shall have their revenge in good time,” I said, stifling a yawn. “Bonsoir, messieurs.”
I sent Nicolai to bed, and wrapping myself in a dressing gown which I found laid out for me, sat down in a deep divan chair to await the Duke, and fell fast asleep. I woke with a start, as the great clock over the castle gateway boomed four, and saw the Duke sitting quietly smoking in a chair opposite.
He cut short my stammered apologies in the frank unceremonious manner he always used when we were alone together, and plunged at once into the matter that was uppermost in his mind, as in mine.
Now at last I learned something of the working of that League with which I had become so mysteriously entangled, and of his and Anne’s connection with it.
“For years its policy was sheerly destructive,” he told me. “Its aims were as vague as its organization was admirable. At least nine-tenths of the so-called Nihilist murders and outrages, in Russia as elsewhere,have been planned and carried out by its executive and members. To ‘remove’ all who came under their ban, including any among their own ranks who were suspected of treachery, or even of delaying in carrying out their orders, was practically its one principle. But the time for this insensate indiscriminating violence is passing,—has passed. There must be a policy that is constructive as well as destructive. The younger generation sees that more clearly every day. She—Anna—was one of the first to see and urge it; hence she fell under suspicion, especially when she refused to carry out certain orders.”
He broke off for a moment, as if in slight embarrassment.
“I think I understand,” I said. “She was ordered to ‘remove’ you, sir, and she refused?”
“That is so; at least she protested, even then, knowing that I was condemned merely as a member of the Romanoff family. Later, when we met, and learned to know each other, she found that I was no enemy, but a stanch friend to these poor peoples of Russia, striving so blindly, so desperately, to fling off the yoke that crushes them! Then it was that, with the noble courage that distinguishes her above all women I have ever met, she refused to carry out the orders given her; more than that, she has twice or thrice saved my life from other attempts on it. I have long been a member of the League, though, save herself, none other connected with it suspected the identity of a certain droshky driver, who did good service at one time and another.”
His blue eyes twinkled merrily for an instant. In his way his character was as complex as that of Anne herself,—cool, clever, courageous to a degree, butleavened with a keen sense of humor, that made him thoroughly enjoy playing the rôle of “Ivan,” even though it had brought him to his present position as a state prisoner.
“That reminds me,” I said. “How was it you got caught that time, when she and her father escaped?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“I had to choose, either to fly with them, and thereby endanger us all still further, or allow myself to be taken. That last seemed best, and I think—I am sure—I was right.”
“Did you know the soldiers were coming?”
“No. That, by the way, was Selinski’s doing,—Cassavetti, as you call him.”
“Cassavetti!” I exclaimed. “Why, he was dead weeks before!”
“True, but the raid was in consequence of information he had supplied earlier. He was a double-dyed traitor. The papers she—the papers that were found in his rooms in London proved that amply. He had sold information to the Government, and had planned that the Countess Anna should be captured with the others, after he had induced her to return, by any means in his power.”
“But—but—he couldn’t have brought her back!” I exclaimed. “For she only left London the day after he was murdered, and she was at Ostend with you next day.”
“Who told you that?” he asked sharply.
“An Englishman I saw by chance in Berlin, who had met her in London, and who knew you by sight.”
He sat silent, in frowning thought, for a minute or more, and then said slowly:
“Selinski had arranged everything beforehand, and his assistants carried out his instructions, though he, himself, was dead. But all that belongs to the past; we have to deal with the present and the future! You know already that one section of the League at least is, as it were, reconstructed. And that section has two definite aims: to aid the cause of freedom, but also to minimize the evils that must ensue in the struggle for freedom. We cannot hope to accomplish much,—there are so few of us,—and we know that we shall perish, perhaps before we have accomplished anything beyond paving the way for those that come after! There is a terrible time in store for Russia, my friend! The masses are ripe for revolt; even the bureaucracy know that now, and they try to gain time by raising side issues. Therefore, here in the country districts, they stir up themoujiks,—now against the tax-gatherers, more often against the Jews. Murder and rapine follows; then the troops are sent, who punish indiscriminately, in order to strike terror into the people. They create a desolation and call it a peace; you have seen an instance yourself on your way hither?”
I nodded, remembering that devastated village we had passed.
“The new League is striving to preserve peace and to save the innocent. Here in the country its members are pledged first to endeavor to improve the condition of the peasants, to teach them to be peaceable, self-supporting, and self-respecting,—a hard, well-nigh hopeless task, since in that, as in all other attempts at reform, one has to work in defiance of the Government.”
“Well, from what I’ve heard—and seen—duringthe last part of my journey, you’ve managed to do a good deal in that way, sir,” I suggested respectfully.
“It is little enough. I have worked under sufferance, and, as it were, with both hands tied,” he said sadly. “If I had been any other, I should have been sent to Siberia long ago. It is the mere accident of birth that has saved me so far. But as to the League. The present plan of campaign is, roughly speaking, to prevent riots and bloodshed. If news is gained of an intended raid on an isolated country-house, or, what is more frequent, on a Jews’ quarter, a warning is sent to those threatened, and if possible a defence arranged. Even from here I have been able to assist a little in such matters.” Again his eyes gleamed with that swift flash of mirth, though he continued his grave speech. “More than one catastrophe has been averted already, but the distances are so great; often one hears only of the affairs after they are over.
“That will be part of your work. To bring news as you gather it,—the Pavloffs will help you there,—and to accompany me when I choose to elude my jailers for a few hours; perhaps to go in my stead, if it should be impossible for me to get away. I know what you can do when it comes to a fight! Well, this is the ‘sport’ I offered you! Do you care to go in for it? If not—”
“You know I care!” I exclaimed, half indignantly; and on that we gripped hands.
We talked for a good while longer. He gave me much information that I need not set down here, and we spoke often of Anne. He seemed much interested in my cousin, Mary Cayley,—naturally, as she was Anne’s friend and hostess,—and seemed somehow relievedwhen I said Mary was still in complete ignorance of all that had happened and was happening.
“I should like to meet your charming cousin; but that will never be, I fear; though perhaps—who knows?—she and her friend may yet be reunited,” he said, rousing himself with a sigh and a shiver.
I slept late when I did get to bed, and was awakened at last by Nicolai, who had breakfast ready, and informed me that Mishka was in readiness to escort me to his father’s house.
For a time life went smoothly enough. I was out and about all day with the Pavloffs, superintending the trial of the new farming machines and the distribution of the implements. During the first day or two Grodwitz or one of the other officers always accompanied me, ostensibly as an act of courtesy towards a stranger,—really, as I well understood, to watch me; and therefore I was fully on my guard. They relaxed their vigilance all the sooner, I think, because, in my pretended ignorance of Russian, I blandly endeavored to press them into service as interpreters, which they found pretty extensively boring.
They treated me quiteen bon camarade; though even at dinner, and when we were playing cards at night, one or other of them was continually trying to “draw” me, and I had to be constantly on the alert. I had no further public audience with the Duke, though he came to my room several times by the secret stair.
But one evening, as Mishka and I rode towards the castle, a pebble shot from a clump of bushes near at hand, and struck his boot. With a grunt he reined up, and, without glancing in the direction whence the missile came, dismounted and pretended to examineone of the horse’s feet. But I saw a fur cap, and then a face peering from among the bushes for an instant, and recognized Yossof the Jew. Another missile fell at Mishka’s feet,—a small packet in a dark wrapping. He picked it up, thrust it in his pocket, swung into the saddle, and we were off on the instant.
All he condescended to say was:
“See that you are alone in the hour before dinner. There may be work to do.”
I took the hint, and as usual dispensed with Nicolai’s proffered services. Within half an hour the bookcase swung back and the Duke entered quickly; his face was sternly exultant, his blue eyes sparkling.
“Dine well, my friend, but retire early; make what excuse you like, but be here by ten at the latest. You will manage that well, if you do not attend the reception,” he exclaimed. “We ride from Zostrov to-night; perhaps forever! The great game has begun at last,—the game of life and death!”
At dinner I heard that the Grand Duke was indisposed, and was dining alone, instead, as usual, with the Count Stravensky, Commandant of the Castle—by courtesy the chief member of his suite, but in reality his custodian—and two or three other officers of high birth, who, with their wives, formed as it were, the inner circle of this small Court in the wilderness. There were a good many ladies in residence,—the great castle was like a world in little,—but I scarcely saw any of them, as I preferred to keep to the safe seclusion of the officers’ mess, when I was not in my own room; and there was, of course, no lack of bachelors much more attractive than myself. I gathered from Grodwitz and others that they managed to enliven their exile with plenty of flirtations,—and squabbles.
On this evening the Countess Stravensky was holding a reception in her apartments, with dancing and music; and all my usual after-dinner companions were attending it.
“Better come,mon ami,” urged Grodwitz. “You are not invited? Nonsense; I tell you it is an informal affair, and it is quite time you were presented to the Countess.”
“I’d feel like a fish out of water,” I protested. “I’m not used to smart society.”
“Smart!Ma foi, there is not much smartness about us in this deadly hole! But have it your own way. You are as austere as our Grand Duke himself; though you have not his excuse!” he retorted, laughing.
“What excuse?”
“You have not heard?” he asked quizzically; and rattled out a version of the gossip that was rife concerning Anne and Loris.
“The charitable declare that there is a morganatic marriage,” he asserted. “They are probably right; for, I give you my word, he is a sentimental fool, our good Loris.Voilà, a bit of treason for the ears of your friend Mishka,hein?”
“I don’t quite understand you, Colonel Grodwitz,” I said quietly, looking at him very straight. “If you think I’m in the habit of gossiping with Mishka Pavloff or any other servant here, you’re very much mistaken.”
“A thousand pardons, my dear fellow; I was merely joking,” he assured me; but I guessed he had made one more attempt to “draw” me,—the last.
As I went up to my room I heard the haunting strains of a Hungarian dance from the Stravensky suite, situated on the first floor in the left wing leading from the great hall, while the Duke’s apartments were in the right wing.
Mishka entered immediately after I had locked the door.
“Get your money and anything else you value and can carry on you,” he grunted. “You will not return here. And get into this.”
“This” was the uniform of a cavalry officer; and I must say I looked smart in it.
Mishka gathered up my discarded clothes, and stowed them in the wardrobe.
“Unlock the door; Nicolai will come presently and will think you are still below,” he said. “And follow me; have a care, pull the door to—so.”
I closed the secret opening and went down the narrow stairway, steep almost as a ladder, By the dim light of the small lantern Mishka carried, I saw the door leading to the Duke’s rooms. We did not enter there, as I expected, but kept on till I guessed we must about have got down to the bowels of the earth. Then came a tremendously long and narrow passage, damp and musty smelling; at the end of it a flight of steep steps leading up to what looked like a solid stone wall. Mishka motioned me to wait, extinguished the lantern, and I heard him feeling about in the pitch darkness for a few seconds. Then, with scarcely a sound, the masonry swung back, and I saw a patch of dark sky jewelled with stars, and felt the keen night wind on my face. I passed out, waited in silence while he closed the exit again, and kept beside him as he walked rapidly away. I glanced back once, and saw beyond the great wall, the castle itself, and the lights gleaming from many windows, while from the further wing came still the sound of the music.
We appeared to be making for the road that led to Pavloff’s house, where I guessed we might be going, but I asked no questions. Mishka would speak when necessary,—not otherwise. We passed through a belt of pine trees on to the rough road; and there, more heard than seen in the darkness, we came on two horsemen, each with a led horse.
“That you, Wynn?” said a low voice—the Duke’s.“You are in good time. This is your horse; mount and let us get on.”
We started at a steady pace, not by the road, but across country, and for three versts or more we rode in absolute silence, the Duke and I in advance, Mishka and his father close behind.
“Well, I told you I could get away when I wished to,” said Loris at last. “And this time I shall not return. You are a good disciplinarian, my friend! You have come without one question! For the present we are bound for Zizcsky, where she probably awaits us. There may be trouble there; we have word that apogromis planned; and we may be in time to save some. The Jews are so helpless. They have lived in fear, and under sufferance for so long, that it is difficult to rouse them even to defend themselves,—out here, anyhow. In Warsaw and Minsk, and the larger towns within the pale, it is different, and, when the time comes, some among them at least will make a good fight of it!”
“We may find that the alarm was false, and things are quiet. If so,—good; we ride on to Count Vassilitzi’s house some versts further. He is Anna’s cousin and she will be there to-morrow if she is not in Zizcsky; and there we shall decide on our movements.
“I said that the game begins,—and this is it. Perhaps to-morrow,—or maybe a week or a month hence, for the train is laid and a chance spark might fire it prematurely,—a great strike will commence. All has been carefully planned. When the moment comes, the revolutionists will issue a manifesto demanding a Constitution, and that will be the signal for all workers, in every city and town of importance, to go on strike; includingthe post and telegraph operatives, and the railway men. It will, in effect, be a declaration of civil war; and God alone knows what the upshot will be! There will be much fighting, much violence; that is inevitable. The people are sanguine of success, for many of the soldiers and sailors are with them; but they do not realize—none of the lower classes can realize—how strong a weapon the iron hand of the bureaucracy wields, in the army and, yes, even in the remnant of the navy. Supposing one-tenth of the forces mutiny, and fight on the side of the people, or even stand neutral,—and I do not think we can count on a tenth,—there will still be nine-tenths to reckon with. Our part will be, in a way, that of guerillas. We go to Warsaw, the headquarters of our branch of the League. We shall act partly as Anna’s guards. She does not know that; she herself is utterly reckless of danger, but I have determined to protect her as far as possible, as you also are determined, eh,mon ami? Also we shall give aid where we can, endeavor to prevent unnecessary violence, and save those who are unable to defend themselves. That, in outline, is the program; we must fill in the details from one moment to the next, as occasion serves. I gather my little band as I go,” he continued, speaking, like a true son of the saddle, in an even, deliberate voice that sounded distinct over the monotonous thud of the horses’ hoofs. “Yossof has carried word, and the first recruits await us outside the village yonder. They are all picked men, members of the League; some have served in the army, and—”
From far in our rear came a dull, sinister roar, followed by a kind of vibration of the ground under our feet, like a slight shock of earthquake.