I.
On the 27th of July, in the year 1878, the little town of Talutorovsk,
in Western Siberia, was profoundly excited by a painful event. A
political prisoner, named Olga Litibatovitch, miserably put an end to
her days. She was universally loved and esteemed, and her violent death
therefore produced a most mournful impression throughout the town, and
the
Ispravnik, or chief of the police, was secretly accused of
having driven the poor young girl, by his unjust persecutions, to take
away her life.
Olga was sent to Talutorovsk some months after the trial known as that
of the ‘fifty’ of Moscow, in which she was condemned to nine years’ hand
labor for Socialist propagandism, a punishment afterwards commuted into
banishment for life. Unprovided with any means whatever of existence,
for her father, a poor engineer with a large family, could send her
nothing, Olga succeeded, by indefatigable industry, in establishing her
self in a certain Position. Although but little skilled in female labor,
she endeavored to live by her needle, and became the milliner of the
semi-civilized ladies of the town, who went into raptures over her work.
These fair dames were firmly convinced — it is impossible to know why —
that the elegance of a dress depends above all things upon the number
of its pockets. The more pockets there were, the more fashionable the
dress. Olga never displayed the slightest disinclination to satisfy this
singular taste. She put pockets upon pockets, upon the body, upon the
skirts, upon the underskirts; before, behind, everywhere. The married
ladies and the young girls were as proud as peacocks, and were convinced
that they were dressed like the most fashionable Parisian, and, though
they were less profuse with their money than with their praises, yet in
that country, where living costs so little, it was easy to make two ends
meet. Later on, Olga had an occupation more congenial to her habits.
Before entering the manufactories and workshops as a seamstress in order
to carry on the Socialist propaganda, she had studied medicine for some
years at Zurich, and she could not now do less than lend her assistance
in certain cases of illness. This soon gave her a reputation, and, at
the request of the citizens, the police accorded to her the permission
to fill the post of apothecary and phlebotomist, as the former occupant
of that post, owing to habitual drunkenness, was fit for nothing. Not
unfrequently she even took the place of the district doctor, a worthy
man who, owing to old age and a partiality for brandy, was in such a
state that he could not venture upon delicate operations, because his
hands shook. She acted for him also in many serious cases baffling his
antediluvian knowledge. Some of her cures were considered miraculous;
among others, that of the district judge, whom, by determined treatment,
she had saved after a violent attack of
delirium tremens, a vice common to almost all men in that wild country.
In a word, Olga was in great favour with the peaceful citizens of
Talutorovsk. The hatred of the police towards her was all the greater
for that reason. Her proud and independent disposition would not permit
her to submit to the stupid and humiliating exigencies of the
representatives of the Government. Those representatives, barbarous and
overbearing as they were, considered every attempt to defend personal
dignity a want of respect towards themselves — nay, a provocation; and
neglected no occasion of taking their revenge. There was always a latent
war between Olga and her guardians, a war of the weak, bound hand and
foot, against the strong, armed at all points; for the police have
almost arbitrary power over the political prisoners who are under their
surveillance. In this very unequal struggle, however, Olga did not
always come off the worst, as often happens in the case of those who,
proud, daring, and fearing nothing, are always ready to risk everything
for the merest trifle. One of these conflicts, which lasted four days
and kept the whole of the little town in a state of excitement by its
dramatic incidents, was so singular that it deserves to be related.
Olga had had sent from her parents a parcel of books, which, in her position, was a gift indeed. She went to the
Ispravnik
to get them, but met with an unforeseen obstacle. Among the books sent
to her was a translation of the ‘Sociology,’ of Herbert Spencer, and the
Ispravnik mistook it for a work on
Socialism, and
would not on any account give it up to her. In vain Olga pointed out to
him that the incriminated book had been published at St. Petersburg with
the license of the Censorship; that sociology and socialism were very
different things, etc. The
Ispravnik was stubborn. The
discussion grew warm. Olga could not restrain some sharp remarks upon
the gross ignorance of her opponent, and ended by telling him that his
precautions were utterly useless, as she had at home a dozen books like
that of Herbert Spencer.
‘Oh! You have books like this at home, have you ?’ exclaimed the
Ispravnic. ‘Very well; we’ll come and search the house this very day.’
‘No,’ exclaimed Olga, in a fury; ‘you will do nothing of the kind; you
have no right, and if you dare to come I will defend myself.’
With these words she left the place, thoroughly enraged.
War was declared, and the rumour spread throughout I the town, and everywhere excited a kind of timorous curiosity.
Directly Olga reached her home she shut herself up and barricaded the door. The
Ispravnik, on his side, prepared for the attack. He mustered a band of policemen, with some
poniatye, or citizen-witnesses, and sent them to the enemy’s house.
Finding the entrance closed, and the door barricaded, the valorous army
began to knock energetically and ordered the inmate to open.
‘I will not open the door,’ replied the voice of Olga within.
‘Open, in the name of the law.’
‘I will not open the door. Break it in. I will defend myself.’
At this explicit declaration the band became perplexed. A council of war
was held. ‘We must break open the door,’ they all said. But as all
these valiant folks had families, wives, and children whom they did not
wish to leave orphans, no one cared to face the bullets of this mad
woman, whom they knew to be capable of anything. Each urged his
neighbour onward, but no one cared to go forward himself.
Recourse was had to diplomacy.
‘Open the door, Miss.’
No reply.
‘Please to open the door, or you will repent it.’
‘I will not open the door,’ replied the firm voice of the besieged.
What was to be done. A messenger was sent to the
Ispravnik to
inform him that Olga Liubatovitch had shut herself up in her house, had
pointed a pistol at them, and had threatened to blow out the brains of
the first who entered.
The Ispravnik, considering that the task of leadership would
fall to him as supreme chief (and he also had a family), did not care to
undertake the perilous enterprise. His army, seeing itself thus
abandoned by its leader, was in dismay; it lost courage; demoralisation
set in, and after a few more diplomatic attempts, which led to nothing,
it beat a disgraceful retreat. A select corps of observation remained,
however, near the enemy’s citadel, entrenched behind the hedges of the
adjoining kitchen-gardens. It was hoped that the enemy, elated by the
victory in this first encounter, would make a sortie, and then would be
easily taken, in rank and rear, surrounded, and defeated.
But the enemy displayed as much prudence as firmness. Perceiving the
maneuvers of her adversaries, Olga divined their object, and did not
issue from the house all that day, or the day after, or even on the
third day. The house was provided with provisions and water, and Olga
was evidently prepared to sustain a long siege.
It was clear that if no one would risk his life, which naturally no one
was disposed to risk, nothing could be done save to reduce her by
hunger. But who, in that case, could tell how long the scandal of this
flagrant rebellion would last? And then, who could guarantee that this
Fury would not commit suicide instead of surrendering And then, what
complaints, what reprimands from superiors.
In this perplexity, the
Ispravnik resolved to select the least among many evils, and on the fourth day he raised the siege.
Thus ended the little drama of July, 1878, known in Siberia as the
‘Siege of Olga Liubatovitch.’ The best of the joke was, however, that
she had no arms of a more warlike character than a penknife and some
kitchen utensils. She herself had not the slightest idea what would have
happened had they stormed the house, but that she would have defended
herself in some way or other is quite certain.
The
Ispravnik might have made her pay for her rebellion by
several years of confinement, but how could he confess to his superiors
the cowardice of himself and his subordinates. He preferred, therefore,
to leave her in peace. But he chafed in secret, for he saw that the
partisans of the young socialist — and they were far from few —
ridiculed himself and his men behind their backs. He determined to
vindicate his offended dignity at all cost, and, being of a stubborn
disposition, he carried out his resolve in the following manner:
A fortnight after the famous siege, he sent a message to Olga to come to
his office at eight o’clock in the morning. She went. She waited an
hour; two hours but no one came to explain what she was wanted for. She
began to lose patience, and declared that she would go away. But the
official in attendance told her that she must not go; that she must
wait, such were the orders of the
Ispravnik. She waited until
eleven o’clock. No one came. At last a subaltern appeared, and Olga
addressed herself to him and asked what she was wanted for. The man
replied that he did not know, that the
Ispravnik would tell her when be came in. He could not say, however, when the
Ispravnik would arrive.
‘In that case,’ said Olga, ‘I should prefer to return some other time.’
But the police officer declared that she must continue to wait in the
antechamber of the office, for such were the orders of the
Ispravnik.
There could be no doubt that all this was a disgraceful attempt to
provoke her, and Olga, who was of a very irascible disposition, replied
with some observations not of the most respectful character, and not
particularly flattering to the
Ispravnik or his deputy.
‘Oh! That’s how you treat the representatives of the Government in the
exercise of their functions, is it,’ exclaimed the deputy, as though
prepared for this. And he immediately called in another policeman as a
witness, and drew up a statement of the charge against her.
Olga went away. But proceedings were taken against her before the district judge, the very man whom she had cured of the
delirium tremens, who sentenced her to three days’ solitary confinement. It was confinement in a dark, fetid hole, full of filth and vermin.
Merely in entering it, she was overcome with disgust. When she was
released, she seemed to have passed through a serious illness. It was
not, however, the physical sufferings she had undergone so much as the
humiliation she had endured, which chafed her proud disposition.
From that time she became gloomy, taciturn, abrupt. She spent whole days
shut up in her room, without seeing anybody, or wandered away from the
town into the neighbouring wood, and avoided people. She was evidently
planning something. Among the worthy citizens of Talutorovsk, who bad a
compassionate feeling towards her, some said one thing, some another,
but no one foresaw such a tragic ending as that of which rumours ran on
July 27.
In the morning the landlady entered her room and found it empty. The
bed, undisturbed, clearly showed that she had not slept in it. She had
disappeared. The first idea which flashed through the mind of the old
dame was that Olga had escaped, and she ran in all haste to inform the
Ispravnik, fearing that any delay would be considered as a proof of complicity.
The Ispravnik did not lose a moment. Olga Liubatovitch being
one of the most seriously compromised women, he feared the severest
censure, perhaps even dismissal, for his want of vigilance. He
immediately hastened to the spot in order to discover if possible the
direction the fugitive had taken. But directly he entered the room he
found upon the table two letters signed and sealed, one addressed to the
authorities, the other to the sister of Olga, Vera Liubatovitch, who
had also been banished to another Siberian town. Those letters were
immediately opened by the
Ispravnik, and they revealed the
mournful fact that the young girl bad not taken to flight, but had
committed suicide. In the letter addressed to the authorities she said,
in a few lines, that she died by her own hand, and begged that nobody
might be blamed. To her sister she wrote more fully, explaining that her
life of continuous annoyance, of inactivity, and of gradual wasting
away, which is the life of a political prisoner in Siberia, had become
hateful to her, that she could no longer endure it, and preferred to
drown herself in the Tobol. She finished by affectionately begging her
sister to forgive her for the grief she might cause her and her friends
and companions in misfortune.
Without wasting a moment, the
Ispranvik hastened to the Tobol,
and there be found the confirmation of the revelation of Olga. Parts of
her dress dangled upon the bushes, under which lay her bonnet, lapped by
the rippling water. Some peasants said that on the previous day they
had seen the young girl wandering on the bank with a gloomy and
melancholy aspect, looking fixedly at the turbid waters of the river.
The
Ispravnik, through whose bands all the correspondence
passed of the political prisoners banished to his district, recalled
certain expressions and remarks that had struck him in the last letters
of Olga Liubatovitch, the meaning of which now became clear.
There could no longer be any doubt. The
lspravnik sent for all
the fishermen near, and began to drag the river with poles, casting in
nets to recover the body. This, however, led to nothing, nor was it
surprising. The broad river was so rapid that in a single night it must
have carried a body away who knows how many leagues? For three days the
Ispravnik
continued his efforts, and stubbornly endeavoured to make the river
surrender its prey. But at last, after having worn out ill his people
and broken several nets against the stones and old trunks which the
river mocked him with, he had to give up the attempt as unavailing.
II.
The body of Olga, her heart within it throbbing with joy and
uncertainty, had meanwhile been hurried away, not by the yellow waters
of the Tobol, but by a vehicle drawn by two horses galloping at full
speed.
Having made arrangements with a young rustic whom, in her visits to the
neighbouring cottages in a medical capacity, she had succeeded in
converting to Socialism, Olga disposed everything so as to make it be
believed that she had drowned herself, and on the night fixed secretly
left her house and proceeded to the neighbouring forest, where at a
place agreed upon, her young disciple was awaiting her. The night was
dark. Beneath the thick foliage of that virgin forest nothing could be
seen, nothing could be beard but the hootings of the owls, and
sometimes, brought from afar, the howling of the wolves, which infest
the whole of Siberia.
As an indispensable precaution, the meeting-place was fixed at a
distance of about three miles, in the interior of the forest. Olga had
to traverse this distance in utter darkness, guided only by the stars,
which occasionally pierced through the dense foliage. She was not
afraid, however, of the wild beasts, or of the highwaymen and vagrants
who are always prowling round the towns in Siberia. It was the
cemetery-keeper’s dog she was afraid of. The cemeteries are always well
looked after in that country, for among the horrible crimes committed by
the scum of the convicts one of the most common is that of disinterring
and robbing the newly-buried dead. Now the keeper of the cemetery of
Talutorovsk was not to be trifled with; his dog still less so. It was a
mastiff, as big as a calf, ferocious and vigilant, and could bear the
approach of anyone, a quarter of a mile off. Meanwhile the road passed
close to the cottage of the solitary keeper. It was precisely for the
purpose of avoiding it that Olga, instead of following the road, had
plunged into the forest, not withstanding the great danger of losing her
way.
Stumbling at every step against the roots and old fallen trunks, pricked
by the thorny bushes, her face lashed by boughs elastic as though moved
by springs, she kept on for two hours with extreme fatigue, sustained
only by the hope that she would shortly reach the place of meeting,
which could not be far. At last, indeed, the darkness began to diminish
somewhat and the trees to become thinner, and a moment afterwards she
entered upon open ground. She suddenly stopped, looked around’ her blood
freezing with terror, and recognised the keeper’s cottage. She had lost
her way in the forest, and, after so many windings, had gone straight
to the point she wished to avoid.
Her first impulse was to run away as fast as her remaining strength
would enable her, but a moment afterwards a thought flashed through her
mind which restrained her. No sound came from the cottage; all was
silent. What could this indicate but the absence of the occupant? She
stood still and listened, holding her breath. In the cottage not a sound
could be heard, but in another direction she heard, in the silence of
the night, the distant barking of a dog, which seemed, however to be
approaching nearer. Evidently the keeper had gone out, but at any moment
might return, and his terrible dog was perhaps running in front of him,
as though in search of prey. Fortunately from the keeper’s house to the
place of appointment there was a path which the fugitive had no need to
avoid, and she set off and ran as fast as the fear of being seized and
bitten by the ferocious animal would allow her. The barking, indeed,
drew nearer, but so dense was the forest that not even a dog could
penetrate it. Olga soon succeeded in reaching the open ground,
breathless, harassed by the fear of being followed and the doubt that
she might not find anyone at the place of appointment. Great was her
delight when the saw in the darkness the expected vehicle, and
recognised the young peasant.
To leap into the vehicle and to hurry away was the work of an instant.
In rather more than five hours of hard driving they reached Tumen, a
town of about 18,000 inhabitants, fifty miles distant from Talutorovsk. A
few hundred yards from the outskirts the vehicle turned into a dark
lane and very quietly approached a house where it was evidently
expected. In a window on the first floor a light was lit, and the figure
of a man appeared. Then the window was opened, and the man, having
recognised the young girl, exchanged a few words in a low tone with the
peasant who was acting as driver. The latter, without a word, rose from
his seat, took the young girl in his arms, for she was small and light,
and passed her on like a baby into the robust hands of the man, who
introduced her into his room. It was the simplest and safest means of
entering unobserved. To have opened the door at such an unusual hour
would have awakened people, and caused gossip.
The peasant went his way, wishing the young girl all success, and Olga
was at last able to take a few hours’ rest. Her first step had
succeeded. All difficulties were far, indeed, from being overcome; for
in Siberia it is not so much walls and keepers as immeasurable distance
which is the real gaoler.
In this area, twice as large as all Europe, and with a total population
only twice that of the English capital, towns and villages are only
imperceptible points, separated by immense deserts absolutely
uninhabitable, in which if anyone ventured he would die of hunger, or be
devoured by wolves. The fugitive thus has no choice, and must take one
of the few routes which connect the towns with the rest of the world.
Pursuit is therefore extremely easy, and thus, while the number of the
fugitives from the best-guarded prisons and mines amounts to hundreds
among the political prisoners, and to thousands among, the common
offenders, those who succeed in overcoming all difficulties and in
escaping from Siberia itself may be counted on the fingers.
There are two means of effecting an escape. The first, which is very
hazardous, is that of profiting, in order to get a good start by the
first few days, when the police furiously scour their own district only,
without giving information of the escape to the great centres, in the
hope, which is often realized, of informing their superiors of the
escape and capture of the prisoner at the same time. In the most
favourable cases, however, the fugitive gains only three or four days of
time, while the entire journey lasts many weeks, and sometimes many
months. With the telegraph established along all the principal lines of
communication, and even with more horse patrols, the police have no
difficulty whatever in making for lost time, and exceptional cleverness
or good fortune is necessary in order to keep out of their clutches. But
this method, as being the simplest and comparatively easy, as it
requires few preparations and but little external assistance, is adopted
by the immense majority of the fugitives, and it is precisely for this
reason that ninety-nine per cent of them only succeed in reaching a
distance of one or two hundred miles from the place of their
confinement.
Travelling being so dangerous, the second mode is much more safe-that of
remaining hidden in some place of concealment, carefully prepared
beforehand, in the province itself, for one, two, three, six months,
until the police, after having carried on the chase so long in vain,
come to the conclusion that the fugitive must be beyond the frontiers of
Siberia, and slacken or entirely cease their vigilance. This was the
plan followed in the famous escape of Lopatin, who remained more than a
month at Irkutsk, and of Debagorio Mokrievitch, who spent more than a
year in various hideouts in Siberia before undertaking his journey to
Russia.
Olga Liubatovitch did not wish, however, to have recourse to the latter
expedient, and selected the former. It was a leap in the dark. But she
built her hopes upon the success of the little stratagem of her supposed
suicide, and the very day after her arrival at Tumen, she set out
towards Europe by the postal and caravan road to Moscow.
To journey by post in Russia, a travelling passport (
podorojna)
must be obtained, signed by the governor. Olga certainly had none, and
could not lose time in procuring one. She had, therefore, to find
somebody in possession of this indispensable document whom she could
accompany. As luck would have it, a certain Soluzeff, who had rendered
himself famous a few years before by certain forgeries and malversations
on a grand scale, had been pardoned by the Emperor and was returning to
Russia. He willingly accepted the company of a pretty country woman, as
Olga represented herself to him to be, who was desirous of going to
Kazan, where her husband was lying seriously ill, and consented to pay
her share of the travelling expenses. But here another trouble arose.
This Soluzeff, being on very good terms with the gendarmes and the
police, a whole army of them accompanied him to the post-station. Now
Olga had begun her revolutionary career at sixteen, she was arrested for
the first time at seventeen, and during the seven years of that career
had been in eleven prisons, and had passed some few months in that of
Tumen itself. It was little short of a miracle that no one recognised
the celebrated Liubatovitch in the humble travelling companion of their
common friend.
At last, however, the vehicle set out amid the shouts and cheers of the
company. Olga breathed more freely. Her tribulations were not, however,
at an end.
I need not relate the various incidents of her long journey. Her
companion worried her. He was a man whom long indulgence in luxury had
rendered effeminate, and at every station said he was utterly worn out,
and stopped to rest himself and take some tea with biscuits, preserves,
and sweets, an abundance of which he carried with him. Olga, who was in
agonies, as her deception might be found out at any moment, and
telegrams describing her be sent to all the post-stations of the line,
had to display much cunning and firmness to keep this poltroon moving on
without arousing suspicions respecting herself. When, however, near the
frontier of European Russia, she was within an ace of betraying
herself. Soluzeff declared that he was incapable of going any further,
that he was thoroughly knocked up by this feverish hurry-skurry, and
must stop a few days to recover himself. Olga had some thought of
disclosing everything, hoping to obtain from his generosity what she
could not obtain from his sluggish selfishness. There is no telling what
might have happened if a certain instinct, which never left Olga even
when she was most excited, had not preserved her from this very
dangerous step.
A greater danger awaited her at Kazan. No sooner had she arrived than
she hastened away to take her ticket by the first steamboat going up the
Volga towards Nijni-Novgorod. Soluzeff, who said he was going south,
would take the opposite direction. Great, therefore, her surprise and
bewilderment when she saw her travelling companion upon the same
steamer. She did everything she could to avoid him, but in vein.
Soluzeff recognised her, and advancing towards her, exclaimed in a loud
voice
‘What! You here? Why, you told me your husband was lying ill in the Kazan Hospital.’
Some of the passengers turned round and looked, and among them the gendarme who was upon the boat.
The danger was serious. But Olga, without losing her self-possession, at
once invented a complete explanation of the unexpected change in her
itinerary. Soluzeff took it all in, as did the gendarme who was
listening.
At Moscow she was well known, having spent several months in its various
prisons. Not caring to go to the central station, which is always full
of gendarmes on duty, she was compelled to walk several leagues, to
economise her small stock of money and take the train at a small
station, passing the night in the open air.
Many were the perils from which, thanks to her cleverness, she escaped.
But her greatest troubles awaited her in the city she so ardently
desired to reach, St. Petersburg.
When a Nihilist, after a rather long absence, suddenly reaches some city
without previously conferring with those who have been there recently,
his position is a very singular one. Although he may know he is in the
midst of friends and old companions in arms, he is absolutely incapable
of finding any of them. Being ‘illegal’ people, or outlaws, they live
with false passports, and are frequently compelled to change their names
and their places of abode. To inquire for them under their old names is
not to be thought of, for these continuous changes are not made for
mere amusement, but from the necessity, constantly recurring, of
escaping from some imminent danger, more or less grave. To go to the old
residence of a Nihilist and ask for him under his old name would be
voluntarily putting one’s head into the lion’s mouth.
Under such circumstances, a Nihilist is put to no end of trouble, and
has to wander hither and thither in order to find his friends. He
applies to old acquaintances among people who are ‘legal ’ and peaceful,
that is to say, officials, businessmen, barristers, doctors, etc., who
form an intermediate class, unconsciously connecting the most active
Nihilists with those who take the least interest in public affairs. In
this class there are people of all ranks. Some secretly aid the
Nihilists more or less energetically. Others receive them into their
houses simply as friends, without having any ‘serious’ business with
them. Others, again, see them only casually, but know from whom more or
less accurate information is to be obtained; and so on. All these people
being unconnected with the movement, or almost so, run little risk of
being arrested, and living as they do ‘legally’ that is to say under
their own names, they are easy to be found, and supply the Ariadne’s
thread which enable anyone to penetrate into the Nihilist labyrinth, who
has not had time, or who has been unable to obtain the addresses of the
affiliated.
Having reached St. Petersburg, Olga Liubatovitch was precisely in this
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 everyone 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 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 anyone 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, everyone did as he liked and talked with those
who pleased him. The company was split up into various groups, and the
murmur of voices 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 was 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 colour 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 candour, 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 candour 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
the 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 did not even have 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 pocket, 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, 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 simulation. 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 bead,
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 heir 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 anyone 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 cafes, as in Europe, the Nihilists are often
compelled to go to each other’s 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 bands 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
favourable eyes everyone 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 feigned surprise, astonishment, and
invented there and then the story that she had come to see some
dressmakers (who had, in fact, their names on the doorplate below, and
occupied the upper floor) for the purpose of ordering something, but bad
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 the 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 I 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 Novsky 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, madame?’ 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 armchair, 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 be 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
be 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 anyone; and so on. Olga
resisted for a while, and asked the
pristav to promise that he
would assure her husband that she had done nothing wrong; and more to
the same effect. The 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, after having
‘cleared’ the rooms, having had twice 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 car. 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 arraigned everything in such a manner as to make it
seem as they were the most peaceful of citizens. As he lived with a
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 fourth a stream
of broken words exclamations, 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.’
Meanwhile he played the part of an affectionate husband mortified by
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 p
ristav 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 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 behaviour
was anything but what it ought to have been, but I won’t do that. I will
simply keep you under arrest here until year 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
injunction, 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 story 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 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 bid
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 galoshes, 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 into 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 invulnerable 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 behind band. 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 Romania 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 afterwards 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 baby, 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.
![Eurorepressione - Sulla conferenza a Den Haag sul tema "Anarchia" [corretto]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m0jvngOXtY1qa2163o1_1280.jpg)
![A tres años de la Partida de Mauricio Morales: De la Memoria a la Calle [Stgo.]](http://metiendoruido.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/mmacividad.jpg)
