by Hugh Conway
On inquiry I found Captain Varlámoff had not yet arrived. At the place where I had last inquired I had been told he had passed through a day before, so it was evident we had overlooked and outstripped them. The best thing to be done was to wait in Irkutsk the arrival of the party.
I was not at all sorry to take a couple of days’ rest after my fatigues. I was not sorry to indulge once more in the comforts of comparative civilization; yet nearly every hour I was sending down to inquire if the convicts had arrived. More ardently than I had longed to reach Irkutsk, I longed to turn the horses’ heads westward and start on the return journey.
I had heard no news from home since I left St Petersburg. Indeed, I could not expect a letter, as after my departure from Nijnei Novgorod, I had positively outstripped the post. On the road home I hoped to find letters waiting me.
After I had kicked my heels in Irkutsk for two days I received the welcome news that Captain Varlámoff had marched his prisoners to the ostrog at four o’clock that afternoon. I rose from my dinner and went with all speed to the prison.
A man in plain clothes—a civilian—demanding to be conducted to the presence of a Russian captain who had just arrived from a long march, seemed almost too great a joke for the sentries to bear in a soldierlike manner. Their stolid faces broke into scornful smiles as they asked Ivan if ‘the little father’ had quite gone mad. It required much firmness, much persuasion and a gratuity, which to the simple military mind represented an unlimited quantity of ‘vodka’, and consequently many happy drinking bouts, before I was allowed to pass through the gates of the high palisade, and, with many misgivings on the part of my guide, was conducted to the presence of the Captain.
A fine fierce-looking young soldier, who glared at me for disturbing him; for having, by advice, adopted the Russian costume, which by now was stained and frayed by travel, there was nothing to show him I was not a civilian whom any soldier might kick at his pleasure.
It was delightful to see the change the perusal of the Tobolsk governor’s letter made in the Captain’s appearance. He rose, and with the greatest courtesy offered me a chair, and asked me in French if I spoke that language.
I assured him on that point, and finding I could dispense with Ivan’s services, sent him outside to wait for me.
Varlámoff would not hear of commencing business until wine and cigarettes made their appearance—then he was at my service in anything and everything.
I told him what I desired.
‘To speak in private with one of my convicts. Certainly—this letter places me at your commands. But which convict?’
I gave him the true name. He shook his head.
‘I know none of them by that name. Most of the names the political prisoners pass under are false ones. When they leave me they will become numbers, so it doesn’t matter.’
I suggested Ceneri. He shook his head again.
‘I know the man I want is with you,’ I said. ‘How shall I find him?’
‘You know him by sight?’
‘Yes—well.’
‘Then you had better come with me and try and pick him out among my unfortunates. Light another cigarette—you will want it,’ he added, with meaning.
He led the way, and soon we stood before a heavy door. At his command a gaoler, armed with mighty keys, appeared. The grinding locks were turned, and the door was opened.
‘Follow me,’ said Varlámoff, with a long pull at his cigarette. I obeyed, and standing on the threshold had much ado to keep from fainting.
From the stench which rushed through it, that open door might have been the entrance to some pestilential cavern at the bottom of which all the impurities of the world were rotting and putrefying. As it passed you, you felt that the thick air was poisonous with disease and death.
I recovered myself as best I could, and followed my guide into the grim interior. The door closed behind us.
Had I the power to describe the sights I saw when my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I should not be believed. The prison was spacious, but when the number of the prisoners was considered, it should have been three times the size. It was thronged with wretched beings. They were standing, sitting and lying about. Men of all ages and, it seemed, of all nationalities. Men with features of the lowest human type. They were huddled in groups—many were quarrelling, cursing and swearing. Moved by curiosity they pressed around us as closely as they dared, laughing and jabbering in their barbarous dialects. I was in a hell, an obscene, unclean hell! a hell made by men for their fellow-men.
Filth! the place was one mass of it. Filth under foot—filth on the walls, the rafters and the beams—filth floating about in the hot, heavy, pestiferous air. Each man seemed to be a moving mass of filth. Zola would revel in a minute description of the horrors of that place, but I must leave them to the imagination, although I know and even trust that no one’s imagination can come near the reality.
The only thing I could think of was this. Why did not these men rush out, overpower the guards, and escape from this reeking den? I put the question to Varlámoff.
‘They never attempt to escape whilst on the march,’ he said. ‘It is a point of honour among them. If one escapes those left are treated with much greater severity.’
‘Do none ever get away?’
‘Yes, many do when they are sent to the works. But it does them no good. They must pass through the towns on their flight or they would starve. Then they are always caught and sent back.’
I was peering into all the faces about, trying to find the one I sought. My inspection was received with looks sullen, suspicious, defiant or careless. Remarks were made in undertones, but Varlámoff’s dreaded presence kept me from insult. I examined many groups without success, then I made a tour of the prison.
All along the wall was a slanting platform upon which men lay in various attitudes. Being the most comfortable station, every inch of it was covered by recumbent forms. In the angle formed by the prison walls I saw a man reclining, as if utterly worn out. His head sank down upon his breast, his eyes were closed. There was something in his figure which struck me as familiar. I walked to him and laid my hand upon his shoulder. He opened his weary eyes and raised his sad face. It was Manuel Ceneri!
CHAPTER XII
THE NAME OF THE MAN
HE looked at me with an expression in his eyes which passed at once from hopelessness to bewilderment. He seemed to be uncertain whether it was a phantom or a man he was looking at. He rose to his feet in a dazed, stupefied way, and stood face to face with me, whilst his wretched fellow-prisoners pressed curiously around us.
‘Mr Vaughan! Here! In Siberia!’ he said, as one not believing his own senses.
‘I have come from England to see you. This is the prisoner I am looking for,’ I said, turning to the officer who stood at my side, mitigating to some extent the noxiousness of the atmosphere by the cigarette he puffed vigorously.
‘I am glad you have found him,’ he said, politely. ‘Now the sooner we get outside the better, the air here is unhealthy.’
Unhealthy! It was fetid! I was filled with wonder, as I looked at the bland French-speaking Captain at my side, at the state of mind to which a man must bring himself before he could calmly stand in the midst of his fellow-creatures and see such misery unconcernedly—could even think he was but doing his duty. Perhaps he was. It may be the crimes of the prisoners forbade sympathy. But, oh! to stand there in the midst of those poor wretches, turned for the time into little more than animals! I may be wrong but it seems to me that the gaoler must have a harder heart than the worst of his captives!
‘I can see him—talk to him alone?’ I asked
‘Certainly; so you are authorized to do. I am a soldier; you in this matter are my superior officer.’
‘May I take him to the inn?’
‘I think not. I will find you a room here. Please follow me. Phew! that is a relief.’
We were now outside the prison door and breathing fresh air once
more. The Captain led me to a kind of office, dirty and furnished barely enough, but a paradise compared to the scene we had just quitted.
‘Wait here; I will send the prisoner to you.’
As he turned to leave me I thought of the miserable, dejected appearance Ceneri had presented. Let him be the greatest villain in the world, I could not keep from wishing to do some little thing to benefit him.
‘I may give him food and drink?’ I asked.
The Captain shrugged his shoulders and laughed good temperedly.
‘He ought not to be hungry. He has the rations which government says are sufficient. But then you may be hungry and thirsty. If so, I do not see how I can stop you sending for wine and food—of course for yourself.’
I thanked him and forthwith despatched my guide in quest of the best wine and meat he could get. Wine, when ordered by a gentleman, means in Russia but one thing—champagne. At an inn of any standing, champagne, or at least its substitute, wine of the Don, may be procured. My messenger soon returned with a bottle of the real beverage and a good supply of cold meat and white bread. As soon as it was placed on the rough table a tall soldier led in my expected guest
I placed a chair for Ceneri, into which he sank wearily. As he did so I heard the jingle of the irons on his legs. Then I told my interpreter to leave us. The soldier, who no doubt had received his orders, saluted me gravely and followed his example. The door closed behind him, and Ceneri and I were alone.
He had somewhat recovered from his stupefaction, and as he looked at me I saw an eager, wistful expression on his face. Drowning as he was, no doubt he caught at the straw of my unexpected appearance, thinking it might assist him to freedom. Perhaps it was to enjoy a moment or two brightened by the faintest or wildest gleam of hope that made him pause before he spoke to me.
‘I have come a long, long way to see you, Dr Ceneri,’ I began.
‘If the way seemed long to you, what has it been to me? You at least can return when you like to freedom and happiness.’
He spoke in the quiet tone of despair. I had been unable to prevent my words sounding cold and my voice being stern. If my coming had raised any hope in his heart, my manner now dispelled it. He knew I had not made the journey for his sake.
‘Whether I can go back to happiness or not depends on what you tell me. You may imagine it is no light matter which has brought me so far to see you for a few minutes.’
He looked at me curiously, but not suspiciously. I could do him no harm—for him the outer world was at an end. If I accused him of fifty murders, and brought each one home to him, his fate could be no worse. He was blotted out, erased; nothing now could matter to him, except more or less bodily discomfort. I shuddered as l realized what his sentence meant, and in spite of myself, a compassionate feeling stole over me.
‘I have much of importance to say, but first let me give you some wine and food.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, almost humbly. ‘You would scarcely believe, Mr Vaughan, that a man may be reduced to such a state that he can hardly restrain himself at the sight of decent meat and drink.’
I could believe anything after the interior of the ostrog. I opened the wine and placed it before him. As he ate and drank, I had leisure to observe him attentively.
His sufferings had wrought a great change in him. Every feature vas sharpened, every limb seemed slighter—he looked at least ten years older. He wore the Russian peasants’ ordinary garments, and these hung in rags about him. His feet, swathed in fragments of some woollen material, showed in places through his boots. The long, weary marches were telling their tale upon his frame. He had never given me the idea of being a robust man, and as I looked at him I thought that whatever work he might be put to, it would not pay the Russian Government for his sorry keep. But the probabilities were, they would not have to keep him long.
He ate not voraciously, but with a keen appetite. The wine he used sparingly. His meal being finished, he glanced around as if in quest of something. I guessed what he wanted and passed him my cigar-case and a light. He thanked me and began to smoke with an air of enjoyment.
For a while I had not the heart to interrupt the poor wretch. When he left me it must be to return to that hell peopled by human beings. But time was slipping by. Outside the door I could hear the monotonous step of the sentry, and I did not know what period of grace the polite Captain might allow to his prisoner.
Ceneri was leaning back in his chair with a kind of dreamy look on his face, smoking slowly and placidly, taking, as it were, everything he could out of the luxury of a good cigar. I asked him to drink some more wine. He shook his head, then turned and looked at me.
‘Mr Vaughan,’ he said; ‘yes, it is Mr Vaughan. But who and what am I? Where are we? Is it London, Geneva, or elsewhere? Shall I awake and find I have dreamed of what I have suffered?’
‘I am afraid it is no dream. We are in Siberia.’
‘And you are not come to bear me good news? You are not one of us—a friend trying at the peril of your life to set me free?’
I shook my head. ‘I would do all I could to make your lot easier, but I come with a selfish motive to ask some questions which you alone can answer.’
‘Ask them. You have given me an hour’s relief from misery; I am grateful.’
‘You will answer truly?’
‘Why not? I have nothing to fear, nothing to gain, nothing to hope. Falsehood is forced on people by circumstances; a man in my state has no need of it.’
‘The first question I have to ask is—who and what is that man Macari?’
Ceneri sprang to his feet. The name of Macari seemed to bring him back to the world. He looked no longer a decrepit man. His voice was fierce and stern.
‘A traitor! a traitor!’ he cried. ‘But for him I should have succeeded and escaped. If he were only standing in your place! Weak as I am, I could find strength enough to cling on to his throat till the vile breath was out of his accursed body!’
He walked up and down the room, clenching and unclenching his hands.
‘Try and be calm, Dr Ceneri,’ I said. ‘I have nothing to do with his plots and political treasons. Who is he? What is his parentage? Is Macari his name?’
‘The only name I ever knew him by. His father was a renegade Italian who sent his son to live in England for fear his precious blood should be spilt in freeing his country. I found him a young man and made him one of us. His perfect knowledge of your tongue was of great service; and he fought—yes, once he fought like a man. Why did he turn traitor now? Why do you ask these questions?’
‘He has been to me and asserts that he is Pauline’s brother.’
Ceneri’s face, as he heard this intelligence, was enough to banish lie number one from my mind. My heart leapt as I guessed that number two would be disposed of as easily. But there was a terrible revelation to be made when I came to ask about that.
‘Pauline’s brother!’ stammered Ceneri. ‘Her brother! She has none.’
A sickly look crept over his features as he spoke—a look the meaning of which I could not read.
‘He says he is Anthony March, her brother.’
‘Anthony March!’ gasped Ceneri ‘There is no such person. What did he want—his object?’ he continued feverishly.
‘That I should join him in a memorial to the Italian Government, asking for a return of some portion of the fortune you spent.’
Ceneri laughed a bitter laugh. ‘All grows clear,’ he said. ‘He betrayed a plot which might have changed a government for the sake of getting me out of the way. Coward! Why not have killed me and only me? Why have made others suffer with me? Anthony March! My God! that man is a villain!’
‘You are sure that Macari betrayed you?’
‘Sure! yes. I was sure when the man in the cell next to mine rapped it on the wall. He had means of knowing.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Prisoners can sometimes talk to each other by taps on the wall which divides their
cells. The man next to me was one of us. Long before he went raving mad from the months of solitary confinement, he rapped out, over and over again, “Betrayed by Macari.” I believed him. He was too true a man to make the accusation without proof. But until now I could not see the object of the treason.’
The easiest part of my task was over. Macari’s assumed relationship to Pauline was disposed of. Now if Ceneri would tell me, I must learn who was the victim of that crime committed years ago, and what was the reason for the foul deed. I must learn that Macari’s explanation was an utter falsehood, prompted by malice, or else my journey would have benefited me nothing. Is it any wonder that my lips trembled as I endeavoured to approach the subject?
‘Now, Dr Ceneri,’ I said, ‘I have a question of weightier import to ask. Had Pauline a lover before I married her?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely you have not come here to ask that question—to have a fit of jealousy cured?’
‘No,’ I said; ‘you will hear my meaning later on. Meanwhile, answer me.’
‘She had a lover, for Macari professed to love her, and swore she should be his wife. But I can most certainly say she never returned his love.’
‘Nor loved anyone else?’
‘Not to my knowledge. But your manner, your words are strange. Why do you ask? I may have wronged you, Mr Vaughan, but save for the one thing, her mind, Pauline was fit to be your wife.’
‘You did wrong me—you know it. What right had you to let me marry a woman whose senses were disarranged? It was cruel to both.’
I felt stern and spoke sternly. Ceneri shifted in his chair uneasily. If I had wished revenge it was here. Gazing on this wretched, ragged, broken-down man, and knowing what awaited him when he left me, would have filled the measure desired by the most vengeful heart.