§1
“WE shall meet to-morrow,” I repeated to myself as I was falling asleep, and my heart felt unusually light and happy.
At two in the morning I was wakened by my father’s valet; he was only half-dressed and looked frightened.
“An officer is asking for you.”
“What officer?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I do,” I said, as I threw on my dressing-gown. A figure wrapped in a military cloak was standing at the drawing-room door; I could see a white plume from my window, and there were some people behind it—I could make out a Cossack helmet.
Our visitor was Miller, an officer of police. He told me that he bore a warrant from the military Governor of Moscow to examine my papers. Candles were brought. Miller took my keys, and while his subordinates rummaged among my books and shirts, attended to the papers himself. He put them all aside as suspicious; then he turned suddenly to me and said:
“I beg you will dress meanwhile; you will have to go with me.”
“Where to?” I asked.
“To the police-station of the district,” he said, in a reassuring voice.
“And then?”
“There are no further orders in the Governor’s warrant.”
I began to dress.
Meanwhile my mother had been awakened by the terrified servants, and came in haste from her bedroom to see me. When she was stopped half-way by a Cossack, she screamed; I started at the sound and ran to her. The officer came with us, leaving the papers behind him. He apologised to my mother and let her pass; then he scolded the Cossack, who was not really to blame, and went back to the papers.
My father now appeared on the scene. He was pale but tried to keep up his air of indifference. The scene became trying: while my mother wept in a corner, my father talked to the officer on ordinary topics, but his voice shook. I feared that if this went on it would prove too much for me, and I did not wish that the under-strappers of the police should have the satisfaction of seeing me shed tears.
I twitched the officer’s sleeve and said we had better be off.
He welcomed the suggestion. My father then left the room, but returned immediately; he was carrying a little sacred picture, which he placed round my neck, saying that his father on his deathbed had blessed him with it. I was touched: the nature of this gift proved to me how great was the fear and anxiety that filled the old man’s heart. I knelt down for him to put it on; he raised me to my feet, embraced me, and gave me his blessing.
It was a representation on enamel of the head of John the Baptist on the charger. Whether it was meant for an example, a warning, or a prophecy, I don’t know, but it struck me as somehow significant.
My mother was almost fainting.
I was escorted down the stairs by all the household servants, weeping and struggling to kiss my face and hands; it might have been my own funeral with me to watch it. The officer frowned and hurried on the proceedings.
Once outside the gate, he collected his forces—four Cossacks and four policemen.
There was a bearded man sitting outside the gate, who asked the officer if he might now go home.
“Be off!” said Miller.
“Who is that?” I asked, as I took my seat in the cab.
“He is a witness: you know that the police must take a witness with them when they make an entrance into a private house.”
“Is that why you left him outside?”
“A mere formality,” said Miller; “it’s only keeping the man out of his bed for nothing.”
Our cab started, escorted by two mounted Cossacks.