A few months after this Victor Green was assassinated. If there were any tribunal in Russia to whom appeal against an official of this stamp could be carried, the so-called terrorist would never have been called into existence. In America I frequently have it said to me: “The Russian revolutionists who are guilty of murder and assassination do more than anything else to injure the cause of liberty in their country. Their deeds are veritably the sowing of dragon’s teeth of hate and murder.”
But fairly—on the testimony—who sows the dragon’s teeth? Is it the man who checks the career of a monstrous creature like Green? Is it the murderous official himself? Or is it the government and the police and other officials of the Czar?
Pasha was taken one afternoon in July. Her family had persuaded her to go abroad for the summer, so with her mother she started for Switzerland. They traveled to St. Petersburg from Moscow and were to take the Berlin train late one afternoon. About two o’clock that afternoon Pasha ran over to the office of a certain newspaper to bid a friend good-by. Suddenly the police appeared, the office was surrounded, and every one who chanced to be there at the time was marched off to prison. The mother awaited the return of her daughter with impatience that soon became alarm. Train-time came and passed. About dusk a party of gendarmes appeared at the house where they had been stopping and informed madame of Pasha’s arrest. Then they ransacked the house. The only evidence found was a copy of my notes on my interview with Marie Spiradonova, which Pasha had borrowed. Incidentally, during the course of the search, Pasha’s gold watch and chain, which had been lying on the bureau, disappeared.
While there were really serious charges against Pasha, these were all registered against her conspirative name, consequently no definite charge of any kind was known against her at the time of this arrest. Merely on the strength of her having been in the newspaper office she was kept “on suspicion.” Later developments in her case are not germane to the moment. She was put into a cell with a number of other women to await trial. One Sunday afternoon an incident occurred in this cell which aroused wide interest, and Pasha, knowing that I would want an accurate account of the affair, managed to write and have smuggled out to me a graphic letter. The only necessary word of explanation concerns the time-worn custom observed in Russian prisons of allowing political prisoners to receive donations of food one day a week from their friends, which recipients share with their less fortunate comrades. In the particular prison where Pasha was incarcerated there was a group of men politicals in a room directly over the women. When the women were ready to divide their contributions with the men they generally rapped on the ceiling with a broom or mop-handle, and the men would drop a cord out of their window so that it would dangle in front of one of the windows of the women’s room. Pasha’s account of what is now known as the Semonova tragedy (Semonova being the name of one of the other women confined in the prison) is as follows [I give her own words]:
On Sunday after six o’clock Semonova came to the center window. She tapped on the ceiling with the mop-stick for the men of the room above to drop the string—the telephone—they called it. The package with tea, sugar, and tobacco was on the window-sill. Some women were standing near Semonova, others, I among them, were sitting at the table, drinking tea. One was walking up and down. We were sixteen in the room, which made it very crowded. I saw the string drop and several hands go through the bars to hold it, but the winds blow it from them and then suddenly it was jerked up. Semonova sat sideways on the window sill, her left side toward the window, and her left hand supported her head. She seemed to be waiting for the telephone to be dropped for the second time. A few seconds later a shot rang out. I saw a small puff of yellow smoke. Semonova’s head dropped strangely. My heart stood still. “Can it be!” but I saw that the group at the window moved and no one seemed wounded. I ran to them in the hope that I was mistaken. Meanwhile one who was standing near her took Semonova and laid her down on the floor with the words “She is killed.”
One of the prisoners who was a feldsher felt her pulse, but with a gesture of hopelessness turned aside. Semonova’s eyes were glazed and blood flowed from her head. I could not desert her. It seemed to me she still felt and I could not leave her alone.
A general uproar arose in the room and the women cried and shrieked “Doctor! Doctor!” Then the room suddenly became empty. Some one poured water on Semonova’s head. A feldsher came in, examined her, and said: “Her skull is fractured.” We lifted her up and placed her on a cot. I did not believe her dead and thought she still suffered.
When the doctor came he said death had been instantaneous. The bullet entered the left temple and came out through the forehead, because she had been sitting with her head a little bent, leaning it on her left hand. Her back had been turned to the soldier who was pointing at her.
When I saw she was dead I went to the window and cried to the soldier: “Murderer! You have killed a human being!” He pointed at me, but I jumped back before he had time to fire. The same thing happened to the others who attempted to approach the window. We ran to the gate which acted as a door between our room and the hallway and behind which were amassed a pack of overseers and cried: “Murderers, will you shoot us all?” One of them with an impudent laugh said: “Well, why did she sit on the window-sill?”
Later some one, I don’t know who, said that the soldier had received the order “not to shoot any more.”