As if mortal eye could penetrate those walls!
As the clock struck three a carriage drove up and the police-master joined us.
A peep-hole cut in the small door of the huge gate was slipped back in response to the heavy knock sounded by the chief of police. A pair of eyes surveyed us, and the small door was thrown open. The chief bowed his head to escape the low portal, and stepped in. We followed. Several soldiers stood in the breach between the outer wall and the prison proper. These saluted. We went directly to the kontora, or office, where we found the prison-master—a burly, blue-eyed, sandy-bearded fellow, who looked the bully.
Now, the rank of prison-master is equal with the rank of police-master, and between these two men, as also with the commander of the military forces in and about the prison, who again is of equal rank, is a constant clash and friction. The police-master presented us to the prison-master and told him we had come to see Spiradonova. The prison-master greeted us pleasantly enough, surveyed us with obvious and open suspicion, and replied that this we might not do without a written order from the governor. The chief told him that the governor had sanctioned our coming, and asked him to escort us. This made little impression upon the little czar, whose kingdom is encircled with iron bars and strong walls. It took a good deal of persuasion to get him to yield even to the extent of telephoning to the governor to learn if it was his wish that we should see Spiradonova. This was finally done, however, and an affirmative answer received.
The prison-master, from the moment we entered the prison, put every obstacle in our way that he could, and took advantage of every opportunity to thwart our purpose—which was to get the true story of the girl from her own lips. When the governor telephoned that he had asked the police-master to accompany us to see that every courtesy was extended to us, and to insure that we saw Marie Spiradonova in her own cell, there seemed nothing else for the prison-master to do but to yield.
Shackles, clamped round human ankles, clanked and rattled in the dark, damp corridors down which we were led. At a turning stood a group of “politicals”—beardless college boys in their student jackets. We crossed a yard, passed the windows of a workshop where busy looms rattled. A long, low workshop, from which issued noises of the forge, of iron whelting and hammer strokes, stood in the center of the yard. We passed round it and entered a court, at the end of which stood a similar, but smaller, building of whitewashed stone and low roof, with iron-grated windows. The door stood to one side and was approached by a small, wooden porch. We entered the outer door and turned abruptly to the left and stood before a barred door with a small peep-hole, crossed by iron, cut at eye level. The chief of police headed our file; I followed, and at my heels Mr. Luboshitz, behind him the prison-master, a military officer, several soldiers and three prison officials. The chief threw open the door and held it wide with extended arm for me to pass in first.
I stepped over the threshold and stood face to face with the most famous “terrorist” in Russia.
She was a delicate girl with soft, blue eyes that deepened to violet as the pink in her clear cheeks deepened to a hectic red as she talked. Her wavy brown hair was parted in the middle and draped over her temples to hide hideous scars left by the kicks of the Cossacks. Her costume was a simple, blue, prison dress.
She stood quietly awaiting our approach, a little mystified apparently.
The chief of police was the first to speak.