The prison-master was determined that the story of Marie Spiradonova should not be told us by her. Recognizing the futility of further parleying, I finally asked her if the letter she had succeeded in smuggling out to a friend a little while before was true in every detail.
“Yes,” she answered, “in every word!”
When the interview was forced to a conclusion, I extended my hand toward her. Her fingers closed round mine with a firm and certain grip. She looked me fairly in the eyes. I felt that I stood in the presence of one whose inner calm was strong, and whose motives were as noble as pure. It was Napoleon who said: “One may be deceived in a face. But in a hand never.” The hand of Spiradonova is large and full. Her fingers are slightly tapering, but strong—the hand of a strong woman.
“Monsieur,” she called, as I stepped over the threshold, “take my greetings to France, to England, and to America.”
Her letter, describing the incidents which followed her shooting of Luchenovsky, is a remarkable transcript of a present-day inquisition. Here is the body of the letter:
When I had fired five times at him, the escort recovered themselves. The platform was crowded with Cossacks, and there were shouts of “Strike,” “Slash,” “Fire”! and swords were drawn. When I saw this, I thought my end had come, and I decided not to give myself up alive. With this in view, I pointed my revolver at my head, when I was stunned by several blows, and fell flat on the platform. Further blows on the face and head sent a thrill of pain through my whole body. I tried to say “Leave me to be shot,” but blows fell continuously. I tried to protect my face with my hands, but they were pushed away with the butts of the rifles. Then the Cossack officers seized me by my braid of hair, lifted me up bodily, and with a great swing threw me down on the platform. I lost my senses. My hands were unclasped, and the blows fell on my face and head. Then they dragged me by one leg down the stair-case, my head bumping on each step. Then they took me again by the braid, and lifted me on to the vehicle of the isvoschik. They took me to a house, and the Cossack officer asked me my name. When making the attempt I had decided not to hide my name, but at this moment I forgot my name. They beat me again on the face and breast. When I was taken to the police station they undressed me and searched me, and took me to a cold cell with a wet, dirty, stone floor. At about noon or one o’clock, the assistant chief of police, Zhdanov, and a Cossack officer, Abramov, came. They stayed in my cell, with short intervals, till eleven at night. They examined me with refined methods of torture that Ivan the Terrible might have envied. Zhdanov would kick me into the corner of the cell, and then the Cossack would throw me back to Zhdanov, who put his foot on my neck. They ordered me to be stripped, at the same time preventing the cold cell from being warmed. They flogged me with the nagaika, with terrible oaths, saying: “Now, then ..., deliver us a thrilling speech!” One of my eyes was quite closed at that time, and the right side of my face terribly bruised. Pressing on that sore place, they would ask: “Painful, dear?” with a sardonic smile. “Now tell us, who are your comrades?” I was often delirious, but had a sense of dread of saying anything, and I am sure there was nothing in what I said but unconnected nonsense.
When I came to, I told them that I would answer the questions put to me by the proper officials; also that I belonged to the town of Tamboff, and that Procuror Kamenev and other gendarmes could testify to this. This provoked quite a storm of indignation. They pulled hairs out of my head one by one, and asked where other revolutionists could be found. They pressed their lighted cigarettes on my bare body, saying: “Cry out, then, you wretch!” They stamped on my feet with their heavy boots, pressed them as if in a vise, and shouted: “Scream, then, you ——. We have made whole villages bellow, but you, miserable little girl, haven’t screamed once, either at the station or here. But we will make you scream. We will amuse ourselves with your sufferings. We will give you to the Cossacks for the night.” “No,” said Abramov, “we will have you for ourselves first, and then give you to the Cossacks.” Brutal hugging followed, with shouts of “Scream, then!” But I am positive that I did not scream once, either at the station or police office. I only talked half-consciously. At eleven o’clock, they had recorded my disposition, but they declined to produce it in Tamboff, because I was delirious all the time.
Then I was taken by train to Tamboff. The train is moving slowly. It is cold and dark. The air is thick with Abramov’s brutal oaths. He swears at me terribly. I felt the breath of death. Even the Cossacks felt uneasy. “Why are you silent, men? Sing! Let those wretches die with our merriment.” Then shouting and whistling began. Passions ran high. Eyes and teeth glittered, and the singing was disgusting. I was raving “Water!” No water. Then the officer takes me to the second class. He is drunk and very amiable. His arms embrace me. He unbuttons my dress. His drunken lips mutter in a beastly way: “What a velvet breast! What a magnificent body!” I have no more strength to repulse him, no voice to call out, and what use if I had? I would willingly dash my head against something, if there were anything, but this brutalized scoundrel will not allow it. He kicks me in order to disable me. I call upon the police officer, who is asleep. The Cossack officer murmurs, caressing my chin: “Why do you clench your little teeth? Look out, you may break them?” I could not get a moment of sleep that night. In the daytime he offers me wine and chocolate, and when people go away he caresses me again. Just before reaching Tamboff I fell asleep for an hour. I awoke because the officer’s arm was upon me. While taking me to the prison, he said: “After all, I am embracing you.” In Tamboff I was delirious again, and fell terribly ill.
When Marie was brought to trial her judges looked upon her youth, and listened to the terrible recital of her tortures unmoved. She had killed a man, an official of the bureaucracy, therefore she must die. An opportunity was given her to speak, and she rose up and quietly said:
“Gentlemen Judges! Look around you! Where do you see the light faces of the happy and contented? There are no such faces. Even those who seem, now, to have the victorious hand, are afflicted by grief—they know their hour of triumph is brief.