The last violent scene had depressed us all, and we traversed in silence the quieter streets of Moscow, where the few passers-by paused to look at us, and here and there faces stared from the windows. The station, which we reached after a short tramp, had been cleared of people; only some gendarmes, prison officials, and porters were on the platform. Police were keeping guard all round, and nobody who had not a special order was allowed through to the train reserved for us. When we “politicals” were established in the places assigned to us, a few persons—relations of the prisoners—arrived to say good-bye. The gendarmes would not let them come near to the carriages, and we had to shout our farewell greetings.
“Good-bye! Good luck! Don’t forget us!” sounded from the barred windows.
“Keep up your courage! We’ll meet again soon!” came back the response.
“Let us sing something together,” called out somebody. We had formed a choral society in prison, and now started a song of Little Russia—“The Ferryman.” Slowly the train was set in motion, and as we glided away the affecting strains of the beautiful melody accompanied us. Many could not restrain their tears, and sobs were heard which the rattle of the train soon drowned. With faces pressed against the bars of the windows we gazed back at Moscow as long as it could be seen. Then came the outskirts, and then our eyes were refreshed by the sight of broad meadows.
When we halted at the next station there were a good many people on the platform—peasants and workmen. Many of them came up to the carriage windows unhindered, and seemed to be offering things to us.
“Here, take it, in the Virgin’s name!” said a voice close by me. I looked out, and was aware of an old peasant woman who held out a kopeck[[55]] to me.
“I don’t need it, mother; give it to someone who does,” I said; and felt my heart warm towards this kindly old woman of the people.
“Take it, take it, my dear!” she insisted.
“Well, as a remembrance, then.” I agreed; and I kept the little copper coin for a long time before I eventually lost it.
A whole chain of recollections was started in my mind by this occurrence, and I sank deep in thought. The further we went from Moscow, the sadder became my spirits; I felt as if I were leaving behind me there a host of friends I should never see again. I did not want to talk to anyone, but gazed silently out of the window. The line ran through a factory district; the stations were crowded, and along the railway banks we saw many groups of workpeople. Men and women in brightly coloured cotton garments stopped and called out after the train, making expressive gestures. Whether they knew us for exiles on our way to Siberia and meant to send us a message of sympathy I cannot tell. Perhaps it is the custom in that countryside, whence many prisoners are transported, to express in this way that feeling of compassion towards the “children of misfortune”[[56]] so common among the Russian people.