“Poor Paul! I fear there is little doubt that he languishes in that living grave—the fortress on the Neva.”
“How horrible! It makes me shudder to think of it. Oh, Sergius, for Heaven’s sake take care of yourself! What shall I do if evil befalls you, and how can you escape it in this dreadful country? I hardly dare hope that you will reach England alive. How thankful I would be if we could leave at once.”
“My dear girl, there are many things worse than death. That I must risk. But you could not retain your respect for a man whose oath has been broken, and whose word of honor is worthless. I will be as careful as is consistent with my duty. More I cannot promise, even to you.”
Was it true that I would rather welcome the death of my hero than that which he conceived to be dishonor? I think not. But I had not the temerity to argue the question with him, and, rather than distress him again, I tried to put the ghastly picture of his so-called duty from my mind.
“Tell me, if you may,” I said, “what special information it was that produced such a sensation at the meeting last night?”
“There is no reason why I should not tell you. Some members of our St. Petersburg branch have been denounced and tracked by informers in the pay of Count Karenieff and his myrmidons. Six of them have been arrested, and it is not likely that they will ever recover their liberty again. One lady, who was arrested some weeks ago, and who was really innocent of conspiracy, has been so monstrously treated that she has died in prison. The circumstance of her death would be regarded as an opportune release from a life that could never again become tolerable to her, were not the predisposing details so horrible. She was grossly insulted by the governor of the jail in which she was immured, but refused to forget that she was an honorable wife and mother. Nothing daunted by her indignant rebuff, the scoundrel again insulted her. This time the unhappy lady slapped her tormentor’s face, and aroused in him the demon of revenge. She was accused of attempting to take the governor’s life, and was ordered to be subjected to the frightful indignity of the knout. In spite of her alternate prayers for mercy and screams of resistance, she was dragged to the place of punishment, forcibly stripped, and mercilessly beaten.
“The physical pain was something terrible to endure, but one survives even worse things than that. It was the moral degradation that ate into her soul, and induced her to end her unhappy life. How she obtained it no one knows. But it is certain that she had poison in her possession, and that she used it to good purpose.”
“How can such iniquities be permitted! You make even me feel a longing to take part in the downfall of a government that can sanction such atrocities! To think that a noble woman’s end should be so sad!”
“Her end? That has not come. She lives in our souls, and cries aloud from the grave for vengeance! Her death has revived the ardor of both the enthusiasts and the lukewarm adherents of the cause of the people, and will do freedom more service than her life has done.”
We had much more conversation in the same strain, for I fully sympathized with my husband’s accounts of the cruelties inflicted upon his compatriots. But all subjects come to an end some time, and our talk varied itself by excursions to Greenby and to Courtney Grange, not to speak of all we hoped to do when we were once more at liberty to return to England and take possession of the handsome house intended for our reception.