“Is he any relation of yours?”
I looked eagerly where he indicated. My heart stood still, and the paper fell from my nerveless grasp.
It was an announcement to the effect that “Isaac Prèhznev, Jew, of the Isàkievskaya, St. Petersburg,” had formed one of the convoy of prisoners exiled by administrative process to Siberia during the past week!
Ignorant of the whereabouts of my mother and sister, and apprehensive regarding their future, I was refused leave and forced to continue my military service until the day arrived when I was free to return and seek them.
To preserve the continuity of this narrative, events must here be described which were afterwards related to me by Mascha.
From some unknown cause my unfortunate father had fallen into disfavour with the Tzar, although nothing was known of it until one night, during the progress of a ball at home, half-a-dozen men from the Okhrannoë Otdelenïe,[1] entered and arrested him. A fortnight later he was sent, without trial, to the mines of the Trans-Baikal, all he possessed was confiscated by the Government, and my mother and sister turned into the streets to starve.
Our relations were poor and could do little to assist them; therefore, in order to hide their poverty, Mascha and her mother went to Mstislavl, a small sleepy town in the Government of Moghilev, where for nearly a year they earned a precarious livelihood by doing needlework and making lace. But the year was disastrous to Russia, for a terrible famine spread over the land, and, alas! for my unfortunate family, its effects were keenly felt in Moghilev. At the time I arrived at Petersburg in search of them, they had no work and were starving.
Stretched upon a straw mattress in the corner of a cold, bare room in a wretched isba, lay my mother, her thin, haggard face, protruding cheek bones, and sunken eyes showing unmistakably that death was at hand.
Mascha stood, pale and motionless, looking sorrowfully down upon her. In the grey light of the brief autumn day the dismal place presented a woeful aspect, being almost devoid of furniture, the round discoloured stove having gone out several days ago. Notwithstanding her plain shabby dress, it was certain that Mascha was beautiful; all Mstislavl, if called upon, would bear witness to this fact. About eighteen years of age, she was tall, slender, graceful, with beautifully rounded throat and arms, fair wavy hair drawn back upon her brow, a dazzling complexion, and eyes of clear child-like blue. When she smiled her charms were enhanced by an expression of indescribable simplicity and frankness.
At this moment, however, she presented a sad picture, for her hair had fallen dishevelled about her handsome face, and her eyes were red with weeping. As her mother tossed wearily upon her pallet, moaning in pain, Mascha fell upon her knees and kissed the cold, drawn face.