Chapter VIII: To the Girl

Direct to Box A 7,
Allegheny City, Pa.,
November 18, 1892.

My dear Sonya:

It seems an age since I wrote to you, yet it is only a month.
But the monotony of my life weights down the heels of time,--the
only break in the terrible sameness is afforded me by your dear,
affectionate letters, and those of Fedya. When I return to the
cell for the noon meal, my step is quickened by the eager
expectation of finding mail from you. About eleven in the
morning, the Chaplain makes his rounds; his practiced hand
shoots the letter between the bars, toward the bed or on to the
little table in the corner. But if the missive is light, it will
flutter to the floor. As I reach the cell, the position of the
little white object at once apprises me whether the letter is
long or short. With closed eyes I sense its weight, like the
warm pressure of your own dear hand, the touch reaching softly
to my heart, till I feel myself lifted across the chasm into
your presence. The bars fade, the walls disappear, and the air
grows sweet with the aroma of fresh air and flowers,--I am again
with you, walking in the bright July moonlight.... The touch of
the _velikorussian_ in your eyes and hair conjures up the Volga,
our beautiful _bogatir_,[26] and the strains of the
_dubinushka_,[27] trembling with suffering and yearning, float
about me.... The meal remains untouched. I dream over your
letter, and again I read it, slowly, slowly, lest I reach the
end too quickly. The afternoon hours are hallowed by your touch
and your presence, and I am conscious only of the longing for
my cell,--in the quiet of the evening, freed from the nightmare
of the immediate, I walk in the garden of our dreams.

And the following morning, at work in the shop, I pass in
anxious wonder whether some cheering word from my own, my real
world, is awaiting me in the cell. With a glow of emotion I
think of the Chaplain: perhaps at the very moment your letter is
in his hands. He is opening it, reading. Why should strange eyes
... but the Chaplain seems kind and discreet. Now he is passing
along the galleries, distributing the mail. The bundle grows
meagre as the postman reaches the ground floor. Oh! if he does
not come to my cell quickly, he may have no letters left. But
the next moment I smile at the childish thought,--if there is a
letter for me, no other prisoner will get it. Yet some error
might happen.... No, it is impossible--my name and prison
number, and the cell number marked by the Chaplain across the
envelope, all insure the mail against any mistake in delivery.
Now the dinner whistle blows. Eagerly I hasten to the cell.
There is nothing on the floor! Perhaps on the bed, on the
table.... I grow feverish with the dread of disappointment.
Possibly the letter fell under the bed, or in that dark corner.
No, none there,--but it can't be that there is no mail for me
to-day! I must look again--it may have dropped among the
blankets.... No, there is no letter!

* * * * *

Thus pass my days, dear friend. In thought I am ever with you
and Fedya, in our old haunts and surroundings. I shall never get
used to this life, nor find an interest in the reality of the
moment. What will become of me, I don't know. I hardly care. We
are revolutionists, dear: whatever sacrifices the Cause demands,
though the individual perish, humanity will profit in the end.
In that consciousness we must find our solace.

ALEX.

[26] Brave knight--affectionately applied to the great river.

[27] Folk-song.

_Sub rosa_,
Last Day of November, 1892.

Beloved Girl:

I thought I would not survive the agony of our meeting, but
human capacity for suffering seems boundless. All my thoughts,
all my yearnings, were centered in the one desire to see you, to
look into your eyes, and there read the beautiful promise that
has filled my days with strength and hope.... An embrace, a
lingering kiss, and the gift of Lingg[28] would have been mine.
To grasp your hand, to look down for a mute, immortal instant
into your soul, and then die at your hands, Beloved, with the
warm breath of your caress wafting me into peaceful
eternity--oh, it were bliss supreme, the realization of our day
dreams, when, in transports of ecstasy, we kissed the image of
the Social Revolution. Do you remember that glorious face, so
strong and tender, on the wall of our little Houston Street
hallroom? How far, far in the past are those inspired moments!
But they have filled my hours with hallowed thoughts, with
exulting expectations. And then you came. A glance at your face,
and I knew my doom to terrible life. I read it in the evil look
of the guard. It was the Deputy himself. Perhaps you had been
searched! He followed our every moment, like a famished cat that
feigns indifference, yet is alert with every nerve to spring
upon the victim. Oh, I know the calculated viciousness beneath
that meek exterior. The accelerated movement of his drumming
fingers, as he deliberately seated himself between us, warned me
of the beast, hungry for prey.... The halo was dissipated. The
words froze within me, and I could meet you only with a vapid
smile, and on the instant it was mirrored in my soul as a leer,
and I was filled with anger and resentment at everything about
us--myself, the Deputy (I could have throttled him to death),
and--at you, dear. Yes, Sonya, even at you: the quick come to
bury the dead.... But the next moment, the unworthy throb of my
agonized soul was stilled by the passionate pressure of my lips
upon your hand. How it trembled! I held it between my own, and
then, as I lifted my face to yours, the expression I beheld
seemed to bereave me of my own self: it was you who were I! The
drawn face, the look of horror, your whole being the cry of
torture--were _you_ not the real prisoner? Or was it my visioned
suffering that cemented the spiritual bond, annihilating all
misunderstanding, all resentment, and lifting us above time and
place in the afflatus of martyrdom?

Mutely I held your hand. There was no need for words. Only the
prying eyes of the catlike presence disturbed the sacred moment.
Then we spoke--mechanically, trivialities.... What though the
cadaverous Deputy with brutal gaze timed the seconds, and
forbade the sound of our dear Russian,--nor heaven nor earth
could violate the sacrament sealed with our pain.

The echo accompanied my step as I passed through the rotunda on
my way to the cell. All was quiet in the block. No whir of loom
reached me from the shops. Thanksgiving Day: all activities were
suspended. I felt at peace in the silence. But when the door was
locked, and I found myself alone, all alone within the walls of
the tomb, the full significance of your departure suddenly
dawned on me. The quick had left the dead.... Terror of the
reality seized me and I was swept by a paroxysm of anguish--

I must close. The friend who promised to have this letter mailed
_sub rosa_ is at the door. He is a kind unfortunate who has
befriended me. May this letter reach you safely. In token of
which, send me postal of indifferent contents, casually
mentioning the arrival of news from my brother in Moscow.
Remember to sign "Sister."

With a passionate embrace,

YOUR SASHA.

[28] Louis Lingg, one of the Chicago martyrs, who committed
suicide with a dynamite cartridge in a cigar given him
by a friend.