Chapter X: A Conspirative Meeting

A member of the military organization--Realities of the
revolution--Kronstadt--Revolutionary headquarters among the
soldiers and sailors--A conspirative gathering--Smuggling forbidden
literature--A surprise--Disguised as a Russian sailor--A thrilling
experience--An inspiring episode--Shadowed!--Flight--Plan of
escape--Capture deferred.

There the gallows, rope, and hooks;
And the hangman’s beard is red;
People round and poisoned looks--
Nothing new and nothing dread!

I am breath, dew, all resources,
After fifty hangings; why!
Would you hang me? Save your forces!
Why kill me who cannot die!
_Nietzsche._

Pasha belonged to the military organization, so called because the members work exclusively among the soldiers and sailors. In other words, Pasha mounted the gallows steps every time she left the comparative security of her home for her “work”; Pasha was a veritable Nathan Hale in spirit; she loved liberty, she loved her country; she was sad only when she remembered that she could live but once for Russia. “I try to live each day,” she said to me on a certain occasion, “so that every day will justify my whole life.” To-day she rests her head against the iron bars that shut her apart from the blue of heaven, the warming sun, and God’s sweet fields. And across the melancholy wastes of Siberia, in a far settlement of half-wild men called Ostiaks, Pasha’s comrade, Paul Ivanovitch, toils in iron shackles, dreaming, no doubt, of the days when Russia shall be free. But this is anticipating.

The Duma had groped falteringly through six weeks’ existence and was at last emerging toward the light. At least so most of the deputies believed. In the meanwhile the military organization was working with an arduousness that was often stupidly reckless. The revolutionists had small faith in the first parliament. They preferred to count on the disloyalty of the army and navy, and their willingness to join the army of the revolution. Sveaborg, Reval, Sebastopol, Kronstadt, were all invaded by preachers and teachers--propagandists of the military organization, to whom the Duma was but a short-lived thing at best. Insurrection, mutiny, open revolt, these were the only forces, they thought, that could overcome the present régime. Therefore, while the Duma talked, the members of the military organization prepared quietly for what they expected would follow a dissolution.

Some of the prettiest girls attacked the guard regiments. They not only cultivated the soldiers; they also made love to the officers, who are notoriously susceptible to the enticing glances of lovely eyes and the flounce of _lingerie_.

This is one of the most remarkable features of propaganda work in Russia. Young women of finest sensibilities and strong character deliberately enter a life of prostitution among officers in order to win them to the cause. A man of my acquaintance in Helsingfors told me of a beautiful girl whom he knew intimately who took up this work in precisely the same spirit that a woman enters a religious order. To officers whom she felt she must convert to the revolution, she was ready to sell herself--or give herself--according as seemed diplomatic to the circumstances. But toward all others, her own comrades and near acquaintances, she was absolutely chaste and virtuous. From one standpoint she shrank and despised what she did; on the other hand, she believed that what she did in this way bore rich fruit for the movement, and to this movement she was not merely devoted--she was consecrated. This extraordinary state of affairs, of course, cannot be understood by Americans, but I give these details as an interesting phase of a great movement, and to illustrate the degree of self-sacrifice that is sometimes attained by ardent devotees of this work.

Individual propaganda of this nature, while less likely to lead to the gallows or to Siberia, is slower in aggregating results than other methods, and Pasha was one of the impatient ones who preferred to dare greatly in the hope of gaining much. Individual work accomplishes much with the officers, but to revolutionize the rank and file there must be a wholesale means. At considerable risk to herself and her co-workers, Pasha permitted me to go with her and Paul on a propagandist trip to Kronstadt.

Kronstadt lies fourteen versts below St. Petersburg on an island in the Gulf of Finland. It is the most important naval station in the empire, commanding the entrance to St. Petersburg, and the residence of the Czar, called Peterhof. Like most military stations it is a miserable little town that subsists chiefly on the garrison. The barracks are scattered close to the fortifications. There is a small park near the center of the town, but even the garrison doesn’t enjoy its monotonous greensward and unkempt walks.

Four or five boats a day ply between the capital and Kronstadt. Pasha told me the night before to board the first boat in the morning. We would meet there. Pasha and I arrived at the landing almost simultaneously from different directions, while Paul appeared just before the gang-plank was pulled away.

Pasha and Paul represented, to me, the whole rank and file of the revolution. They were so utterly different, yet so absolutely united in purpose. Pasha was a beautiful girl of noble family, educated abroad, fluent in five languages, and even in every-day garb she suggested boudoirs and drawing-rooms, just as lilacs suggest summer, or the tinkle of mandolins suggest soft moonlight, rippling water, and romance. Paul was a Jew. He fairly exuded intellectuality. His hair was towsled, his linen vile, his finger-nails long and black, and his clothes spotted and stained with the feasts of other days. Two personalities could not be more absolutely different, yet they called each other “comrade,” and together shared the perils of this, the most dangerous work of the revolution.

The little boat rose and dipped upon the waves and Pasha rested languidly against the deck-house, delighting in the beauty of the sunlight on the water. Paul was like a live wire afoul of other live wires. Pasha’s warm cheeks were fresh with the color of youth and pink with the flush of morning; Paul’s were dead white. Pasha’s eyes were mild and sometimes languorous; Paul’s were abnormally bright at all times, shining like burnished metal.

An hour after we left the capital we were bouncing over the crude cobbles of Kronstadt streets in a rickety carriage which left us at a corner near a group of barracks. Several warships were riding at anchor in the bay. We watched them a few minutes and Paul told us how many men of each ship were in the “organization.” Then we walked two blocks west, turned a corner, and entered a courtyard with several stairways leading off to the different apartments in the building. Paul led us to one of these inner entrances and up two flights. A girl opened a door to us and we all filed into a wide room which looked like the comfortable parlor of a small tradesman. There were ferns and rubber-plants in the windows and a canary-bird singing lustily in the warm sunlight that streamed in from the sea.

The developments of the next hour added momentarily to my mystification. Paul inquired for a certain man, whom we were informed was away. A brief parley ensued, during which I could see that the door of a room leading off was ajar, and behind this door was some one who seemed to be listening to what was said. The door was presently opened and he whom we sought appeared. We had not been long in this house when there came another ring at the door. A girl not yet out of her teens entered. To all appearances she was a factory-girl, or perhaps a servant. She wore a slatternly cotton dress, and a gray shawl over her head. “A message!” I wondered. The girl shook hands with us all, without uttering a word till she sat down. Then as she spoke I was struck with her expression, which was far too keenly intelligent for a girl of her apparent class. Suddenly she got up and left us without a word. The abruptness of her departure aroused my wonder. It was so un-Russian.

Five minutes later Pasha started for the front door, nodding to me to follow. I turned to see if Paul was coming, too, but he shook his head.

Not a word passed between us as we threaded our way through devious alleys’ turnings and finally stepped into the doorway of a dark and dingy building. We mounted four flights of stairs to what looked to me an unfinished attic, divided by rough partitions into two large storerooms. At one end of this attic was a closet, or what I took for a closet. Pasha went straight to this closet, stopped, gave two quick knocks upon the door, a pause and then another; the door was immediately opened--by the factory-girl who had left us so abruptly a quarter of an hour before. As I stepped through the closet into a broad room she addressed me in exquisite French. Beyond her, in a big, bare room I could see many soldiers and sailors--fifteen or twenty, or more.

Small attention was paid to us while I stood in open-mouthed wonder at the scene. The rooms were scantily furnished, but in the corners were towering piles of pamphlets, proclamations, and other forbidden literature. Near the door a great hulking sailor was stuffing his high boot-legs with dozens of proclamations. Another was wrapping scores of brochures about his body, much as I had carried a certain book across the frontier. In the inner room the men were standing in little groups earnestly talking to one another in subdued voices. Again some one knocked on the door and my factory-girl admitted two soldiers, who went straight to a pile of leaflets which proved to be revolutionary songs printed on thin sheets of paper. These fellows stuffed quantities of the leaflets under their trousers, pulled their belts tight, and went out.

Pasha, in the meantime, had thrown off her street clothes and had taken from a cupboard a loaf of black bread and a dish of butter and was making herself a sandwich with a most unconcerned air. A shining nickel samovar was steaming merrily on a kitchen-table near by and from time to time some soldier or sailor would prepare himself a glass of tea. I tried to look as unconcerned as the rest of them acted, but I felt a cold chill go up and down my spine every time a footstep sounded outside or a knock resounded on the door. I was, of course, keenly alive to the constant danger of detection that hung over this little band. And my nervous dread, though largely vicarious, was none the less demoralizing. In an endeavor to keep my nerve I began to ply Pasha with questions. In the first place, who was the girl dressed like a factory-worker? Pasha finished her sandwich, smiling at my bewilderment, then told me that she was the daughter of one of the largest landholders in south Russia. Her family name is older than the name of Romanoff--and for generations her fathers have been dignitaries of the court. This girl was supposed to be studying music in St. Petersburg. Her family were aware of her “liberal sympathies,” but no one had ever suspected her of being active, much less a leader, in the military organization.

There were two or three other young women in the room, all of them from cultivated families.

“But how do you prevent the _dwornik_ [the house doorkeeper] from reporting these meetings?” I asked, for I knew that as a rule the _dworniks_ are police agents.

Pasha called to a young man in a dark-blue blouse.

“This is our _dwornik_,” she said.

The man was a student from Moscow University, who, as a member of the military organization, had come to Kronstadt and secured a job as doorkeeper simply that conspirative headquarters might be established as I saw them there.

We were still talking to this _dwornik_ when the now familiar knock was rapped out on the door. This time an officer of the rank of surgeon entered. He shook hands with every one, then called Pasha and the other women one side. The gist of his errand was that he wanted to induce Pasha to come into his home to live, ostensibly as governess to his children. He occupied a cottage within the fortress, and Pasha, living there, would be in daily contact with many soldiers and sailors. To Pasha it seemed a wonderful opportunity for establishing a headquarters in the very heart of Kronstadt. As always with these revolutionists, Pasha thought only of the opportunity and nothing at all of the risks involved.

Nearly an hour had passed since we had left Paul, and I had begun to wonder about him, when again the countersign rap was heard on the door. A soldier sauntered in and directly over to one of the windows, which he raised, and tossed a cigarette into the street. This proved a signal to a group who were waiting below and who presently joined us. With them was Paul, but so marvelously changed that I caught my breath as my eye fell upon him. His long, towsled hair of an hour before was now closely clipped, his face shaved clean, and he wore the uniform of a sailor, a round pancake hat sitting jauntily over one ear. Under his arm he carried a bundle done up in a newspaper. Coming toward me he handed me the bundle and said:

“Go into the next room and put on these things.”

The spirit of the game filled me when I cut the string and tore the newspapers off a Russian sailor suit. In the Caucasus I had worn the uniform of a Cossack officer and hobnobbed with the loyalest supporters of the Czar. Now I was to wear the costume of an ordinary seaman and conspire with the arch enemies of czardom. I made the change quickly and reappeared a sailor laddie with the name of a proud man-o’-war stamped in gilt letters around my cap. As I pressed into the crowd of bona fide sailors in the room, I was conscious of feeling distinctly less at ease than when first I donned my Cossack outfit, but perhaps conscience made the difference. There is no doubt about it: loyal revolutionists though these people be and imbued with the martyr spirit--they yet find a fascination in intrigue and masquerading that is not altogether without its pleasurable thrill and has in it the element of the childish love of “dressing up.”

The “comrades” hailed my coming with louder glee than discretion, and I was viewed from all points by critical eyes. Paul then disclosed to me the plan. I was next to be shaved and shorn. During the afternoon we would attend a conspirative meeting and at sunset he and I would join a boatload of sailors returning to their ship from shore leave and be smuggled aboard the cruiser whose name we both wore on our caps. He and I would be stowed away below, and late at night, when the ever suspicious officers would be less watchful, we would hold a meeting for the sailors. At least, Paul would hold the meeting and I would stand by and encourage the cause by my presence.

Right here I set my foot down. I was courting arrest as it was, but such an adventure as Paul proposed was only too likely to end by having our heads shot off and no questions asked, and even a paternal government would hardly protest. The chances of discovery were infinite, and capture under these circumstances would mean prompt execution. I declined Paul’s invitation with thanks. Just then Pasha came up. She, too, had changed her part. Like the girl who watched the door of the room, Pasha was now a mill-girl. Her pretty summer shirtwaist was exchanged for a soiled and torn calico-print affair, and a gray shawl was thrown over her head and shoulders. Through one torn shoe a white-stockinged foot protruded.

“What are you up to now?” I asked.

“I go to hold a meeting in the barracks. I’m a soldier’s sweetheart, don’t you see?” she laughed, hooking her arm around the arm of a soldier who stood by, to his very evident embarrassment.

“Why can’t I go with you?”

“You can. Why not? Only it will be more interesting on the ship.”

I did not doubt that I would find it more of an adventure to accompany Paul, but I wasn’t seeking that kind of adventure. I wanted to study the methods of army and navy propaganda and the barracks meetings were quite as important as the meetings on the ships, so I elected to stick by Pasha.

Paul handed me a key, which he said unlocked a certain box in his room in St. Petersburg. If I did not hear from him by ten o’clock the next morning I was to go to his room, unlock the box and burn the papers. He then shook hands with Pasha and myself and went out behind an orderly who carried a large black portfolio supposedly containing official documents, but, as I knew, now filled with official proclamations of the revolution.

Pasha and I remained at headquarters till early afternoon, and then started forth upon our enterprise--she a plain mill-girl, and I a sailor boy.

A sailor led us to a small park near the barracks and left us sitting on a bench while he reconnoitered. In a few minutes he returned with the word that all was well. Only we must hurry. The barracks courtyard entrance was guarded by a soldier. Hurrying across the court we entered the barracks. It was a long, low building of brick. At one end was a room evidently used for storage purposes, though originally intended for sleeping-quarters. The windows were set high in the walls, and crossed by iron bars as in a prison. The darkness obscured my vision for the first minute, but I was aware that many men were already in the room--soldiers and sailors all. They made way for us as we were led to the far end of the hall. I noticed that there was no other door in the room than the one by which we had entered.

Within a quarter of an hour the room was crowded. Nearly one hundred men in uniform stood compactly within the four walls.

Some one near the front started the _Marseillaise_ in a low key. In a minute the atmosphere of the room seemed charged with electricity. My blood tingled to my fingertips as that deep-throated chorus in subdued tones repeated the refrain of the most soul-stirring hymn ever written.

At the close the sailor who had been our guide to the place leaned over to Pasha and said:

“Shall we begin?”

Without formality of any kind Pasha mounted a box which had been brought in for the purpose, and gathered herself for her address. My eyes were accustomed to the dimness now, and as her shawl had fallen away from her head and was caught over her shoulders, I could see the delicate flush on her cheeks.

The hush that fell over the gathering was deep, like the emptiness of a nautilus.

At the beginning she spoke very quietly. She talked simply and directly. She appealed to the soldiers and sailors as men who had been peasants and working-men, who were to be again peasants and working-men. There was fervor in her voice. She spoke not for party, not for section, but for Russia--unhappy Russia! Bleeding from border to border; her people oppressed by rulers who should be guardians of her peace and happiness! Without the support of the army and navy the overthrow of the present régime is quite impossible. With the support of the army and navy it would be simple.

“What are we to do with our officers when we rise?” asked a sailor when an opportunity for questions was given.

That was a leading question and I awaited her answer with as breathless interest as did the men.

“I cannot agree to the shedding of innocent blood,” she began. “I am a terrorist because the terror strikes down only the guilty.”

“But if we do not kill our officers we would all suffer. We might indeed lose the fight.”

“Wise members of our liberty movement believe that when we are actually in armed insurrection we should cling to war methods. The government kills our leaders first. Perhaps we should kill the officers. I must leave that to you. I would not hold you back. I would not argue against your doing it. But I cannot sanction it. I would prefer you bound them hand and foot and stored them away until you could consign them to a prison.” A very ingenuous answer, this--and so woman-like.

After something more than an hour the cooler ones reminded the meeting that to prolong the discussion unnecessarily was tempting discovery. The speaker then closed the meeting with a few earnest words of warning not to be premature in rising. The policy of the whole country then was to wait so that all Russia might rise simultaneously. Occasional tilts with the government only result in excessive blood-spilling and do not materially further the cause. “When the next uprising comes it must be the death-grapple.” There was a distribution of leaflets, and the meeting closed, as it had opened, with the guarded singing of the _Marseillaise_.

Pasha and I left the room first. We retraced our steps through the court, and as we passed the sentry he again saluted smilingly and I breathed freely once more. Light-heartedly we retraced our steps to the attic headquarters, which were now deserted. The samovar was still steaming, however, invitingly. We sat and discussed the meeting over our tea, before laying off our respective disguises. We left the house together, meaning to take the six o’clock boat back to the capital.

Following the usual conspirative methods, we did not proceed on our way directly, but turned two or three corners before setting out for the boat. As we neared the main street leading to the pier we decided to call an _ishvozchik_ [cab]. As I turned to look for one I felt Pasha tugging at my arm. I turned toward her quickly. Her gaze was fixed on a man who appeared to be hurrying off across the little garden over the way.

“The Fox!” she murmured.

Then I knew that probably we were shadowed.

“The Fox” was a member of the secret police whose recent arrests of revolutionists had wrought great havoc among the leaders of certain conspirative groups. He had formerly called himself a revolutionist, and as such had mingled freely among them. Though not long known to them, he had quickly established himself through his outspoken bitterness toward the government and the daring _coups_ he was always ready to take part in. His cleverness was exceptional. That was why, conspiratively, he was called “the Fox.” Many revolutionists are known by similar names--the Beaver, the Hare, the Boar, etc. The adoption of the names of animals is a matter of common practice.

The Fox had been one of the group that had set up a miniature republic in one of the Baltic Provinces towns the previous January. Pasha had been another of the same group. Through the betrayals of the Fox several of that circle had been taken by the police. Pasha had fancied herself safe from him at least, and consequently safe from the charge upon which she was then sought, because in St. Petersburg she was far from the scene of her former activities.

“Perhaps he did not see us,” she said at last hopefully. Just then he glanced back quickly toward us, and then increased his pace.

I looked at my watch. We had only six minutes to catch the boat.

“The sooner we get out of this the better--with that man running around loose!” I said, rather flippantly.

I summoned a cab and told the driver I would give him twice his fare if he caught the boat. He drove furiously, but with only a couple of minutes we were not within sight of the quay and I began to fear that we would be too late.

“Get us there and you shall have three times your fee,” I shouted.

He laid on his whip. The horse bounded forward. We heard the boat whistle. We might make it! The carriage clattered over the wooden pier and stopped with a jerk just as the boat was pulling out.

We dared not show the disappointment we felt. A group of soldiers eyed us with evident interest. The Fox did not appear. Apparently he had not recognized Pasha, or he was not yet prepared to strike, or, he would telephone to the mainland to have us captured upon the arrival of the boat. Pasha looked up at me and laughed. That laugh was reassuring. It steadied me like a stimulant. Across the landing was another steamer on the point of departure.

“Quick!” I exclaimed, and hurried her aboard.

This steamer was due to sail at the same moment as the other, but a minute’s delay had proved our salvation.

“But where is it going?” she asked.

“I haven’t the dimmest idea,” I replied. “It is leaving Kronstadt, and that’s enough for us!”

“It may be going to another island in the Gulf of Finland,” she went on, “and then we are nicely trapped.”

That was a disquieting thought, so I left her in the cabin and went above to negotiate for tickets--and ascertain where we were going. At all events we were now steaming away from Kronstadt.

“What is the first stopping-place?” I asked casually of a deck-hand.

He looked queerly at me for a moment, but from my bad Russian he knew me to be a stranger.

“Orienbaum,” he answered.

Orienbaum is on the mainland, above Peterhof, and one hour by train from Petersburg, so by that we were reassured. In the cabin we were fortunately the only passengers, although many others were on the decks. Our plan was quickly arranged. In Kronstadt Pasha had worn a golf-cape over her jacket. She now planned to leave it on the steamer. She had in her pocket a veil of a different color and style from the one she had been wearing. With this outward change she was much altered. Then we separated. We would meet--casually--on the train. If any description had been wired to Orienbaum it would certainly not tally with her present appearance, and we would not be together when we left the boat.

At Orienbaum there were fifty minutes to wait for a train. Where my companion spent that time I don’t know. I went into a summer garden where there was music, and impatiently tried to listen to Russian songs badly sung.

On the train I caught a glimpse of Pasha in the car behind the one I entered, so I knew that all was still well with her. After a few stations I joined her. She was not in the least agitated, though perfectly aware that she would have to flee the country for the time being. That the Fox might know where she was living made it perilous for her to return there, even for her necessary clothing. We also knew that she might not obtain her passport, which was in the hands of the concierge of her house. Without a passport she could not cross the frontier. Obviously there was but one thing to do. When we reached St. Petersburg she would go to the house of a friend, where she would remain in hiding until I had made the necessary arrangements for her escape, and this might mean several days. As soon as we were agreed on this plan I again left her, nor did I see her again until I returned with a passport which I knew would carry her to safety.

Thus ended our trip to Kronstadt--quite without climax; and I might almost have persuaded myself that our danger at the time was more fancied than real but for what happened shortly after. A few weeks later Pasha was captured on another count--not nearly so serious as conspirative work in the military organization, but serious enough to send her to prison on an indeterminate sentence. As for Paul, he turned up the next morning at my rooms behind the Kazan Cathedral while I was breakfasting. He was excited over Pasha’s close shave at Kronstadt, but continued to “work” there until the night Kronstadt rose, after the dissolution of the Duma--when Paul was one of the captured. But these incidents belong to other chapters.