YASHKA

YASHKA
MY LIFE AS PEASANT, EXILE AND SOLDIER

BY
MARIA BOTCHKAREVA
Commander of the Russian Women’s Battalion of Death

AS SET DOWN BY
ISSAC DON LEVINE

LONDON
CONSTABLE AND COMPANY
LIMITED

First published 1919

Copyright, 1919, by
Frederick A. Stokes Company

All Rights Reserved

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

In the early summer of 1917 the world was thrilled by a news item from Petrograd announcing the formation by one Maria Botchkareva of a women’s fighting unit under the name of “The Battalion of Death.” With this announcement an obscure Russian peasant girl made her début in the international hall of fame. From the depths of dark Russia Maria Botchkareva suddenly emerged into the limelight of modern publicity. Foreign correspondents sought her, photographers followed her, distinguished visitors paid their respects to her. All tried to interpret this arresting personality. The result was a riot of misinformation and misunderstanding.

Of the numerous published tales about and interviews with Botchkareva that have come under my observation, there is hardly one which does not contain some false or misleading statement. This is partly due to the deplorable fact that the foreign journalists who interpreted Russian men and affairs to the world during the momentous year of 1917 were, with very few exceptions, ignorant of the Russian language; and partly to Botchkareva’s reluctance to take every adventurous stranger into her confidence. It was her cherished dream to have a complete record of her life incorporated in a book some day. This work is the realization of that dream.

To a very considerable extent, therefore, the narrative here unfolded is of the nature of a confession. When in the United States in the summer of 1918, Botchkareva determined to prepare her autobiography. Had she been educated enough to be able to write a letter fluently, she would probably have written her own life-story in Russian and then had it translated into English. Being semi-illiterate, she found it necessary to secure the services of a writer commanding a knowledge of her native language, which is the only tongue she speaks. The procedure followed in the writing of this book was this: Botchkareva recited to me in Russian the story of her life, and I recorded it in English in longhand, making every effort to set down her narrative verbatim. Not infrequently I would interrupt her with a question intended to draw out some forgotten experiences. However, one of Botchkareva’s natural gifts is an extraordinary memory. It took nearly a hundred hours, distributed over a period of three weeks, for her to tell me every detail of her romantic life.

At our first session Botchkareva made it clear that what she was going to tell me would be very different from the stories about her related in the press. She would reveal her innermost self and break open for the first time the sealed book of her past. This she did, and in doing so completely discredited several widely circulated tales about her. Perhaps the chief of these is the statement that Botchkareva had enlisted as a soldier and gone to war to avenge her fallen husband. Whether this invention was the product of her own mind or was attributed to her originally by some prolific correspondent, I do not know. In any event it was a convenient answer to the eternal question of importunate journalists how she came to be a soldier. Unable to explain to the conventional world that profound impulse which really drove her to her remarkable destiny, she adopted this excuse until she had an opportunity to record the full story of her courageous life.

This book will also remove that distrustful attitude based on misunderstanding that has been manifested toward Botchkareva in radical circles. When she arrived in the United States, she was immediately hailed as a “counter-revolutionary,” royalist and sinister intriguer by the extremists. That was a grave injustice to her. She is ignorant of politics, contemptuous of intrigue, and spiritually far and above party strife. Her mission in life was to free Russia from the German yoke.

Being placed virtually in the position of a father confessor, it was my privilege to commune with the spirit of this remarkable peasant-woman, a privilege I shall ever esteem as priceless. She not only laid bare before me every detail of her amazing life that memory could resurrect, but also allowed me to explore the nooks and corners of her heart to a degree that no friend of hers ever did. Maintaining a critical attitude from the beginning of our association, I was gradually overwhelmed by the largeness of her soul.

Wherein does the greatness of Botchkareva lie? Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst called her the greatest woman of the century. “The woman that saved France was Joan of Arc—a peasant girl,” wrote a correspondent in July, 1917, “Maria Botchkareva is her modern parallel.” Indeed, in the annals of history since the days of the Maid of Orleans we encounter no feminine figure equal to Botchkareva. Like Joan of Arc, this Russian peasant girl dedicated her life to her country’s cause. If Botchkareva failed—and this is yet problematical, for who will dare forecast the future of Russia—it would not lessen her greatness. Success in our materialistic age is no measure of true genius.

Like Joan of Arc, Botchkareva is the symbol of her country. Can there be a more striking incarnation of France than that conveyed by the image of Joan of Arc? Botchkareva is an astounding typification of peasant Russia, with all her virtues and vices. Educated to the extent of being able to scribble her own name with difficulty, she is endowed with the genius of logic. Ignorant of history and literature, the natural lucidity of her mind is such as to lead her directly to the very few fundamental truths of life. Religious with all the fervour of her primitive soul, she is tolerant in a fashion befitting a philosopher. Devoted to her country with every fibre of her being, she is free from impassioned partisanship and selfish patriotism. Overflowing with good nature and kindness, she is yet capable of savage outbursts and brutal acts. Credulous and trustful as a child, she can be easily incited against people and things. Intrepid and rash as a fighter, her desire to live on occasions was indescribably pathetic. In a word, Botchkareva embodies all those paradoxical characteristics of Russian nature that have made Russia a puzzle to the world. These traits are illustrated almost in every page of this book. Take away from Russia the veneer of western civilization and you behold her incarnation in Botchkareva. Know Botchkareva and you will know Russia, that inchoate, invincible, agonized, striving, rising colossus in all its depth and breadth.

It must be made unmistakably clear here that the motives responsible for this book were purely personal. In its origin this work is exclusively a human document, a record of an exuberant life. It was the purpose of Botchkareva and the writer to keep the narrative down to a strict recital of facts. It is really incidental that this record is valuable not only as a biography of a startling personality, but as a revelation of certain phases of a momentous period in human history; not only as a human document, but as an historical document as well. Because Botchkareva always has been and still is strictly non-partisan and because she does not pretend to pass judgment upon events and men, her revelations are of prime importance. The reader gets a picture of Kerensky in action that completely effaces all that has hitherto been said of this tragic but typical product of the Russian intelligentsia. Kornilov, Rodzianko, Lenin and Trotzky and some other outstanding personalities of the Russian revolution appear in these pages exactly as they are in reality.

Not a single book, as far as I know, has appeared yet giving an account of how the Russian army at the front reacted to the Revolution. What was the state of mind of the Russian soldier in the trenches, which was after all the decisive factor in the developments that followed, during the first eight months of 1917? No history of unshackled Russia will be complete without an answer to this vital question. This book is the first to disclose the reactions and emotions of the vast Russian army at the front to the tremendous issues of the revolution, and is of especial value coming from a veteran peasant soldier of the rank and file.

Perhaps surpassing all else in interest is the horrible picture we get of Bolshevism in action. With the claims of theoretical Bolshevism to establish an order of social equality on earth Botchkareva has no quarrel. She said so to Lenin and Trotzky personally. But then come her experiences with Bolshevism in practice, and there follows a blood-freezing narrative of the rule of mobocracy that will live forever in the memory of the reader.

Botchkareva left the United States towards the end of July, 1918, after having attained the purpose of her visit—an interview with President Wilson. She went to England and thence to Archangel, where she arrived early in September. According to a newspaper despatch she caused the following proclamation to be posted in village squares and country churches:

“I am a Russian peasant and soldier. At the request of the soldiers and peasants I went to America and Great Britain to ask these countries for military help for Russia.

“The Allies understand our own misfortunes and I return with the Allied armies, which have come only for the purpose of helping to drive out our deadly enemies, the Germans, and not to interfere with our internal affairs. After the war is over the Allied troops will leave Russian soil.

“I, for my own part, request all loyal free sons of Russia, without reference to party, to come together acting as one with the Allied forces, who, under the Russian flag, come to free Russia from the German yoke and to help the new free Russian army with all forces, including Russia, to beat the enemy.

“Soldiers and peasants! Remember that only a full, clean sweep of the Germans from our soil can give you the free Russia you long for.”

Isaac Don Levine.

YASHKA

Part One
YOUTH

CHAPTER I
MY CHILDHOOD OF TOIL

My father, Leonti Semenovitch Frolkov, was born into serfdom at Nikolsko, a village in the province of Novgorod, some two hundred miles north of Moscow. He was fifteen when Alexander II emancipated the serfs in 1861, and remembers that historic event vividly, being fond even now of telling of the days of his boyhood. Impressed into the army in the early seventies, he served during the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-78, and distinguished himself for bravery, receiving several medals. When a soldier he learned to read and write, and was promoted to the rank of sergeant.

Returning home at the end of the war, he passed through Tcharanda, a fishermen’s settlement on the shore of a lake, in the county of Kirilov, within thirty miles of Nikolsko. No longer dressed as a moujik, military in gait and bearing, with coins jingling in his pocket, he cut quite a figure in the poor hamlet of Tcharanda. There he met my mother, Olga, the eldest daughter of Elizar Nazarev, perhaps the most destitute inhabitant of the place.

Elizar, with his wife and three daughters, occupied a shabby hut on the sandy shore of the lake. So poor was he that he could not afford to buy a horse to carry his catch to the city, and was compelled to sell it, far below the market price, to a travelling buyer. The income thus derived was not sufficient to keep the family from hunger. Bread was always a luxury in the little cabin. The soil was not tillable. Elizar’s wife would hire herself to the more prosperous peasants in the vicinity for ten kopeks (about 2¹⁄₂d.) a day to labour from sunrise to sunset. But even this additional money was not always to be had. Then Olga would be sent out to beg for bread in the neighbouring villages.

Once, when scarcely ten years old, little Olga underwent a harrowing experience, which she could never later recall without horror. Starting home with a basketful of bread, collected from several villages, she was fatigued but happy at the success of her errand, and hurried as fast as she could. Her path lay through a forest. Suddenly she heard the howling of a pack of wolves. Olga’s heart almost stopped beating. The dreadful sounds drew nearer. Overcome by fright, she fell unconscious to the ground.

When she regained her senses, she found herself alone. The wolves apparently had sniffed her prostrate body and gone their way. Her basket of bread was scattered in all directions, trampled in the mud. Out of breath, and without her precious burden, she arrived home.

It was in such circumstances that my mother grew to be nineteen, when she attracted the attention of Leonti Frolkov, who was then stopping in Tcharanda on his way home from the war. She was immensely flattered when he courted her. He even bought her a pair of shoes for a present, the first shoes she had ever worn. This captivated the humble Olga completely. She joyously accepted his marriage proposal.

After the wedding the young couple moved to Nikolsko, my father’s birthplace, where he had inherited a small tract of land. They tilled it together, and with great difficulty managed to make ends meet. My two elder sisters, Arina and Shura, were born here, increasing the poverty of my parents. My father, about this time, took to drinking, and began to maltreat and beat his wife. He was by nature morose and egotistical. Want was now making him cruel. My mother’s life with him became one of misery. She was constantly in tears, always pleading for mercy and praying to God.

I was born in July, 1889, the third girl in the family. At that time many railroads were being built throughout the country. When I was a year old, my father, who had once been stationed at Tsarskoye Selo, the Tsar’s place of residence near the capital, decided to go to Petrograd to seek work. We were left without money. He wrote no letters. On the brink of starvation, my mother somehow contrived, with the aid of kind neighbours, to keep herself and her children alive.

When I was nearly six years old a letter came from my father, the first he had written during the five years of his absence. He had broken his right leg and, as soon as he was able to travel, had started home. My mother wept bitterly at the news, but was glad to hear from her husband whom she had almost given up for dead. In spite of his cruelty toward her, she still loved him. I remember how happy my mother was when my father arrived, but this happiness did not last long. Poverty and misery cut it short. My father’s harsh nature asserted itself again. Hardly had a year gone by when a fourth child, also a girl, arrived in our family. And there was no bread in the house.

From all parts of our section of the country peasants were migrating that year to Siberia, where the Government allowed them large grants of land. My father wanted to go, but my mother was opposed to it. However, when our neighbour, Verevkin, who had left sometime before for Siberia, wrote glowingly of the new country, my father made up his mind to go, too.

Most of the men would go alone, obtain grants of land, till them, build homesteads, and then return for their families. Those of the peasants who took their families with them had enough money to tide them over. But we were so poor that by the time we got to Tcheliabinsk, the last station in European Russia, and the Government distribution point, we had not a penny left. At the station my father obtained some hot water to make tea, while my two elder sisters were sent to beg for bread.

We were assigned to Kuskovo, eighty miles beyond Tomsk. At every station my sisters would beg food, while father filled our tea-kettle with hot water. Thus we got along till Tomsk was reached. Our grant of land was in the midst of the taiga, the virgin Siberian forest. There could be no thought of immediately settling on it, so my father remained in Tomsk, while the rest of us were sent on to Kuskovo. My sisters went to work for board and clothing. My mother, still strong and in good health, baked bread for a living, while I took care of the baby.

One day my mother was expecting visitors. She had baked some cakes and bought a pint of vodka, which she put on the shelf. While she was at work I tried to lull the baby to sleep. But baby was restless, crying incessantly. I did not know how to calm her. Then my eyes fell on the bottle of vodka.

“It must be a very good thing,” I thought, and decided to give a glass to baby. Before doing so I tasted it myself. It was bitter, but I somehow wanted more. I drank the first cup and, the bitterness having somewhat worn off, I drained another. In this manner I disposed of the entire bottle. Drowsy and weak, I took the baby into my arms and tried to rock it to sleep. But I myself began to stagger, and fell with the child to the floor.

Our mother found us there, screaming at the top of our voices. Presently the visitors arrived, and my mother reached for the bottle, only to discover that it had been emptied. It did not take her long to find the culprit. I shall always remember the whipping I got on that occasion.

Toward winter my father arrived from Tomsk. He brought little money with him. The winter was severe, and epidemics were raging in the country. We fell ill one by one, father, mother, then all the girls. As there was no bread in the house, and no money to buy anything, the community took care of us till the spring, housing and feeding us. By some miracle all of us escaped death, but our clothes had become rags. Our shoes fell to pieces. My parents decided to move to Tomsk, where we arrived barefoot and tattered, finding shelter at a poor inn on the outskirts of the town.

My father would work only a couple of days a week. He was lazy. The remainder of the week he idled away and drank. My sisters served as nurse-maids, while my mother worked in a bakery, keeping the baby and me with her. We slept in the loft of a stable, with the horses stamping below us. Our bed was of straw laid on the floor, which consisted of unshaven planks thrown across logs. Soon the baker’s wife began to object to feeding an extra mouth, which belonged to me. I was then over eight years old.

“Why don’t you send her to work? She can earn her own bread,” she argued.

My mother would draw me to her breast, weep and beg for mercy. But the proprietress became impatient, threatening to throw us all out.

Finally my father came to see us, with the good tidings that he had found a place for me. I was to care for a five-year-old boy, in return for my board and eighty-five kopeks a month.

“If you do well,” my father added, “you will by and by receive a rouble.”

Such was the beginning of my career in life. I was eight and a half years old, small and very thin. I had never before left my mother’s side, and both of us wept bitterly at parting. It was a grey, painful, incomprehensible world into which I was being led by my father. My view of it was further blurred by a stream of tears.

I took care of the little boy for several days. One afternoon, while amusing him by making figures in the sand, I myself became so engrossed in the game that I quarrelled with my charge, which led to a fight. I remember feeling keenly that I was in the right. But the child’s mother did not inquire into the matter. She heard his screams and whipped me for it.

I was deeply hurt by the undeserved whipping administered by a strange woman.

“Where was my mother? Why did not she come to avenge me?”

My mother did not answer my cries. Nobody did. I felt miserable. How wrong was the world, how unjust. It was not worth while living in such a world.

My feet were bare. My dress was all in rags. Nobody seemed to care for me. I was all alone, without friends, and nobody knew of the yearning in my heart. I would drown myself, I thought. Yes, I would run to the river and drown myself. Then I would go up, free of all pain, into the arms of God.

I resolved to slip out at the first chance and jump into the river, but before the opportunity presented itself my father called. He found me in tears.

“What’s the matter, Manka?” he asked.

“I am going to drown myself, papa,” I answered sadly.

“Great Heavens! What’s happened, you foolish child?”

I then poured out my heart to him, begging to be taken to my mother. He caressed me and talked of my mother’s distress if I left my place. He promised to buy me a pair of shoes, and I remained.

But I did not stay long. The little boy, having seen his mother punish me, began to take advantage of me, making my life quite unbearable. Finally I ran away and wandered about town till dark, looking for my mother. It was late when a policeman picked me up crying in the street and carried me to the police-station. The officer in charge of the station took me to his home for the night.

His house was rather large. I had never been in such a house before. When I awoke in the morning it seemed to me that there were a great many doors in it and all of them aroused my curiosity. I wanted to know what was behind them. As I opened one of the doors, I beheld the police-officer asleep on a bed, with a pistol by his side. I wanted to beat a hasty retreat, but he awoke. He seized the pistol and, still dazed from sleep, threatened me with it. Frightened, I ran out of the room.

My father, meanwhile, had been informed of my flight and had gone to the police-station in search of me. He was referred to the police-officer’s home. There he found me, weeping in the porch, and took me to my mother.

My parents then decided to establish a home. All their capital amounted to six roubles (about 12s. 8d.). They rented a basement for three roubles a month. Two roubles my father invested in some second-hand furniture, consisting of a lame table and benches, and a few kitchen utensils. With a few kopeks from the last rouble in her purse my mother prepared some food for us. She sent me to buy a kopek’s worth of salt.

The grocer’s shop of the street was owned by a Jewess, named Nastasia Leontievna Fuchsman. She looked at me closely when I entered her shop, recognizing that I was a stranger in the street, and asked me:

“Whose are you?”

“I am of the Frolkovs. We have just moved into the basement in the next block.”

“I need a little girl to help me. Would you like to work for me?” she asked. “I’ll give you a rouble a month, and board.”

I was overjoyed and started for home at such speed that by the time I got to my mother I was quite breathless. I told her of the offer from the grocery-woman.

“But,” I added, “she is a Jewess.”

I had heard so many things of Jews that I was rather afraid, on second thoughts, to live under the same roof with a Jewess. My mother calmed my fears on that score and went to the grocer’s shop to have a talk with the proprietress. She came back satisfied, and I entered upon my apprenticeship to Nastasia Leontievna.

It was not an easy life. I learned to wait on customers, to run errands, to do everything in the house, from cooking and sewing to scrubbing floors. All day I slaved without ceasing, and at night I slept on a box in the passage-way between the shop and the house. My monthly earnings went to my mother, but they never sufficed to drive the spectre of starvation away from my home. My father earned little but drank much, and his temper became more and more harsh.

In time my wages were raised to two roubles a month. But as I grew I required more clothes, which my mother had to supply me from my earnings. Nastasia Leontievna was exacting and not infrequently punished me. But she also loved me as though I had been her own daughter, and always tried to make up for harsh treatment. I owe a great deal to her, as she taught me to do almost everything, both in her business and in housework.

I must have been about eleven when, in a fit of temper, I quarrelled with Nastasia Leontievna. Her brother frequented the theatre and constantly talked of it. I never quite understood what a theatre was like, but it attracted me, and I resolved one evening to get acquainted with that place of wonders. I asked Nastasia Leontievna for money to go there. She refused.

“You little moujitchka,[1] what do you want with the theatre?” she asked derisively.

[1] A peasant woman.

“You d——d Jewess!” I retorted fiercely, and ran out of the shop. I went to my mother and told her of the incident. She was horrified.

“But now she won’t take you back. What shall we do without your wages, Marusia? How shall we pay the rent? We shall have to go begging again.” And she began to cry.

After some time my employer came after me, rebuking me for my quick temper.

“How could I have known that you were so anxious to go to the theatre?” she asked. “All right, I’ll give you fifteen kopeks every Sunday so that you can go.”

I became a regular Sunday occupant of the gallery, watching with intense interest the players, their strange gestures and manners of speech.

Five years I worked for Nastasia Leontievna, assuming more important duties as I grew older. Early in the morning I would rise, open the shutters, knead the dough, and sweep or scrub the floors. I finally grew weary of this daily grind and began to think of finding other work. But my mother was ill and my father worked less and less, drinking most of the time. He grew more brutal, beating us all unmercifully. My sisters were forced to stay away from home. Shura married at sixteen, and I, fourteen years old, became the mainstay of the family. It was often necessary to get my pay in advance in order to keep the family from starving.

The temptation to steal came to me suddenly one day. I had never stolen anything before, and Nastasia Leontievna repeatedly pointed out this virtue in me to her friends.

“Here is a moujitchka who doesn’t steal,” she would say. But one day, on unpacking a barrel of sugar delivered at the shop, I found seven sugar-loaves instead of the usual six. The impulse to take the extra loaf of sugar was irresistible. At night I smuggled it stealthily out of the shop and took it home. My father was dismayed.

“What have you done, Marusia? Take it back immediately,” he ordered. I began to cry and said that the sugar was not really Nastasia Leontievna’s, that the error had been made at the refinery. Then my father consented to keep it.

I returned to the shop and went to bed, but my eyes would not close; my conscience troubled me. “What if she suspects that a loaf of sugar was missing? What if she discovers that I have stolen it?” And a feeling of shame came over me. The following day I could not look straight into Nastasia Leontievna’s eyes. I felt guilty. My face burned. At every motion of hers my heart quivered in anticipation of the terrible disclosure. Finally she noticed that there was something the matter with me.

“What’s wrong with you, Marusia?” she questioned, drawing me close to her. “Are you not well?”

This hurt even more. The burden of the sin I had committed weighed heavier and heavier. It rapidly became unbearable. My conscience would not be quieted. At the end of a couple of restless days and sleepless nights I decided to confess. I went into Nastasia Leontievna’s bedroom when she was asleep. Rushing to her bed, I fell on my knees and broke into sobs. She awoke in alarm.

“What’s happened, child? What is it?”

Weeping, I told the story of my theft, begging forgiveness and promising never to steal again. Nastasia Leontievna calmed me and sent me back to bed, but she could not forgive my parents. Next morning she visited our home, remonstrating with my father for his failure to return the sugar and punish me. The shame and humiliation of my parents knew no bounds.

Sundays I spent at home, helping my mother in the house. I would go to the well, which was a considerable distance away, for water. My mother baked bread all the week and my father carried it to the market, selling it at ten kopeks a loaf. His temper was steadily getting worse, and it was not unusual for me to find my mother in the yard in tears after my father had come home drunk.

I was now fifteen and began to grow dissatisfied with my lot. Life was stirring within me and quickening my imagination. Everything that passed by and beyond the narrow little world in which I lived and laboured called me, beckoned to me, lured me. The impressions of that unfamiliar world which I had caught in the theatre had taken deep root in my soul and had kindled in me new ardours and desires. I wanted to dress nicely, to go out, to enjoy life’s pleasures. I wanted to be educated. I wanted to have enough money to secure my parents for ever from starvation and to be able to lead for a time, for a day even, an idle life, without having to rise with the sun, to scrub the floor or to wash clothes.

Ah! what would I not have given to taste the sweetness, the joy, that life held. But there seemed to be none for me. All day long I slaved in the little shop and kitchen. I never had a spare rouble. Something revolted within me against this bleak, purposeless, futureless existence.

CHAPTER II
MARRIAGE AT FIFTEEN

Then came the Russo-Japanese War. And with it, Siberia, from Tomsk to Manchuria, teemed with a new life. It reached even our street, hitherto so lifeless and uneventful. Two officers, the brothers Lazov, one of them married, rented the quarters opposite Nastasia Leontievna’s shop. The young Madame Lazov knew nothing of housekeeping. She observed, me at work in the shop, and offered me work in her home at seven roubles a month.

Seven roubles a month was so attractive a sum that I immediately accepted the offer. What could not one do with so much money? Why, that would leave four roubles for me, after the payment of my mother’s rent. Four roubles! Enough to buy a new dress, a coat, or a pair of fashionable shoes. Besides, it gave me an opportunity to release myself from the bondage of Nastasia Leontievna.

I took entire charge of the housekeeping at the Lazovs. They were kind and courteous, and took an interest in me. They taught me how to behave at table and in society, and took care that I appeared neat and clean.

The younger Lazov, Lieutenant Vasili, began to notice me, and one evening invited me to take a walk with him. In time Vasili’s interest in me deepened. We went out together many times. He made love to me, caressing and kissing me. Did I realize clearly the meaning of it all? Hardly. It was all so new, so wonderful, so attractive. It made my pulse throb at his approach. It made my cheeks flame with the heat of my young blood.

Vasili said he loved me. Did I love him? If I did, it was more because of the marvellous world into which he was to lead me, than on account of himself. He promised to marry me. Did I particularly want to marry him? Scarcely. The prospect of marriage was more enticing to me because of the end it would put to my life of drudgery and misery than on account of anything else. To become free, independent, possessed of means, was the attractive prospect that marriage held for me.

I was fifteen and a half when Vasili seduced me by the promise of marriage. We lived together for a short while, when orders came to the Lazovs to leave for a different post. Vasili informed me of the order.

“Then we shall have to get married quickly, before you go,” I declared. But Vasili did not think so.

“That’s quite impossible, Marusia,” he said.

“Why?” I inquired sharply, something rising in my throat, like a tide, with suffocating force.

“Because I am an officer, and you are only a plain moujitchka. You understand, yourself, that at present we can’t marry. Marusenka, I love you just as much as ever. Come, I’ll take you home with me; you’ll stay with my parents. I’ll give you an education, then we will get married.”

I became hysterical, and throwing myself at him like a ferocious animal, I screamed at the top of my voice:

“You villain. You deceived me. You never did love me. You are a scoundrel. May God curse you.”

Vasili tried to calm me. He tried to approach me, but I repulsed him. He cried, he begged, he implored me to believe that he loved me, and that he would marry me. But I would not listen to him. I trembled with rage, seized by a fit of uncontrollable temper. He left me in tears.

I did not see Vasili for two days. Neither did his brother nor sister-in-law. He had disappeared. When he returned, he presented a pitiable sight. His haggard face, the appearance of his clothes, and the odour of vodka told the story of his two-days’ debauch.

“Ah, Marusia, Marusia,” he lamented, gripping my arms. “What have you done, what have you done? I loved you so much. And you would not understand me. You have ruined my life and your own.”

My heart was wrung with pity for Vasili. Life to me then was a labyrinth of blind alleys, tangled, bewildering. It is now clear to me that Vasili did love me genuinely, and that he had indulged in the wild orgy to forget himself and drown the pain I had caused him. But I did not understand it then. Had I loved him truly, it might all have been different. But a single thought dominated my mind. “He had promised to marry me and failed.” Marriage had become to me the symbol of a life of independence and freedom.

The Lazovs left. They gave me money and gifts. But my heart was like a deserted ruin in the winter, echoing with the howls of wild beasts. Instead of a life of freedom, my parents’ basement awaited me. And deep in my bosom lurked a dread of the unknown....

I returned home. My sisters had already noticed a different air about me. Perhaps they had seen me with Vasili at one time or another. Whatever the cause, they had their suspicions, and did not fail to communicate them to my mother. It required little scrutiny for her to observe that from a shy little girl I had blossomed forth into a young woman. And then there began days and nights of torture for me.

My father quickly got wind of what had happened at the Lazovs. He was merciless and threw himself upon me with a whip, nearly lashing me to death, accompanying each blow with epithets that burned into me more than the lashes of the whip. He also beat my mother when she attempted to intervene on my behalf.

My father would come home drunk almost every day, and immediately take to lashing me. Often he would drive me and my mother barefoot out of the house, and sometimes we shivered for hours in the snow, hugging the icy walls.

Life became an actual inferno. Day and night I prayed to God that I might fall ill and die. But God remained deaf. And still I felt that only illness could save me from the daily punishment. “I must get ill,” I said to myself. And so I lay on the oven at night to heat my body, and then went out and rolled in the snow. I did it several times, but without avail. I could not fall ill.

Amid these insufferable conditions, I met the new year of 1905. My married sister had invited me to take part in a masquerade. My father would not hear, at first, of my going out for an evening, but consented after repeated entreaties. I dressed as a boy, this being the first time I ever wore a man’s clothes. After the dancing we visited some friends of my sister’s, where I met a soldier, just returned from the front. He was a common moujik, of rough appearance and vulgar speech, and at least ten years older than myself. He immediately began to court me. His name was Afanasi Botchkarev.

It was not long afterwards that I met Botchkarev again in the house of a married sister of his. He invited me to go out for a walk, and then suddenly proposed that I should marry him. It came to me so unexpectedly that I had no time for consideration. Anything seemed preferable to the daily torments of home. If I had sought death to escape my father, why not marry this boorish moujik? And I consented without further thought.

My father objected to my marrying since I was not yet sixteen, but without avail. As Botchkarev was penniless, and I had no money, we decided to work together and save. Our marriage was a hasty affair. The only impression of it that remains with me is my feeling of relief at escaping from my father’s brutal hands. Alas! Little did I then suspect that I was exchanging one form of torture for another.

On the day following our marriage, which took place in the early spring, Afanasi and I went down to the river to hire ourselves as day labourers. We helped to load and unload lumber barges. Hard work never daunted me, and I would have been satisfied, had it only been possible for me to get along with Afanasi otherwise. But he also drank, while I did not, and intoxication invariably brutalized him. He knew of my affair with Lazov, and would use it as a pretext for punishing me.

“That officer is still in your head,” he would shout. “Wait, I’ll knock him out of it.” And he would proceed to do so.

Summer came. Afanasi and I found work with an asphalte business. We made floors at the prison, university and other public buildings. We paved some streets with asphalte. Our work with the firm lasted about two years. Both of us started at seventy kopeks (about 1s. 5¹⁄₂d.) a day, but I rose to the position of assistant foreman in a few months, receiving a rouble and fifty kopeks (about 3s. 2d.) a day. Afanasi continued as a common labourer. My duties required considerable knowledge in the mixing of the various elements in the making of concrete and asphalte.

Afanasi’s low intelligence was a sufficient trial. But his heavy drinking was a greater source of suffering to me. He made a habit of beating me, and grew to be unendurable. I was less than eighteen years old, and nothing but misery seemed to be in store for me. The thought of escape dug itself deeper and deeper into my mind. I finally resolved to run away from Afanasi.

My married sister had moved to Barnaul, where she and her husband worked as servants on a river steamer. I saved some twenty roubles, and determined to go to my sister, but I needed a passport. Without a passport one could not move in Russia, so I took my mother’s.

On the way, at a small railway station, I was held up by a police officer.

“Where are you going, girl?” he asked brusquely, eyeing me with suspicion.

“To Barnaul,” I replied, with a sinking heart.

“Have you a passport?” he demanded.

“Yes,” I said, drawing it out of my bag.

“What’s your name?” was the next question.

“Maria Botchkareva.”

In my confusion I had forgotten that the passport was my mother’s, and that it bore the name of Olga Frolkova. When the officer unfolded it and glanced at the name, he turned on me fiercely:

“Botchkareva, ah, so that is your name?”

It dawned upon me then that I had committed a fatal mistake. Visions of prison, torture and eventual return to Afanasi flashed before me. “I am lost,” I thought, falling upon my knees before the officer to beg for mercy, as he ordered me to follow him to headquarters. In an outburst of tears and sobs, I told him that I had escaped from a brutal husband, and since I could not possibly obtain a passport of my own, I was forced to make use of my mother’s. I implored him not to send me back to Afanasi, for he would certainly kill me.

My simple peasant speech convinced the officer that I was not a dangerous political, but he would not let me go. He decided that I should go with him. “Come along, you will stay with me, and to-morrow I will send you to Barnaul. If you don’t, I’ll have you arrested and sent by étape[2] back to Tomsk.”

[2] Under convoy from prison to prison.

I was as docile as a sheep. This was my first contact with the authorities, and I dared not protest. If I had any power of will it must have been dormant. Had I not found the world full of wrong since my childhood? Was not this one of the ordinary events of life? We moujiks were created to suffer and endure. They, the officials, were created to punish and maltreat. And so I was led away by the guardian of peace and law, and made to suffer shame and humiliation....

I was then free to go to Barnaul, and I resumed my journey. When I arrived there, my sister quickly found employment for me on the steamship. The work was comparatively easy, and my life rapidly took a happier turn. It was an immense relief to be away from my drunken, brutal husband.

But the relief was short-lived. Afanasi came to my mother after my disappearance to inquire concerning my whereabouts. She showed surprise upon hearing of my flight, and denied all knowledge of my destination. He returned to our house again and again. One day in his presence the postman delivered a letter from Shura. He seized it, and through it learned that I was in Barnaul.

One morning, as I was standing on the deck of the ship, which was anchored in the harbour, my eyes suddenly fell on a figure approaching the wharf. It was a familiar figure. In another moment I recognized it as that of Afanasi. My blood froze and my flesh crept as I realized what was coming.

“Once fallen into his hands my life would be one of continuous torture,” I thought. “I must save myself.”

But how could I escape? If I were on land I might still have a chance. Here all avenues are closed. There he is already approaching the gate to the wharf. He is stopping to ask a question of a guard, who nods affirmatively. Now, he is walking a little faster. His face wears a grin that strikes terror into my heart. I am trapped.... But no, just wait a moment, Afanasi. Don’t be sure of your triumph yet. I rush to the edge of the deck, cross myself and jump into the deep waters of the Ob. Ah, how thrilling it is to die! So I have outwitted Afanasi, after all. It’s cold, the water is cold. And I am going down, down.... I am glad. I am triumphant. I have escaped from the trap ... into the arms of death.

I awoke, not in heaven, but in the hospital. I was observed jumping into the river, dragged out unconscious, and revived.

The authorities questioned me as to the cause of my attempted suicide, and drew up a protocol. I told them of my husband, of his brutality, and the utter impossibility of living with him.

Afanasi was waiting in the anteroom, to see me. My attempt at suicide had seriously upset him. It aroused a sense of shame in him. Touched by my story, the authorities went out and angrily rebuked him for his maltreatment of me. He admitted his guilt, and swore that he would be gentle to me in the future.

He was then admitted to the ward in which I lay. Falling on his knees, he begged my forgiveness, repeating his oath to me and professing his love for me in the most affectionate terms. His entreaties were so moving that I finally consented to return home with him.

For a while Afanasi was truly a different man. In spite of his coarse habits, I was deeply touched by his efforts to be kind. However, that did not last long. We resumed our life of drudging toil. And vodka resumed its grip on him. Once drunk, he became just as brutal again.

Gradually life with Afanasi grew as insufferable as it had been before my escape. That summer I turned nineteen, and I saw ahead of me nothing but a long series of dreary years. Afanasi wanted me to take to drink. I resisted, and that infuriated him. He made it a habit to torment me daily. He would hold a bottle of vodka to my face, and scoffing at me for my efforts to lift myself above my condition, he would endeavour by blows and kicks to force the bitter drink down my throat. One day he even stood over me with a bottle of vodka for three whole hours, pinning me down to the ground so that I was unable to move a muscle. Still I refused to give in.

Winter came. I baked bread for a living. On Sundays I went to church to pray God to release me from my bondage. Again the thought of escaping took root in my mind. The first requisite was, of course, a passport, so I went secretly to a lawyer for advice, and he undertook to obtain one for me legally. But ill-luck attended me. When the police-constable called to deliver the passport to me, Afanasi was at home. My scheme was discovered and my hopes were dashed to the ground. Afanasi hurled himself at me and bound me hand and foot, deaf to my entreaties and cries. I thought my end had come. In silence he carried me out of the house and tied me to a post.

It was cold, very cold. He flogged me, drank, and flogged me again, cursing me in the vilest terms.

“That’s what you get for trying to escape,” he bawled, holding the bottle to my mouth. “You won’t escape any more. You will drink or you, will die!”

I was obdurate and implored him to leave me alone. He continued his flogging, however, keeping me for four hours tied to the post, till I finally broke down and drank the vodka. I became intoxicated, staggered out into the street, and fell on the pavement in front of the house. Afanasi ran after me, cursing and kicking me. We were quickly surrounded by a crowd. My neighbours, who knew of his cruelty to me, came to my help. Afanasi was roughly handled, so roughly, indeed, that he left me in peace for some time afterwards.

Christmas was drawing near. I had saved, little by little, fifty roubles (about £5 5s. 7d.). Every kopek of that money had been earned by extra toil during the night. It was all the earthly possession that I had, and I guarded it jealously. Somehow, Afanasi got wind of its hiding-place and stole it. He spent it all on drink.

I was mad with fury upon discovering the loss. What the money meant to me in the circumstances is difficult to describe. It was my blood, my sweat, a year of my youth. And he, the beast, squandered it in one orgy. The least I could do to my torturer was to kill him.

In a frenzy, I ran to my mother, who was struck by the expression of my face.

“Marusia, what ails you?”

“Mother,” I gasped, “let me have an axe. I am going to kill Afanasi.”

“Holy Mother, have mercy!” she exclaimed, raising her hands to Heaven, and falling on her knees, she implored me to come to my senses. But I was too frantic with rage. I seized an axe and ran home.

Afanasi returned, drunk, and began to taunt me with the loss of my precious savings. I was white with wrath and cursed him from the depth of my heart. He gripped a stool and threw it at me. I caught up the axe.

“I will kill you, you blood-sucker!” I screamed.

Afanasi was stupefied. He had not expected that from me. The desire to kill was irresistible. Mentally, I already gloated over his dead body and the freedom that it would bring me. I was ready to swing the axe at him....

Suddenly the door flew open and my father rushed in. He had been sent by my mother.

“Marusia, what are you doing?” he cried out, gripping my arm. The break was too abrupt, my nerves collapsed, and I fell unconscious to the floor. Upon awakening I found the police in the house, and I told them everything. Afanasi was taken to the police-station, while the police-officer, a very kind-hearted man, advised me to leave the town to get away from him.

I got my passport, but my money was gone. I could not afford to buy a ticket to Irkutsk, where Shura had moved from Barnaul. Determined to go at all costs I boarded a train without a ticket. The conductor discovered me on the way, and I cried and begged him to allow me to proceed. He proposed to hide me in the baggage car and take me to Irkutsk, upon his own conditions. Enraged, I pushed him violently from me.

“I will put you off at the next station,” he shouted at me, running out of the car. And he kept his word.

Nearly all the distance to Irkutsk was yet before me, and I wanted to get there without selling myself for the price of a ticket. There could be no thought of going back. I had to get to Irkutsk. I boarded the next train, and stealthily crouched under a seat, as it moved out of the station.

Ultimately I was discovered, but this conductor was an elderly man and yielded to my tears and entreaties. I told him of my experience with the first conductor and of my total lack of money. He allowed me to proceed, and whenever an inspector boarded the train, he would signal to me to hide under the seat. Sometimes I would spend several hours at a stretch there, concealed by the legs of some kind passengers. In this manner I journeyed for four days, finally reaching my destination—Irkutsk.

CHAPTER III
A LITTLE HAPPINESS

I arrived in Irkutsk penniless. All I possessed was what I wore. I went to look for my sister, who was in poor circumstances and ill. Her husband was out of work. One could not expect an enthusiastic welcome under such conditions. I lost little time in seeking employment, and quickly found a place as a dishwasher at nine roubles (about 19s.) a month. It was revolting work, in a filthy den patronized by drunkards. The treatment I received at the hands of the clients was so unbearable that I left at the end of the first day.

On the third day I found work in a laundry, where I had to wash hundreds of articles daily. From five in the morning till eight in the evening I was bent over the washtub. It was bitter drudgery, but I was forced to stay at it for several weeks. I lived with my sister in one small room, paying her rent. Presently I began to feel pains in my back. The hard work was telling on me. I resolved to leave the laundry, although my sister was against my doing so. I had no money saved.

Having had experience of concrete work, I applied for employment to an asphalte contractor. He was kind enough to give me a trial as an assistant foreman on a job he was doing at the Irkutsk prison. I was to take charge of ten men and women labourers.

When I began I was met by an outburst of mirth on all sides. “Ha, ha,” they laughed, “a baba holding a foreman’s place!”

I paid no heed to the ridicule and went about my business quietly and gently. The men obeyed, and as they saw that I knew what I was about, began even to gain a respect for me. I was given for a first test the preparing of a floor. Stretching myself on the ground with the rest of the party, planning and working, I managed to finish my task a couple of hours ahead of my scheduled time, and marched the men triumphantly out of the building, to the utter amazement of the other foremen. My employer was in high glee.

“Look at this baba!” he said. “She will have us men learning from her pretty soon. She should wear trousers.”

The following day I was put in charge of twenty-five men. As they still regarded me as a queer novelty, I made a little speech to them, telling them that I was a plain peasant worker, only seeking to earn my bread. I appealed to their sense of fairness to co-operate with me. Sending for some vodka and sausages I treated them and won their good will completely. My men called me “Manka” affectionately, and we got along splendidly. I was such a curiosity that the contractor himself invited me to his home for tea. His wife, who was a very kind soul, told me that her husband had been praising me to her very much.

The great test, however, came several days later. I had to prove my ability in preparing asphalte and applying it. We were all at work at four o’clock in the morning. As the quality of asphalte depends on the proportions of the elements used, the men were waiting with some amusement for my orders. But I gave them without hesitation, and when the contractor arrived at six o’clock he found the kettles boiling and the labourers hard at work, pouring the asphalte on the gravel.

This work has to be done without relaxation, amid awful heat and suffocating odours. For a whole year I stayed at it, working incessantly, with no holidays and no other rest. Like a pendulum, always in motion, I would begin my daily grind before dawn, returning home after sunset, only to eat and go to bed to gain strength for another day of cheerless toil.

Finally I broke down. I caught cold while working in a basement, and became so weak that I was taken to the Kuznetzov Hospital, where I was confined to bed for two months. When I recovered and had rested for about a week, I returned to my job, but found it occupied by a man who had been especially brought from European Russia. Besides, there wasn’t much work left for the firm in Irkutsk.

My sister and her husband moved back to Tomsk about this time, and my situation grew desperate. I looked for a place as a domestic servant, but having no references I found it impossible to obtain one. The little money I had finally gave out. My only friends in the town were the Sementovskys, neighbours of my sister. I lived with them, but they were poor themselves, and so, for days at a time, I would go without food, my only sustenance consisting of tea.

One day I applied at an employment agency and was informed, after being asked if I would agree to leave town, that a woman had been there looking for a servant, and offered to pay twenty-five roubles (about £2 12s. 9d.) a month. I instantly expressed my willingness to go to her. She appeared in the afternoon, young, beautiful, elegantly dressed, her fingers and neck adorned with dazzling jewels. She was very kind to me, inspected me carefully, and asked if I was married.

“I have been,” I replied, “but I escaped from my husband about two years ago. He was such a brutal drunkard.” I was then in my twenty-first year.

The lady, whose name was Anna Petrovna, gave me ten roubles to pay the rent that I owed. I met her at the station, where she was accompanied by several men friends, and we started together for Stretinsk, in a second-class carriage. I had never been in one before in my life. Nothing occurred on the way. I was well fed and nicely treated by her. She spoke to me of their business, and I got the idea that her husband kept a shop. Upon our arrival at Stretinsk we were met by a man and two young women. The man was introduced to me as her husband, and the two women as her foster daughters. We drove home, where I was given a neat little room.

I was getting uneasy. Things looked suspicious. “Where is the shop?” I inquired. “In the market,” was the answer. Anna Petrovna took me by the arm and caressingly suggested:

“Marusenka, will you dress up nicely? We shall have guests to-night.” And she handed me some very dainty and light garments, not at all befitting a servant. I was amazed, and objected emphatically. “I never wore such extravagant clothes, Anna Petrovna. I am a plain working girl,” and I blushed deeply. I was both ashamed and afraid. I had a premonition of evil. And when she handed me a very low-necked gown I became thoroughly frightened.

But Anna Petrovna was persuasive and persistent, and I was finally persuaded to put it on. It was so transparent that my cheeks burnt with shame. I refused to leave my room, but was coaxed by Anna Petrovna into following her. As I crossed the threshold I saw several girls sitting in company with men, drinking beer. A young man was standing apart, evidently anticipating our appearance. He moved toward us. Anna Petrovna had apparently promised me to him.

Stars were shooting before my eyes. “A house of shame!” The thought pierced my mind and made me furious. I lost all my submissiveness and meekness. Seizing my clothes, I tore them madly into shreds, stamping with my feet, cursing, shrieking and breaking everything that I could get hold of. I caught up several bottles of beer and shattered them into fragments on the floor.

This outbreak lasted but a moment. Everybody in the room was too stupefied to move before I ran out of the house, wrapped only in a shawl. I hastened to the police-station at a pace that made people in the streets think that I must be mad. Arriving there I made my complaint to the officer in charge.

To all appearance he was little touched by my story. While I prayed for mercy and relief, on my knees before him, he was regarding me with amusement. He drew me to him and proposed that I should go to live with him! I was shocked and overwhelmed. He, whose duty it was to protect me, was clearly in alliance with white slave traders.

“You are all scoundrels and murderers!” I cried out in anguish. “You ought to be ashamed to take advantage of a defenceless girl.”

He grew angry and ordered me to be locked up for the night. The policeman who took me away also made advances to me, and I had to slap him to keep him away. The cell was cold, dark and dirty. I had left my shawl upstairs. Enraged against the authorities, I broke all the windows and hammered continuously at the doors and walls, till I was set free in the morning.

But my troubles had only begun. I had no place to go. For two days I wandered about the town day and night. I was starved and worn out. Then I knelt on the bank of the river and prayed for half an hour. I prayed devoutly, pouring out my whole soul. It seemed to me that the Lord had heard my plea, and I felt relieved.

I resolved to return to Anna Petrovna after my prayer. I thought she had been so kind at first that if I begged her to let me work for her as a servant she would agree. Before entering her house I went into the little grocer’s shop nearby, and posing as the new servant of Anna Petrovna, who was a customer of the place, got a small bottle of essence of vinegar. I then entered the house and was well received. However, the solicitude for my safety angered me, and I resented Anna Petrovna’s caresses. I locked myself up in my room, getting ready to poison myself with the essence.

As I was saying my last prayers there was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I asked sharply. The reply was: “I am that young man whom you saw two days ago in the parlour. I want to help you. I realize that you are not a girl of that sort. Pray, open the door and let me talk to you.”

I naturally thought that this was another trap and answered wrathfully: “You are a villain! You are all villains! What do you want with me? What have I done to deserve torture and starvation? If I fall into your hands it will be only when I am dead. I am going to drink this poison and let you gloat over my corpse.”

The man got excited. He ran out into the yard, raised an alarm, and dragging several people with him, shouted that I had threatened to take poison. A large crowd collected round the house, and he forced the window of my room from the outside and jumped in. Seizing the glass of essence, he threw it out of the window, cursing Anna Petrovna and her house. He made every effort to calm me, expressing his admiration for my courage and virtue. His professions of sincerity and friendship were so convincing that I yielded to his invitation to go with him to the home of his parents.

My saviour, who was a handsome young man of about twenty-four, was Yakov Buk. He was a man of education, having studied at a high school for some time. His father was a butcher. I was well received by his family, fed, dressed and allowed to rest. They were kind and hospitable people. Yakov, or Yasha, as he was called by his intimates, took especial care of me. He loved me, and it was not long before he declared that he could not live without me.

I was also attracted towards him. He knew of my previous marriage and proposed that we should live together by civil agreement, without the sanction of the Church, a very common mode of marriage in Russia of late years, because of the difficulty of obtaining a divorce. I consented to his proposal, on condition that he told me the reason for his living in a small barn in the backyard, apart from the family. He agreed.

“When I was twenty,” he began, “my father was engaged in the business of supplying meat to several army regiments. He was a partner in a firm, and was assisted by my brothers and myself. Considering me the most industrious and reliable of his sons, he entrusted me once with ten thousand roubles (about £1,055 11s.) to go to buy cattle. Most of the money did not belong to him.

“On the train I was drawn into a game of cards, deliberately got up by a gang of rascals for the purpose of fleecing innocent passengers like myself. I lost all my money and my clothes to boot. Dressed in rags, with two roubles, presented to me by the gamblers, in my pocket, I alighted at the Chinese frontier in a suicidal state of mind. There I became acquainted, at an inn, with some Chinese brigands who were members of a band operating in the neighbourhood. One of them was the chief of the band.

“I told him my story, adding that I would do anything to save my father from disgrace and bankruptcy. He proposed that I should join his band in a raid on an incoming train which was carrying fifty thousand roubles. I was aghast at the suggestion. But then I had a vision of my parents turned out of their house, of their property sold at auction, and of themselves forced to go begging. It rent my heart. There was nothing to do but to accept the offer. I was led by the chief into a field and there introduced to most of the robbers. I was the only white man in the band.

“In the evening we armed ourselves with daggers, pistols and rifles and started for the railway line, where we lay in wait for the train. The thought that I had turned highwayman nearly froze my blood. It was such a violence to my own nature.

“The train was to pass at one in the morning. I prayed to God that He would save me somehow from this experience. Suddenly a body of Cossacks appeared in the distance, racing in our direction. The authorities had been on the track of this band for a long time. Every man in the gang threw down his weapons and ran into the forest. I, too, ran for all I was worth.

“The Cossacks pursued us, and I was caught. As I was a Russian and a new member of the organization, I succeeded by persistent denials of any knowledge of the band in creating doubt in the minds of my captors as to my participation in the projected raid. But I was arrested and sent to the Irkutsk prison, where I was kept for a whole year. There I came in contact with many politicals and was converted to their ideas. Finally, for lack of evidence I was set free.

“I returned home covered with disgrace. My father had arrived at an understanding with his partner whereby he was to pay back in monthly instalments the sum I had gambled away. He would not let me enter the house, but my mother defended me. There was a quarrel, which ended in an agreement that I be allowed to occupy this barn. But my father swore that he would disinherit me, giving my share of his estate to his other sons.”

I soon had occasion to discover that Yasha was considered a suspicious character by the local police, because of his imprisonment. His kindness, too, was his misfortune. Freed or escaped prisoners would sometimes visit him secretly and he would give them his last penny, piece of bread or shirt. But I liked him all the more for that, for it was this warm heart in him that had rescued me from death. We vowed to be faithful to each other for ever. And I entered upon my duties as a housewife.

The barn in which we were going to live was filled with rubbish, and had never been cleaned. I applied myself industriously to making it habitable. It was not an easy task, but I finally succeeded. We received a gift of one hundred roubles from Yasha’s parents, and decided to establish a butcher’s shop of our own. We got some lumber and built a small shop. Then Yasha bought three cows and the two of us led them to the slaughter-house, where I learned how to butcher. Yasha ran the shop. I was the first woman butcher in that neighbourhood.

One summer day, while walking in the street, I saw some boys peddling ice-cream. I had learned how to make ice-cream during my apprenticeship with Nastasia Leontievna. It occurred to me that I could make ice-cream and sell it. Finding out from the boys how much they paid for it, I offered them better cream at a lower price and asked them to come for it the next day. I immediately returned home and bought milk from Yasha’s mother, who offered to give it to me without payment upon learning the purpose for which it was intended. The ice-cream I prepared was, happily, very good, and it sold quickly. During the summer I earned two or three roubles daily by this means.

I led a life of peaceful industry with Yasha for about three years. Every morning I would get up at six o’clock and go with him to the slaughter-house. Then all day I would spend at home. There were always many poor people, mostly women and children, stranded in our town, which was the junction of a railway and river route. They would wander about the streets, begging for bread and shelter. The greater number of them would land in our barn-home. At times they would fill it completely, sleeping in rows on the floor. Frequently they were ill. I fed them, washed them, and looked after their children.

Yasha would often remonstrate with me for working so incessantly and so hard. But I had my reward in the gratitude and blessings these women bestowed upon me. There was joy in being able to serve. In addition, I sent regularly to my mother ten roubles (about £1 1s.) a month. Yasha taught me in leisure moments how to read.

My name became a household word in the neighbourhood. Wherever I went I was blessed. “There goes Buk-Botchkareva!” people would point at me, whispering. Yasha’s parents also grew very attached to me.

It all ended one evening in May, 1912. There was a peculiar knock at the door, and Yasha went out to admit a man of about thirty, well dressed, with a beard and pince-nez, of distinguished appearance. He was pale and showed signs of agitation. He stood with Yasha in the passage-way for ten minutes, talking in a whisper. He was then introduced to me as an old friend of Yasha’s. He had escaped from prison and it was our task to hide him, as his capture would mean his death. The unexpected guest was no less a person than the revolutionary who was responsible for the death of a notorious Governor of Siberia.

Yasha proceeded to remove our bed from its corner. He next removed a board in the lower part of the wall, revealing, to my great astonishment, a deep cavity in the ground underneath. Our visitor was invited to make himself comfortable there. The board was replaced and the bed restored to its former position. Yasha and I went to bed.

We had barely put out the light when there was heard a thumping of many feet around the house, followed by loud knocks at the door. It was the police! My heart was in my mouth, but I feigned sleep while Yasha opened the door. He had previously given me his revolver to hide and I concealed it in my bosom. The search continued for nearly two hours. I was dragged out of bed, and everything in the house was turned upside down.

We denied any knowledge of a political fugitive, but the sheriff took Yasha along with him. However, he was released a couple of hours later. Upon his return Yasha let the man out of the secret hole, supplied him with peasant clothes and food, harnessed our horse and drove away with him before dawn, instructing me to answer to all inquiries by saying that he had gone to buy cattle.

On the outskirts of the town a policeman, emerging from some drinking den in a semi-drunken condition, observed Yasha driving by. He attached little significance to the fact at the time, but when he reported for duty in the morning and learned of the fugitive, he said that he had seen Yasha leave the town with a stranger. I was doing some washing when the house was again surrounded by police.

“Where is your husband?” the sheriff inquired fiercely. “Gone to buy cattle,” I replied.

“Get ready to come with me!” he shouted angrily. I pleaded innocence, but in a terrible voice he informed me that I was under arrest.

I was taken to the detective bureau, where a middle-aged man, who talked very gently, and seemed very mindful of my comfort, entered into a conversation with me and even invited me to tea, which invitation I refused. He went about his work very craftily, and I was nearly caught when he asked me if I had also met the young man who had arrived at our house at nine o’clock the night before.

His information was quite correct, but I obstinately refused to admit the truth. I declared that I knew nothing of the young man he spoke of, but my examiner was patient. He was generous in his praise of my help and devotion to the poor. Promising me immunity, he urged me to tell the truth.

I would not yield, and his patience finally wore out and he struck me furiously with a rubber whip a couple of times. I was enraged and bestowed on him some epithets that led to my being locked up in a cell where two drunken street women were confined. They were of the lowest class and were venting curses on everybody. They persecuted me unceasingly. It was a horrible night that I passed there. The stench alone was sufficient to drive one mad. I was greatly relieved when morning arrived, and I was taken to the office for another examination.

I repeated my denials. There followed threats of long imprisonment, coaxings, rebukes and attempts to extort a confession from me, and I learned that Yasha had been arrested on his way back, before reaching home, so that he did not know of my own arrest. I was detained for seven days, at the end of which the authorities, having been unable to obtain anything from me, set me free.

Yasha was still in jail, and I started out to visit various officials and bureaus in his behalf. The chief of police of the province was then in town, stopping in the house of a friend of ours. I invoked the aid of the latter for the purpose of obtaining an interview with him, and finally I was admitted to the presence of a largely built man wearing the uniform of a colonel. I fell on my knees before him and protested my husband’s innocence, praying for mercy. I was so unnerved that he helped me to rise and ordered some water for me, promising to investigate the case and to secure that justice was done.

I went next to the jail, hoping to see Yasha. But there I was informed that he had been sent to Nertchinsk, about five miles from Stretinsk. I was not long in making an effort to catch up with him. Taking with me a hundred roubles, I caught the next train to Nertchinsk, just as I was, and, immediately upon my arrival there, sought an audience with the Governor, and was told to await my turn in the line. When my turn came, the Governor, reading my name from the list, asked:

“Well, what is your case?”

“My husband, your Excellency, Yasha Buk,” I replied.

“Your husband, eh? How is he your husband if your name is Botchkareva?”

“By civil agreement, your Excellency.”

“We know these civil marriages,” he remarked scoffingly. “There are many like you in the streets,” and he dismissed my case. He said it in the hearing of a room full of people. My blood rushed to my face, and I was bitterly hurt. It was with difficulty that I got a card of admission to the prison, but how profound was my grief upon being informed that Yasha had spent there only one night and had been sent on to Irkutsk.

I had barely enough money with me to buy a fourth-class ticket to Irkutsk, and hardly any of the necessaries for a journey, but I did not hesitate to take the next train westward. It took three days to reach the Siberian capital. I stopped again with the Sementovskys, who were glad to welcome me. I made my way to the Irkutsk prison, only to discover that Yasha had been taken to the Central Distribution Prison at Alexandrovsk, two miles from the railway station of Usolye. There was little time to lose. I left the same day for Usolye, whence I had to walk to Alexandrovsk.

It was late in the autumn of 1912. I started out with little food, and was soon exhausted. It was not an easy task to get to Alexandrovsk. The road lay across a river and through an island, connected by ferries.

On the way I made the acquaintance of a woman, Avdotia Ivanovna Kitova, who was also bound for the prison. Her husband was there too, and she told me why. He was drunk when the dog-catcher came to take away his favourite dog, and he shot the dog-catcher; now he was sentenced to exile, and she had decided to go along with him, with her two children, who were in Irkutsk.

At the Central Prison I received another shock. I could not be admitted without a pass. I did not know that it was necessary to have a pass I declared. But the warden in charge, a wizened old man, with a flowing white beard, shouted angrily at me, “No! No! Get out of here. It’s against the law; you can’t be admitted. Go to Irkutsk and come back with a pass, and we will let you in.”

“But I have journeyed nearly seventy miles to see him,” I pleaded, in tears. “I am worn out and hungry. Allow me to see him just for five minutes—only five short minutes. Is there no mercy in your heart for a weak woman?”

With this I broke down and became hysterical. The harsh little warden, and his assistants in the office, became frightened. Yasha was brought in for a brief interview. The few minutes that we were allowed to pass in each other’s presence gave us new strength. He told me of his experiences, and I told him of mine, and we decided that I should go to the Governor-General, Kniazev, to entreat his mercy.

It was not till late evening that I started back to the railway station. I reached the river at dusk and managed to catch a ferry to the island. But it was dark when I landed there, and I lost my way trying to cross the island to the other ferry.

I was cold, hungry, exhausted. My feet were swollen from wandering for several hours in a frantic effort to find the right path. When at last I got to the other side it must have been about midnight. I saw the lights across the water and called with all my remaining strength for the ferry. But there was no response. Only the wind, shrieking through the woods behind me, echoed my cries. I kept calling all night, but in vain.

When it dawned I gathered my last energies, stood up and called out again. This time I was observed, and a canoe was sent after me. Unfortunately, it was in charge of a boy. I was too ill to move, and he could not carry me to it. I had to creep on all-fours to the boat. With the boy’s aid, I finally found myself in the canoe. It took him a long time to ferry me across, and I was in a state of collapse by the time we reached the other side. I was taken to the Kuznetzov Hospital in Irkutsk again, where I lay dangerously ill for nearly two months. During this time I lost all my hair and half my weight.

After my visit to Yasha he naturally told his prison mates of it, being proud of my loyalty to him, but when days and weeks passed by, and I did not return, his comrades began to tease him about me.

“A fine baba is yours. You may indeed be proud of her,” they would torment him. “She has found some other husband. A lot of use she has for you, a prisoner. They are all alike, yours and ours.” Yasha took such jesting very much to heart. He was in complete ignorance of my whereabouts and finally made up his mind that I had betrayed him.

As soon as I was released from the hospital, I went to the Governor-General, in whose office I was told that Yasha had been sentenced to four years’ exile. Obtaining a pass, I went to Alexandrovsk to see him. But Yasha would not see me. Believing his comrades’ taunts, confirmed by my two months’ absence, he resolved that he had done with me. I was naturally at a loss to account for this abrupt change, and wept bitterly. Some of his acquaintances, who had been brought downstairs, saw me crying and described to him my wasted appearance. Then he came down.

Visitors were not allowed to come in contact with the prisoners at Alexandrovsk. There were two steel gratings in the office, separated by a distance of a couple of feet. The prisoner was kept behind one grating, while the persons who came to see him were placed behind the other. They could not touch each other.

This was the manner in which I was permitted to meet Yasha. We both cried like children, he, at the sight of my thinness, realizing that he had wronged me in suspecting me of faithlessness. It was a pathetic scene, this meeting behind bars. Yasha told me that he would not be exiled before May. As I offered to accompany him into exile, it was necessary for me to spend the several intervening months at some work. I also had to get permission to join Yasha in exile.

I found work with the same asphalte firm, but now as a common labourer, earning only fifty kopeks (about 1s.) a day. At intervals I would go to Alexandrovsk to see Yasha. It happened once that I was working at a job in the Irkutsk prison, and it was not long before the prisoners knew that I had a husband in Alexandrovsk, for there was a complete secret system of communication between the two prisons. On the whole, I was well treated by the convicts.

One evening, however, while at work in the hall, a trusty, catching me in a corner, attacked me. I fought hard, but he knocked me down. My cries were heard by the labourers of my party and several prisoners. Soon we were surrounded by a crowd, and a quarrel ensued between those who defended me and the friends of the trusty. An assistant warden and some guards put an end to it, drawing up a protocol of my complaint to have the trusty tried in court for assault.

As the day of the trial drew near Yasha was urged by his fellow-prisoners to influence me to withdraw my charge. He told me that the law of prison communal life demanded that I should comply with the request to drop my complaint. I knew that my refusal might mean Yasha’s death, and when I was called in court to testify against the trusty, I declared that there had been no assault and that I had no complaints to make. The case was dismissed, and my act enhanced Yasha’s reputation among the inmates of both prisons.

The winter passed. Toward Easter of 1913 I succeeded in obtaining permission to have myself arrested and sent to Alexandrovsk, in anticipation of my exile with Yasha. I was put in the women’s building, in which were detained a number of women criminals. What I endured at their hands is almost beyond description. They beat me, but I knew that complaining would make my lot more bitter. When supper was served to us the matron asked me if I had been badly treated. I said no, but she must have known better, for, turning to the women, she told them not to ill-use me.

My reply to the matron somewhat improved my relations with my prison-mates, but they forced me, nevertheless, to wait on them and do their dirty work. In addition to these sufferings, the food was putrid. The bunks in which we slept were dirty. Eight of us were in one tiny cell. I saw Yasha only once a week, every Sunday. I spent two months in this voluntary imprisonment, but it seemed like two years to me, and I looked forward eagerly and impatiently to the day of our starting on the open road to exile.

CHAPTER IV
THE ROAD TO EXILE

May had come. The Lena had opened and become navigable. The heavy iron doors of the prison were unlocked and hundreds of inmates, including myself and Yasha, were mustered out in the yard to prepare for exile.

Every winter the huge prison at Alexandrovsk would gather within its walls thousands of unfortunate human beings, murderers, forgers, thieves, students, officers, peasants and members of the professional classes, who had transgressed against the tyrannical regime. Every spring the gloomy jail would open its doors and pour out a stream of half-benumbed men and women into the wild Siberian forest and the uninhabited regions bordering on the Arctic.

All through the spring and summer this river of tortured humanity would flow through Alexandrovsk into the snow-bound north, where they languished in unendurable cold and succumbed in large numbers in the land of the six months’ night. Tens of thousands of them lie scattered from the Ural mountains to Alaska in unmarked graves....

So finally we were to breathe some fresh air. There was much stir and bustle before our party was formed. It consisted of about a thousand persons, including twenty women. Our guard was composed of five hundred soldiers. We were to go on foot to Katchugo, near the source of the Lena, a distance of about one hundred and thirty-three miles. Our baggage was loaded on wagons.

We travelled about twenty-two miles in the first day, according to schedule, stopping for the night at an exile-station on the edge of a village. There are many such stations on the Siberian roads—large wooden buildings of barn-like construction, with iron doors and grated windows. Empty inside, save for double tiers of bunks, they are surrounded by high fences, with a sentry-box at every corner. They offer no opportunity for escape.

We supped on food we had brought from the prison, and turned in for the night. Our party was divided into groups of ten, each group choosing a trusty charged with the purchasing of food. Beginning with the second day, each of us received an allowance of twenty kopeks (about 5d.).

There were about one hundred politicals in the party, the remainder being a mixed assemblage of criminals. These two classes of prisoners did not get on well together, and there was a continuous feud. Men and women were packed together, and some of the latter behaved outrageously. The filth, the vermin-infested bunks, the unimaginable stench, the frequent brawls, made our journey insufferably hideous.

Further, there was a privileged group among us consisting of the long-sentence convicts, who wore chains and were always given priority by the unwritten law of the criminal world. They always had the first use of the kettles to prepare their food. Until they had finished none of us dared approach the fire. Their word was law. They were always given the precedence. Even the soldiers and officers respected their privileges. One of them was chief of the party, and if he pledged himself, in return for more freedom for all of us, that there would be no escapes, his word would be taken without question by the Commander of the Guard, and it was never broken.

The weather was fine the first three days. We travelled twenty miles the second day and the same distance the third day, but then it began to pour, and the roads became almost impassable. The mud was frightful, but we had to walk our scheduled twenty miles. Many in our party fell ill. We looked forward to the next exile-station with eager expectation, so soaked were we and so tired. We longed for a roof and a dry floor, and nothing else. We forgot our hunger, we did not feel the vermin that night, for as soon as we reached the station we dropped into a leaden sleep.

We had a two-days’ rest upon our arrival at Katchugo, and were allowed to bathe in the Lena, our chief making himself responsible for our conduct. We found a small party waiting to join us at Katchugo.

A member of this new group was recognized by some of the exiles as one who was said to have betrayed his comrade in a raid, and was dragged for trial before the entire body.

Here I witnessed a remarkable scene, the trial of a criminal by criminals. There was as rigid a code of morals in the underworld as in any legitimate government, and just as relentless a prosecution. It was announced that there would be a trial and the privileged criminals in chains were chosen as judges. The accusers were called upon to state their charges, in the hearing of the whole party. They related how the accused man had betrayed a comrade in a robbery some time ago.

There were cries of, “Kill him! Kill him! The traitor! Kill him!” This was the usual punishment for any one found guilty. It was the custom of the authorities to watch the proceedings and never interfere with the carrying out of a sentence. As the mob was closing in on the accused, and my heart was sinking within me, the judges called for order and demanded that the man be given a hearing too. White and trembling, he got up to tell his story in detail.

“There were two of us,” he began, “in the scheme to rob a banker. It was decided that I should force my way into the house through a window, hide there and signal to my confederate at the opportune moment. I found that the banker had gone for the evening to a club, and concealed myself in a closet, waiting for his return. My comrade kept guard, without receiving any sign from me, for a couple of hours.

“When the banker returned he sent his valet to fetch something from the closet in which I was hidden. The valet discovered me, and raised an alarm, and some servants ran out to call for help just at the moment when my comrade was about to enter the house. He was caught. I managed to escape through the window and the garden. I am innocent, comrades. I have been a criminal for many years, and I have a clean, honourable record.”

He then proceeded to enumerate the most striking accomplishments of his career, the chiefs under whom he had worked, and the robbers with whom he had been associated in the past.

He must have mentioned some very important personages, as immediately a number of voices were raised in his favour. Some got up and spoke in high terms of the connections of the accused, while others scoffed at him. The deliberations lasted for several hours, resulting in the acquittal of the man.

The entire party, at the conclusion of the rest at Katchugo, was taken on board a huge roofed barge. A thousand people in one hole! The prison at Alexandrovsk, the exile-stations, were paradise in comparison with this unimaginable den. There was no air and no light. Instead of windows there were some small openings in the roof. Many fell ill, and were left lying there uncared for, some of them dying. We were so crowded that we slept almost on top of one another, inhaling the foulest of odours. Every morning we were allowed to come out on the deck of the barge, which was towed by a tug.

In our group was the woman Kitova, with her husband and two children. We cooked and ate our food together, suffering much at the hands of the criminals. There were some quiet people among the latter, and they suffered from the whims of the leaders and their lackeys.

There was one such case of a man, who happened to cross the path of an old criminal. The latter did not like the way he looked at him, and the poor man was beaten and, without any ceremony, thrown overboard and drowned. We were all locked up for it inside the barge and were denied the privilege of going out on the deck. It was the most cruel of punishments, worse than a long term in prison.

We changed barges on the way, spending about two months on the water, having journeyed about two thousand miles upon arriving at Yakutsk at the end of July. We were beached at night, but it was almost as light as day, though much colder.

Our joy at landing was indescribable. The local politicals all came out to welcome us. We were marched to the Yakutsk prison, where our roll was called. Here the women were separated from the men, and those who voluntarily accompanied their husbands were set free.

I then went to the office to inquire about the fate of Yasha, and was told that it was probable that he would be sent farther north. I was cared for by the local politicals, who sheltered me and gave me new clothing and money with which to purchase food and cook dinners for Yasha.

Yakutsk is such a distant place that the prisoners there are allowed considerable freedom. I was kindly treated by the officials when I took the dinner-pail to Yasha, and was permitted to remain with him as long as I desired, even in privacy.

Shortly afterwards Yasha was informed that he had been assigned to Kolymsk, within seven miles of the Arctic ocean, where the snow never melts and the winter never relaxes its grip. The news was a terrible shock to us. To be buried alive in some snow-bound hut! What for? To live like beasts in that uninhabitable region from which only few ever emerge alive!

There was still one ray of hope. Governor Kraft, of Yakutsk, had the reputation of being a very kind man, and he might reassign Yasha if I begged him to do so. Yasha had been advised to appeal to the Governor, and he sent me on this mission.

The Governor’s office was in his home. He received me very kindly, even shook my hand, and invited me to be seated. He was a tall, erect, black-bearded man of middle-age, and he showed every consideration for me as I told my story. I proposed to him to open a sanitary butcher’s shop in Yakutsk if he allowed Yasha to remain there, as the local butchers’ shops were inconceivably filthy.

He at first refused to consider my suggestion, but then, apparently on second thoughts, bade me follow him into his private room, where he seated me at a table, and, filling two glasses with wine, invited me to drink with him. I refused, wondering what could be the reason for this extreme friendliness. He drew nearer to me, laid his hands on my coat and removed it. Before I recovered from my astonishment he seized my hand and kissed it. No man had ever before kissed my hand, and I had an idea that it was an action that could only imply immoral intentions. Startled and indignant, I jumped to my feet.

“I will give you a thousand roubles, room for a butcher’s shop in the market, and keep your husband in Yakutsk, if you will agree to belong to me,” the Governor declared, trying to calm me.

I lost my self-control. “Scoundrels! beasts! you men are all alike!” I shouted. “All! all! all! High and low, you are all depraved.” Seizing my coat, I ran out of the house, leaving the Governor speechless.

I rushed to my lodging, locked myself in a room and wept all night. My errand had failed, and I was now faced with the choice between a living death for Yasha and selling myself. I had visions of Kolymsk, a settlement consisting of several scattered huts, inhabited by natives, lost in the vast expanse of the ice-bound steppe, and buried for months under mountains of snow. I could almost hear the howling of the Arctic winds, and the frightful growling of the polar bears.

I pictured Yasha in the midst of it, cut off from human companionship, slowly languishing in the monotony of inactivity. Then my thoughts would revert to the other alternative. To live and work with Yasha in outward happiness, and stealthily, in the night, to go to this degenerate Governor! And what if Yasha learned of my secret visits? How should I explain? And of what avail would any explanations be to him? No, it was impossible, impossible! Ah, what a terrible night it was! From visions of the frozen banks of the Arctic waters, my imagination would carry me to the revolting embraces of Governor Kraft, in a fruitless search for a way out.

Morning finally came and found me completely worn out. When my friends questioned me as to the result of my call on the Governor, I replied that he had refused my appeal. In low spirits I went to see Yasha. He quickly noticed my downcast appearance and inquired into the cause.

“I saw the Governor, and he would not change your place of exile,” I informed him dejectedly.

Yasha flared up. “You appealed to the Governor, eh? The Governor never yet refused an appeal of this sort from a woman, I am told. He is the kindest of men. The warden here just told me that the Governor has long felt the need of a first-class butcher’s shop in the town, and would never let us go if properly appealed to. I hear that you did not plead with sufficient warmth. You want to get rid of me, eh? You want to have me sent to Kolymsk to die, so that you can remain here alone and carry on with some other man.”

Yasha’s words pained me deeply. He had always been very jealous, but the strain of the imprisonment and the journey had made him more irritable. Besides, it was evident that some one from the Governor’s office had informed him that I had not sufficiently exerted myself in his behalf. I did not dare to tell him the truth, for that would have meant certain exile to Kolymsk, and I still hoped against hope.

“Yasha,” I implied, “how can you say such things of me? You know how I love you, and if you go to Kolymsk I shall go with you. I have been to the Governor, and entreated him.”

“Then go again. Fall on your knees before him, and beg harder. He is said to be such a kind man that he will surely have mercy. Otherwise, we are lost. Think of our destination, a land without sun, a colony of three or four huts, spread over a space of about ten miles, that is Kolymsk. No horses, no business, no trades! It is not a land for the living. Go and implore the Governor, and he may take pity.”

I looked at Yasha, and my heart was filled with anguish. He was only twenty-seven, but his hair was already turning grey. He looked pale and exhausted. I could not keep myself from breaking into sobs. Yasha was touched, and, placing his arm around me, apologized for his insinuation, assuring me of his devotion and appreciation of my endeavours to sustain him in his trials. I left him, with the understanding that I would call on the Governor again.

“To go or not to go,” was the thought that tormented me on the way from Yasha. I learned that the Governor was notorious as a libertine. He had married into the family of a high-placed bureaucrat for the sake of a career, and his wife was a hunch-back, spending most of her time abroad. Plucking up courage, I went to the Governor again, hoping to win his favour by a passionate plea for Yasha. As I entered the office I saw the clerks wink to one another significantly. I could scarcely keep my self-control, trembling in anticipation of another meeting with the Governor. As I was admitted into his study he stood up and smiled benevolently, saying:

“Ah, so finally you have come, my dear. Now, don’t be afraid; I won’t harm you. Calm yourself, and be seated,” and he helped me to a chair.

“Have pity on us, sir. Permit Yasha to remain here,” I sobbed.

“Now, now, don’t cry,” he interrupted me. “I will. He shall stay.”

My heart was full of gratitude, and I threw myself on the floor at his feet, thanking and blessing him for his kindness. Then it occurred to me that Yasha would be overjoyed to hear the news, and I rose to go, telling the Governor of my purpose.

“You need not tire yourself by rushing to the prison. I will have the message telephoned to the warden, with instructions to inform your husband immediately,” the Governor said, “and you may rest here a little while.”

I was overflowing with thankfulness. He poured some wine into a glass and insisted that I should drink it to refresh myself. I had never tasted wine before, and this particular wine was of a very strong quality. I felt a wave of warmth creep over me. It was so sweet and languorous. The Governor then filled my glass again and, also one for himself, invited me to drink with him. I made an effort to resist, but was too weak to withstand his persuasion. After the second glass it was much easier for the Governor to make me empty the third. I became drowsy and dull, unable to move. I had a sense of the Governor removing my clothes, but was too helpless to protest, let alone to offer physical resistance. He embraced me, kissed me, but I remained inert. I then had a sensation of being picked up by him and carried to a couch. Very dimly I seemed to realize it all, and, collecting my last strength, I attempted to struggle, but felt as if I had been drugged....

I awoke about four in the morning and found myself in unfamiliar, luxurious surroundings. For a few moments I could not understand where I was, and thought that I was dreaming. There was a strange man near me. He turned his face, and I recognized him as the Governor. I suddenly remembered everything. He made a motion to embrace me, but I cried out, jumped up, dressed myself hastily and ran from the house as if pursued.