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CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
BELFORD, CLARKE AND COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS
(1883?)
He looked at me with an expression in his eyes which passed at once from hopelessness to bewilderment. He seemed to be uncertain whether it was a phantom or a man he was looking at. He rose to his feet in a dazed, stupefied way, and stood face to face with me, whilst his wretched fellow-prisoners pressed curiously around us.
"Mr. Vaughan! Here! In Siberia!" he said, as one not believing his own senses.
"I have come from England to see you. This is the prisoner I am looking for," I said, turning to the officer who stood at my side, mitigating to some extent the noxiousness of the atmosphere by the cigarette he puffed vigorously.
"I am glad you have found him," he said, politely. "Now the sooner we get outside the better, the air here is unhealthy."
Unhealthy! It was fetid! I was filled with wonder, as I looked at the bland French-speaking captain at my side, at the state of mind to which a man must bring himself before he could calmly stand in the midst of his fellow-creatures and see such misery unconcernedly —— could even think he was but doing his duty. Perhaps he was. It may be the crimes of the prisoners forbade sympathy. But, oh! to stand there in the midst of those poor wretches, turned for the time into little more than animals! I may be wrong but it seems to me that the jailor must have a harder heart than the worst of his captives!
"I can see him —— talk to him alone?" I asked
"Certainly; so-you are authorized to do. I am a soldier; you in this matter are my superior officer."
"May I take him to the inn?"
"I think not. I will find you a room here. Please follow me. Phew! that is a relief."
We were now outside the prison door and breathing fresh air once more. The captain led me to a kind of office, dirty and furnished barely enough, but a paradise compared to the scene we had just quitted.
"Wait here; I will send the prisoner to you."
As he turned to leave me I thought of the miserable dejected appearance Ceneri had presented. Let him be the greatest villain in the world, I could not keep from wishing to do some little thing to benefit him.
"I may give him food and drink?" I asked.
The captain shrugged his shoulders and laughed good temperedly.
"He ought not to be hungry. He has the rations which government says are sufficient. But then you may be hungry and thirsty. If so, I do not see how I can stop you sending for wine and food —— of course for yourself."
I thanked him and forthwith despatched my guide in quest of the best wine and meat he could get. Wine, when ordered by a gentleman, means in Russia but one thing —— champagne. At an inn of any standing champagne, or at least its substitute, wine of the Don, may be procured. My messenger soon returned with a bottle of the real beverage and a good supply of cold meat and white bread. As soon as it was placed on the rough table a tall soldier led in my expected guest
I placed a chair for Ceneri, into which he sank wearily. As he did so I heard the jingle of the irons on his legs. Then I told my interpreter to leave us. The soldier, who no doubt had received his orders, saluted me gravely and followed his example. The door closed behind him, and Ceneri and I were alone.
He had somewhat recovered from his stupefaction, and as he looked at me I saw an eager, wistful expression on his face. Drowning as he was, no doubt he caught at the straw of my unexpected appearance, thinking it might assist him to freedom. Perhaps it was to enjoy a moment or two brightened by the faintest or wildest gleam of hope, made him pause before he spoke to me.
"I have come a long, long way to see you, Dr. Ceneri," I began.
"If the way seemed long to you, what has it been to me? You at least can return when you like to freedom and happiness."
He spoke in the quiet tone of despair. I had been unable to prevent my words sounding cold and my voice being stern. If my coming had raised any hope in his heart, my manner now dispelled it. He knew I had not made the journey for his sake.
"Whether I can go back to happiness or not depends on what you tell me. You may imagine it is no light matter which has brought me so far to see you for a few minutes."
He looked at me curiously, but not suspiciously. I could do him no harm —— for him the outer world was at an end. If I accused him of fifty murders, and brought each one home to him, his fate could be no worse. He was blotted out, erased; nothing now could matter to him, except more or less bodily discomfort. I shuddered as l realized what his sentence meant, and in spite of myself, a compassionate feeling stole over me.
"I have much of importance to say, but first let me give you some wine and food."
"Thank you," he said, almost humbly. "You would scarcely believe, Mr. Vaughan, that a man may be reduced to such a state that he can hardly restrain him self at the sight of decent meat and drink."
I could believe anything after the interior of the ostrog. I opened the wine and placed it before him. As he ate and drank, I had leisure to observe him attentively.
His sufferings had wrought a great change in him. Every feature vas sharpened, every limb seemed slighter —— he looked at least ten years older. He wore the Russian peasants' ordinary garments, and these hung in rags about him. His feet, swathed in fragments of some woollen material, showed in places through his boots. The long, weary marches were telling their tale upon his frame. He had never given me the idea of being a robust man, and as I looked at him I thought that whatever work he might be put to, it would not pay the Russian Government for his sorry keep. But the probabilities were, they would not have to keep him long.
He ate not voraciously, but with a keen appetite. The wine he used sparingly. His meal being finished, he glanced around as if in quest of something. I guessed what he wanted and passed him my cigar-case and a light. He thanked me and began to smoke with an air of enjoyment.
For a while I had not the heart to interrupt the poor wretch. When he left me it must be to return to that hell peopled by human beings. But time was slipping by. Outside the door I could hear the monotonous step of the sentry, and I did not know what period of grace the polite captain might allow to his prisoner.
Ceneri was leaning back in his chair with a kind of dreamy look on his face, smoking slowly and placidly, taking as it were, everything he could out of the luxury of a good cigar. I asked him to drink some more wine. He shook his head, then turned and looked at me.
"Mr. Vaughan," he said; "yes, it is Mr. Vaughan. But who and what am I? Where are we? Is it London, Geneva, or elsewhere? Shall I awake and find I have dreamed of what I have suffered?"
"I am afraid it is no dream. We are in Siberia."
"And you are not come to bear me good news? You are not one of us —— a friend trying at the peril of your life to set me free?"
I shook my head. "I would do all I could to make, your lot easier, but I come with a selfish motive to ask some questions which you alone can answer."
"Ask them: You have given me an hour's relief from misery; I am grateful."
"You will answer truly?"
"Why not? I have nothing to fear, nothing to gain, nothing to hope. Falsehood is forced on people by circumstances; a man in my state has no need of it."
"The first question I have to ask is —— who and what is that man Macari?"
Ceneri sprang to his feet. The name of Macari seemed to bring him back to the world. He looked no longer a decrepit man. His voice was fierce and stern.
"A traitor! a traitor!" he cried. "But for him I should have succeeded and escaped. If he were only standing in your place! Weak as I am, I could find strength enough to cling on to his throat till the vile breath was out of his accursed body!"
He walked up and down the room, clenching and unclenching his hands.
"Try and be calm, Dr. Ceneri," I said. "I have nothing to do with his plots and political treasons. Who is he? What is his parentage? Is Macari his name?"
"The only name I ever knew him by. His father was a renegade Italian who sent his son to live in England for fear his precious blood should be spilt in freeing his country. I found him a young man and made him one of us. His perfect knowledge of your tongue was of great service; and he fought —— yes, once he fought like a man. Why did he turn traitor now? Why do you ask these questions?"
"He has been to me and asserts that he is Pauline's brother."
Ceneri's face, as he heard this intelligence, was enough to banish lie number one from my mind. My heart leaped as I guessed that number two would be disposed of as easily. But there was a terrible revelation to be made when I came to ask about that.
"Pauline's brother!" stammered Ceneri. "Her brother! She has none."
A sickly look crept over his features as he spoke —— a look the meaning of which I could not read.
"He says he is Anthony March, her brother."
"Anthony March!" gasped Ceneri "There is no such person. What did he want —— his object?" he continued feverishly.
"That I should join him in a memorial to the Italian Government, asking for a return of some portion of the fortune you spent."
Ceneri laughed a bitter laugh. "All grows clear," he said. "He betrayed a plot which might have changed a government for the sake of getting me out of the way. Coward! Why not have killed me and only me? Why have made others suffer with me? Anthony March! My God! that man is a villain!"
"You are sure that Macari betrayed you?"
"Sure! yes. I was sure when the man in the cell next to mine rapped it on the wall. He had means of knowing."
"I don't understand you."
"Prisoners can sometimes talk to each other by taps on the wall which divides their cells. The man next me was one of us. Long before he went raving mad from the months of solitary confinement, he rapped out, over and over again, 'Betrayed by Macari.' I believed him. He was too true a man to make the accusation without proof. But until now I could not see the object of the treason."
The easiest part of my task was over. Macari's assumed relationship to Pauline was disposed of. Now if Ceneri would tell me, I must learn who was the victim of that crime committed years ago, and what was the reason for the foul deed. I must learn that Macari's explanation was an utter falsehood, prompted by malice, or else my journey would have benefited me nothing Is it any wonder that my lips trembled as I endeavored to approach the subject?
"Now, Dr. Ceneri," I said, "I have a question of weightier import to ask. Had Pauline a lover before I married her?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Surely you nave not come here to ask that question —— to have a fit of jealousy cured?"
"No," I said; "you will hear my meaning later on. Meanwhile, answer me."
"She had a lover, for Macari professed to love her, and swore she should be his wife. But I can most certainly say she never returned his love."
"Nor loved any one else?"
"Not to my knowledge. But your manner, your words are strange. Why do you ask? I may have wronged you, Mr. Vaughan, but save for the one thing her mind, Pauline was fit to be your wife."
"You did wrong me —— you know it. What right had you to let me marry a woman whose senses were disarranged? It was cruel to both."
I felt stern and spoke sternly. Ceneri shifted in his chair uneasily. If I had wished revenge it was here. Gazing on this wretched, ragged, broken-down man, and knowing what awaited him when he left me, would have filled the measure desired by the most vengeful heart.
I wanted no revenge on the man. His manner told me he spoke the truth when he denied that Pauline had ever been in love. As, when last I gazed on her fair face, I knew it would, Macari's black lie had been scouted. Pauline was innocent as an angel. But I must know who was the man whose death had for a while deprived her of reason.
Ceneri was glancing at me nervously. Did he guess what I had to ask him? "Tell me," I said, "the name of the young man murdered by Macari in London, in the presence of Pauline; tell me why he was killed?"
His face grew ashen. He seemed to collapse —— to sink back into his chair a helpless heap, without the power of speech or movement, without the power of turning his eyes from my face.
"Tell me," I repeated —— "Stay, I will recall the scene to you, and you will know I am well informed. Here is the table; here is Macari, standing over the man he has stabbed; here are you, and behind you is another man with a scar on his cheek. In the back room, at the piano, is Pauline. She is singing, but her song stops as the murdered man falls dead. Do I describe the scene truly?"
I had spoken excitedly. I had used gestures and words. Ceneri's ears had drunk in every syllable; his eyes had followed every gesture. As I pointed to the supposed position of Pauline, he had looked there with a quick, startled glance, as if expecting to see her enter the door. He made no attempt to deny the accuracy of my representation.
I waited for him to recover. He was looking ghastly. His breath came in spasmodic gasps. For a moment I feared he was about to die then and there. I poured out a glass of wine; he took it in his trembling hand and gulped it down.
"Tell me his name?" I repeated. "Tell me what he had to do with Pauline?"
Then he found his voice. "Why do you come here to ask me? Pauline could have told you. She must be well, or you could not have learned this."
"She has told me nothing."
"You are wrong. She must have told you. No one else saw the crime —— the murder: for a murder it was."
"There was another present besides the actors I have named."
Ceneri started and looked at me.
"Yes, there was another; there by an accident. A man who could hear but not see. A man whose life I pleaded for as for my own."
"I thank you for having saved it."
"You thank me. Why should you thank me?"
"If you saved any one's life it was mine. I was that man."
"You that man!" He looked at me more attentively. —— "Yes: now the features come back to me. I always wondered that your face seemed so familiar. Yes. I can understand —— I am a doctor —— your eyes were operated upon?"
"Yes —— most successfully."
"You can see well now —— but then! I could not be mistaken, you were blind —— you saw nothing."
"I saw nothing, but I heard everything."
"And now Pauline has told you what happened?"
"Pauline has not spoken."
Ceneri rose and in great agitation walked up and down the room, his chains rattling as he moved.
"I knew it," he muttered, in Italian, "I knew it —— such a crime cannot be hidden."
Then be turned to me. "Tell me how you
have learned this? Teresa would die before she spoke.
Petr
From his last words I presumed that Petróff was the third man I had seen, and also the fellow-prisoner who had denounced Macari.
"Was it Macari —— that double-dyed traitor? No —— he was the murderer —— such an avowal would defeat his ends. Tell me how you know?"
"I would tell you, but I suspect you would not believe me."
"Believe you!" he cried, excitedly. "I would believe anything connected with that night —— it has never left my thoughts —— Mr. Vaughan, the truth has come to me in my captivity. I am not condemned to this life for a political crime. My sentence is God's indirect vengeance for the deed you witnessed."
It was clear that Ceneri was not such a hardened human as Macari. He, at least, had a conscience. Moreover, as he appeared to be superstitious, he would perhaps believe me when I told him how my accurate knowledge had been obtained.
"I will tell you," I said, "provided you pledge your honor to give me the full history of that fearful crime and answer my questions fully and truthfully."
He smiled bitterly. "You forget my position, Mr. Vaughan, when you speak of 'honor.' Yet I promise all you ask."
So I told him, as shortly and simply as I could, all that had occurred; all I had seen. He shuddered as I again described the terrible vision.
"Spare me," he said, "I know it all. Thousands of times I have seen it or have dreamed it —— it will never leave me. But why come to me? Pauline, you say, is recovering her senses —— she would have told all."
"I would not ask her until I saw you. She is herself again, but I am a stranger to her —— and unless your answer is the one I hope for, we shall never meet again."
"If anything I can do to atone —— " he began, eagerly.
"You can only speak the truth. Listen. I taxed the murderer, your accomplice, with the crime. Like you he could not deny it, but he justified it."
"How —— tell me," panted Ceneri.
For a moment I paused. I fixed my eyes upon him to catch every change of feature —— to read the truth in more than words.
"He vowed to me that the young man was killed by your instructions —— that he was —— oh God, how can I repeat it! —— the lover of Pauline, who having dishonored her, refused to repair his fault. The truth! Tell me the truth!"
I almost shouted the last words —— my calmness vanished as I thought of the villain who had, with a mocking smile, coupled Pauline's name with shame.
Ceneri, on the other hand, grew calmer as he grasped the purport of my question. Bad as the man might be, even stained with innocent blood, I could have clasped him in my arms as I read in his wondering eyes the baselessness of the foul accusation.
"That young man —— the boy struck down by Macari's dagger —— was Pauline's brother —— my sister's child —— Anthony March!"
(End of chapter twelve)
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