as he stood before the prelates of the church to receive the holy blessing. He drew out a small blue-tinted handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Then for the first time he fairly raised his head to survey the assemblage about him. Surely the strangest phalanxes ever monarch walked between were those on his either side. To his left was massed all the brilliance and pomp of empire. To his right the plainest body of men ever got together on this planet to deliberate the destiny of a nation. France, in her most radical days, adhered less rigidly to the forms and appearances of democracy.

The ceremonials of the church lasted a short twenty minutes. Yet each Te Deum seemed an agony of protracted suspense; and royalty suffered. Several times I heard a clucking sound in the throat of the Emperor as he fought hard with terrible nervousness. Thrice he wiped his eyes. His left hand, which was gloved, was held before him and his fingers twitched incessantly. The Empress and Dowager-Empress alone in all the cortège gave no sign of strain. Theirs was supreme poise. The grand dukes, who stood in the ranks next behind, throughout the ceremonial continued to cross themselves with most extraordinary determination. Their vigorous piety far exceeded that of the gold-mantled ecclesiastics themselves. When the last chant was sung, and the last blessing bestowed, the royal suite took its place, the ladies to the left of the throne, the men close to the representatives of the army. The Czar remained standing in the center of the room. A single silhouette against an infinite skyline could not be more solitary. Again his breast heaved and his shoulders twitched—more noticeable now than at any previous time. This was the final effort for self-command in the supreme trial which he now faced. The effort was successful. From that moment until the end the Czar looked, acted, and spoke with a degree of manliness, even kingliness.

When all were in place and at rest, he stepped forward.

Witte, towering above all who stood near him, swayed indifferently backward and forward in the front row of the bureaucrats. His shrewd face was touched with a supercilious smile as the Czar walked past him—not two yards away. Seven steps approached the throne. These the Emperor ascended lightly, but with rare dignity. A mantle of ermine lay across the throne, draped with careful carelessness. With tolerable ease the Emperor sat briefly on his throne. Four stools stood near the four corners of the dais. On those to the Emperor’s right hand were the crown and orb; to his left, the scepter and seal of state.

An aide advanced and handed him his speech—a single broad page, pasted on cardboard. This he took standing. Quietly and firmly he assumed position, left foot slightly forward, the paper held easily with both hands.

There was naught of haste in his actions. His head lifted, but not for speech. He merely looked over the throng. The positions of the respective sides were now reversed. The bureaucracy was to the right, and the Duma to his left. Nearest the throne, to the right, the Empresses, grand duchesses and other grand ladies of the court. Then followed in successive groups, whose stations were indicated by crimson palings, the several classes of court, official, military, and naval dignitaries. Next to the ladies were the senators, ministers, and members of the Council of the Empire in emblazoned uniforms of scarlet and gold. Below them, adjutant ministers, dignitaries from other cities, and the second rank of the court officials. Then the Emperor’s aides-de-camp and personal attendants. Next, the most gorgeous group of all—the army and navy. Stout old generals with twenty and even twenty-five medals bedecking their breasts; broad sashes of scarlet, light blue and cardinal, some worn over the left shoulder, others over the right—as if the wonderful uniforms of every blazing color known to fabric makers were not in themselves sufficiently striking. The slightly quieter, though equally magnificent, uniforms of the admirals alternated with the army. There were Cossack commanders in Circassian dress of cassock effect, and stately hussars with fur-burdened capes, and yards of gold and silver cord, draped and tasseled—uniforms as fantastic as dazzling. Last of all, in the section farthest from the throne, the foreign ambassadors. Not the diplomatic corps—only the ambassadors, for each individual standing-place was at a premium. The throne was the only chair in the room; the Emperor the only one permitted even momentary repose. These bureaucratic groups were solidly packed. The space seemed to have been measured off to the inch, and invitations issued accordingly. On the opposite side of the salon, in looser order, stood the Duma. Contrast of contrasts! No gilt or tinsel there. Simply men. Men from the workaday world. The Roman Catholic bishop elected from Vilna wore his ecclesiastic robes of purple and the Greek priests wore theirs of dark, coarse stuffs. The Mussulmen were turbaned, and the Polish peasants wore their national cloaks of homespun white, traced with homely embroidery in red and black. Some of the university professors wore regulation evening clothes, and some of the lawyers appeared in ordinary frock coats. The working-men wore short jackets, while the peasants were in their simple peasant dress—long, blue coats of coarse material, and boots knee-high. A few had pinned on war-medals, indicating that they had served their country on the battlefield. The mud and dust of the fields still clung to their boots.

The two sides of the room glared and stared one at the other. The Duma evinced a curious interest in the spectacle the bureaucracy presented. Most of them seemed to wonder what all that display had to do with the business in hand. The bureaucrats, on the other hand, were much more moved. Some laughed with obvious scorn and derision. Others were sad and depressed. Others were merely amused. Only here and there was a face whose seriousness indicated a complete appreciation of the full portent of the scene. It may have been fancy, but to me it seemed that Count Witte alone understood. At all events he was the only man among all the bureaucrats who, at the close of the ceremony, spoke to any of the members on the Duma side of the room. The open avenue through the room from the door to the throne was like a yawning chasm, across which no word might pass, even of formal courtesy. “To us it is like letting the revolution into the palace,” said one lady of the court to me. So the whole bureaucratic side seemed to view it. No enemy could have viewed another with more open and keener suspicion. The Duma, it must be added, was the better behaved. The members were quiet, dignified, and obviously patient, through the extraordinarily long religious ceremony and a tedious hour of waiting.

In the first three months of the year over seventy thousand men and women had been snatched from their homes and placed in prison or sent into exile. The release of all of these people, against many of whom there was no known charge, certainly no evidence, was what the country at large awaited with ill-suppressed eagerness. “The Emperor will grant an amnesty in his speech from the throne,” said popular rumor, and it was for this that the Duma listened when the Emperor stood before the throne, speech in hand, about to utter the first words. The attitude of an empire hung on the temper of that address. The quiet that fell over the assembly was the quiet of a mountain midnight. Not a dress rustled, not a foot scraped, not a sword jangled, no breath was audible. The eyes of the Emperor returned from their survey of the room and riveted on the paper he held. His lips parted, and the first syllable rang clearly to the farthest corners of the room: “The right, given me by divine authority, to care for the Fatherland, has prompted me to call upon representatives elected by the people to aid me in legislative work.

“With the ardent belief in the bright future of Russia, I greet you here as the best people whom I have commanded my beloved subjects to elect. Hard and complicated is the work before you. I trust, however, that your love for the Fatherland, and your ardent desire to serve her, will inspire and unite you. And I will guard the liberties given by me with the firm belief that you will not spare your power and effort to faithfully serve the Fatherland in giving relief to the peasants, so dear to my heart, in educating the people, in helping them to prosperity, remembering at the same time that for moral greatness, and the prosperity of the country, not freedom only is necessary, but also order resting upon right.

“It is my ardent desire to see my people happy, and to leave to my son a powerful, prosperous, and civilized country. God shall bless the labor that is before us, in union with the Council of the Empire and the Duma. And let this day signify also the great event of the moral renovation of Russia. Let this be the day of regeneration of her best forces.

“Get devotedly to the work to which I have called you, and justify worthily the trust of the Emperor and the people.

“God help me and you.”

Both hands dropped to his sides as the last words were spoken, and he remained where he stood as though to watch the effect of the speech upon the assemblage. The military band in a balcony at the rear struck up the national anthem—most beautiful and magnificent of national anthems. Hundreds of voices from the side of the bureaucrats rose as one with a cheer and a shout of “Bravo! Bravo!” The roar was bewildering. “Bravo! Bravo!” However could one room hold such volumes of sound! But the Emperor’s ears were not deceived; nor his eyes. The shout in all its mightiness came from one side of the room. The Emperor looked long and earnestly at the Duma—not a voice was raised, not a cheer echoed, from that entire side. They were not even swayed by the prolonged cheering of the bureaucrats. Generals, old and decrepit, court cavaliers and ministers yelled themselves into a frenzy. The simple, ignorant peasants, of whom it had been said a thousand times—“Ugh! They’ll lose their heads first thing,” these men stood like stone, absolutely impassive. They knew in the first place that the “right given me by divine authority which prompted me to call upon representatives of the people” was merely an aggregation of words. Revolution prompted the Duma. Nothing more nor less. “Uprisings” and “disturbances” all over the country. And no word of amnesty! Nothing!

The Emperor slowly descended from the throne and the royal procession formed for exit. The band played its loudest. The courtiers and bureaucrats kept up their shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!” Whatever of spontaneity there may have been in the first outburst was now gone, and the words were pronounced in a unison which became rhythmic. Before the Emperor had reached the door even these shouts had subsided. His own aides-de-camp and the generals alone maintained the noise. A paid claque could not have been more marked.

At first the Emperor bowed to the Duma. But his bow was chill and formal, his eye cold and severe. To his right he turned with warmth. Generally he recognized a face and smiled, but to the left his expression was statuesque. The ladies in his train did much better. Several of them quite ignored the glittering array on the right, and bowed and smiled most graciously to the Duma members, and with more seeming spontaneity and sincerity.

After the imperial cortège, the bureaucracy filed out in a brilliant pageant, and last of all the Duma.

The spectacle had surely been in entire keeping with the ostentatious traditions of czardom, but to the most reactionary bureaucrats it was patent that the “simple peasants” had not been impressed as had been expected. They had enjoyed it—as they would have enjoyed a military manœuver. They had watched it as a passing show, and were quite at a loss as to the reason for it, or the connection between it and their business.

Many freely expressed their amazement at the gowns of the ladies. There were scores among the Duma members who had never before set eyes on grand ladies, and they could not repress their surprise at their décolleté cut. “Why did the Emperor bring us here?” asked one naïvely, “was it to show us his women?”

“I thought the Emperor’s house would be full of holy pictures,” said another sorrowfully, in the first blush of disillusionment.

“If the government tells us again that they have no money for famine, we can tell them where they might get a few copecks,” added another with a significant shake of his peasant head.

The magnificent ceremony with all its brilliant pageantry, the most gorgeous spectacle of a traditionally spectacular court, completely failed to inspire the confidence of the working-men and peasants in their olden rulers. On the contrary, it inspired amazement, discontent, and distrust.

The Czar, who is probably the greatest living genius for missing opportunities, read his empty speech—read it well, eloquently—and for the first time in his life saw face to face real men who were not fawning sycophants, and who dared express their true feelings when these were not of admiration or of approbation.

To facilitate the transportation of the Duma members from the Winter Palace to the Tauride Palace, where the sessions were to be held, they were loaded into boats and conveyed most of the way by water.

Near the Tauride Palace, looking on the river Neva, is a frowning prison in which are many political prisoners. As the boats were passing this grim place handkerchiefs began to appear, shoved out between the iron bars, and frantically waved in greeting. Across the water rang the cry of “Amnesty!” Some of the peasants who had stood stolid and unmoved through all the Winter Palace function were deeply touched by the appeals from behind the prison gratings, and not a few among them wept.

The first sitting was, of necessity, brief. There was an ecclesiastic ceremony, the administration of the oath, and the election of a president. The hum of “Amnesty” was in the air, but the demands of formal procedure would not permit of the taking hold of actual business until the president had announced himself at Peterhof—therefore amnesty, by unofficial but unanimous understanding, was scheduled for the first business of the next sitting.

But short as this session was—one hour and twenty minutes—the “first shot” was fired by the Duma when a group of bureaucratic intruders were ejected. The staunch old liberal, Petrounkevitch, climbed to the tribunal and shouted “Let freedom, liberty, and amnesty be the words of Russia’s first parliament.” The Duma echoed the words, and cries of “Liberty!” “Amnesty!” were sent ringing through the chamber.

M. Mouromseff, a sturdy collegiate of liberal traditions, was elected president, Prince Dolgorukoff, of ancient lineage, first vice-president. Twenty-two distinct peoples were represented in the Duma, divided by religion as follows:

Russian Orthodox, 339; Catholics, 63; Protestants, 13; Old Believers, 4; Baptists, 1; Jews, 11; Mohammedan, 14; Buddhists, 1; no religion, 1.

With regard to education, a large proportion, 184 in number, never attended any kind of schools; 111 went through the lower grades; 61 through the middle, and 189 either finished or partially finished university courses. In spite of the large number who never attended school, only two were unable to read or write.

By parties the members were classified as follows:

Constitutional Democrats, 153; Group of Toil, 107; Autonomous, 63; Party of Democratic Reforms, 4; Octoberists, 13; Moderates, 2; Trade and Industry, 1; unclassified, 105.[10] The average age of the members was 39.

The first business session began with the reading of many congratulatory telegrams, from the Diet of Finland, the municipality of Prague, the Prince of Montenegro, and the large cities of the empire. Toward the last were several from political exiles and prisoners. The spontaneous applause which broke from practically the entire Duma when these telegrams were read was louder and more sustained than for all of the others put together. The president was obliged to read them a second, then a third time, and then, at the suggestion of some one on the floor, another round of applause was given standing. I counted only eight men who remained in their seats. Amnesty was made the first demand of the Duma. Not a partial amnesty, but a full and complete amnesty to all political prisoners, including terrorists.

Telegrams, letters, petitions began daily to come from all parts of the country to the deputies urging this and other demands. “If we fail to get the things we have come for, we dare not return to our homes,” said many deputies. The general feeling at the time was that if the Duma failed or was suppressed, it would be not the Duma merely that was put down, but the country. For in a degree difficult to appreciate the Duma was the country. It was the most absolutely representative organization ever brought together. Not of people merely, but of professionals and classes. The United States House of Representatives is largely composed of lawyers and professional politicians. The House of Commons of “gentlemen.” The French Chambre of journalists and men of letters. Not so the Duma. An analysis of the personnel and professions of the members showed that twenty-three were lawyers; fifteen, university professors; six, high-school teachers; fifteen, doctors; nine,

authors; seventy-five, “Zemstvo specialists”—that is to say, men who have devoted themselves to the work of local governing bodies, men of means generally; twelve, rich landowners; ten, marshals of nobility; two, engineers; nine, “functionaries”—men appointed by favor to positions of sinecure in connection with public offices; seven, common-school teachers; four, Greek priests; three, Roman Catholic priests; three, Mohammedan moullahs; one, Jewish rabbi; one, Romanist bishop; fifteen, workmen; four, merchants; two, manufacturers; two, students; and one hundred and sixty-six, peasants. The atmosphere of the ensemble was, at first glance, intellectual, but the peasants and workmen together formed a powerful block to any step proposed by the intellectuals that did not meet with their approval. They were the real radicals, the extreme left, of the Duma.

The “intellectuals” mostly belonged to the Constitutional Democratic party. The program of this party was not a bad one if it had only worked. But most of the members were over-cautious, and inclined to be humble and mild in their language, to crave the Emperor’s grace, for example, for the political amnesty, while the peasants and the workmen said: “We ask nothing. We demand—not grace and pardon, but justice.” The “right” formed so small a group that they were entirely without influence.

The sessions of this remarkable body were characterized by orderliness, clearness, and real eloquence.

An interesting scene was witnessed when the question came up: Should the Duma attend the reception given in its honor by the city of St. Petersburg? The workmen replied: “If the city of St. Petersburg has money to spend in banqueting us, let them give it to the unemployed of the city, of whom there are so many.” The intellectuals said: “We can attend no banquets or festivities while so many of our former colleagues are in prison or in exile. Until the amnesty is declared, we will not make merry,” and so the Duma continued sitting on the night of the banquet and reception.

The reply to the throne speech[11] was carried without one dissenting voice. The eight reactionaries who did not care to sign it left the hall rather than vote against it. Those who believe the Russian people too much split into parties and factions ever to accomplish definite results might recall this unanimity which indicated the ability to get together and stand together in time of crisis.

Despite the orderliness which characterized the Duma from the start, the authorities continued to maintain a great show of force everywhere. The Semenovsky regiment, which had put down the Moscow insurrection, was quartered in barracks adjoining the Duma building, and the following secret order was issued to the soldiers:

“How to act—in case of alarm and in the suppression of armed uprising of the population:

“At the first call from the police for help, sergeants must immediately notify the officers, who must in their turn order the troops to make immediately ready for action.

“Upon leaving the barracks battalions should march through the entire width of the streets so as to protect the rear and keep it free for reinforcements should such be required.

“Troops should move with all possible rapidity, sending ahead an advance guard for determining positions.

“In the event of shots being fired from windows into a marching battalion, fire from several rifles should immediately be opened upon such windows.

“Troops should not approach a mob nearer than one hundred paces, so as to conveniently open fire while avoiding injury likely to come from hand bombs being thrown from the crowd. Avoid action with bayonets and try to remain at a distance, because a bullet at a short distance works with greater effect than a bayonet. One bullet may kill two or three men in a crowd.

“In the event of a collision with armed rebels, soldiers must conduct themselves as upon a field of battle, remembering that the end will be attained only when the enemy is crushed or annihilated. Therefore, before leaving barracks, substitutes should be chosen, to take the places of commanding officers killed.”

There was no need for this order, however, and the Duma continued on to its peaceful end two months after its convocation.

It wrestled with the amnesty question, and sent a bill up to the Council of Empire abolishing capital punishment. When the Bielostok massacre occurred it appointed a commission of investigation, and attempted to inaugurate the interpellation of ministers. Prince Urusoff made his world-famous speech revealing the complicity of the government in massacres, and the government wires carried the report of this speech to every part of the empire. The Duma became the greatest propaganda and educating influence Russia ever saw, simply because every word spoken within its walls was repeated throughout the land.

The government continued its policy of obstruction, contempt, scorn, and insult. No other legislative body in the world would have tolerated what the first Duma bore in silence. Finally, the Duma attacked that most serious of all serious problems in Russia—the agrarian question—and sought to solve it through the establishment of the principle of expropriation.

Then came dissolution.

One Sunday morning in early July the people of St. Petersburg read an official announcement, bearing the signature of the Czar, that the Duma had ceased to exist. There was no disturbance, no demonstration, although the announcement came at an unexpected moment.

A story was circulated in St. Petersburg of how the American ambassador was surprised by the dissolution. According to report the ambassador’s family were at a European watering-place, where he expected presently to join them. Just previous to his departure from St. Petersburg he received a cablegram from Washington to the effect that, owing to the unsettled condition of Russia, the President would suggest that the ambassador remain in Russia through the summer. The ambassador and one of the secretaries of the embassy sat down on Sunday morning and framed a long cipher message to Washington, setting forth reasons for assurance that Russia would remain tranquil for the present. They finished writing the message early in the afternoon, and started out together to deposit it at the central telegraph office. On the way they learned that the Duma had been dissolved that morning before they had so much as begun their telegram to Washington!

Some of the members, mostly Constitutional Democrats, remembered the Tennis Court Oath of French history and had timid ambitions to do likewise. So they hastened to Viborg, in Finland, where, safe from being dispersed by Cossacks or police, they argued, deliberated, and wrangled for a week. Then the governor-general of Finland announced a state of martial law and warned the ex-deputies that the hospitality of Finland could no longer be extended to them. Eager to do something, yet not knowing what to do, they proceeded to issue a proclamation known as the

Viborg manifesto, in which they called upon the people of Russia to cease paying taxes and to refrain from sending recruits to the army and navy—in other words to become utterly disregardful of all law emanating from any other source than a representative body chosen by the people. The Viborg manifesto was a silly blunder, and no more effective than a blank shell. It showed that eminent academicians, brilliant writers, and earnest patriots do not always make clever statesmen.

The government forbade the circulation of the Viborg manifesto, but otherwise paid little attention to the step. Every signer was put under the ban, and it was only a short time after that of the members of the first Duma one had been murdered, one gone insane, two cruelly beaten, ten were in hiding, five were exiled, twenty-four in prison, thirty-three had been arrested and searched, and one hundred and eighty-two placed under indictment on the charge of treason.

Shortly after the dissolution a second Duma was announced, to be chosen under very much more restricted voting conditions, and to meet early in the following year.

Thus the day of democratic government dawned in Russia. It was like a burst of sunlight through the rift of a stormy sky—and soon shut in again. I asked Mr. Williams Jennings Bryan, who was a visitor to the Duma previous to the dissolution, how he was impressed by the Assembly. “It is the most remarkable body of men on earth to-day,” was his reply. And I believe it was. On the whole, the conduct of the Duma was admirable.

I submit that this is true in spite of a good deal of amateurishness and crudeness, in spite of the enthusiasm of a few zealots, in spite even of the blunder of the Viborg manifesto, which after all was the mistake of one party, indeed the mistake of one man. Above all else the men in the Duma were transparently honest, sincerely striving to serve the people they represented. And in Russia, as in more civilized lands, honesty in political life does not necessarily spell success.

The conduct of the government toward it was unworthy, insincere, and false. The brief career of this Duma demonstrated the ability of the Russian people to govern themselves—provided they are given reasonable freedom in selecting whom they like for their representatives.

It is not fair to ask: “Are the people of Russia ready for self-government?” It is not fair, because we know that ability to do anything successfully must rest on experience. We do know this, however, that a government of the Russian people by the people would not be a government whose power rested on terrorism, whose methods included outrage and massacre. It would be parliamentary in every sense. Its mistakes would be parliamentary mistakes which would be corrected by parliamentary methods. The peril lies in increased restrictions and the gradual weeding out of most of the strong, promising men. The promise of the future is that permanent democratic government in Russia will first have to be fought for, precisely as all liberty is battled for. The key to the present situation is, in the words of the Czar: “I believe Russia can run for twenty years more without a parliament, and I shall do all I can to guide my country back to where we were before the October manifesto.”

CHAPTER X

A CONSPIRATIVE MEETING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is our dwornik,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you up to now?” I asked.

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

“Why can’t I go with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shall we begin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Fox!” she murmured.

Then I knew that probably we were shadowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But where is it going?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Orienbaum,” he answered.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI

THE KRONSTADT UPRISING