propaganda by deed all his life—now he repudiates the first Attentat in this country. What tremendous agitation he could have made of it! Now he denies me, he doesn’t know me. The wretch! He knew me well enough and trusted me, too, when together we set up the secret circular in the Freiheit office. It was in William Street.87 We waited for the other compositors to leave; then we worked all night. It was to recommend me: I planned to go to Russia then. Yes, to Russia. Perhaps I might have done something important there. Why didn’t I go? What was it? Well, I can’t think of it now. It’s peculiar, though. But America was more important. Plenty of revolutionists in Russia. And now… Oh, I’ll never do anything more. I’ll be dead soon. They’ll find me cold—a pool of blood under me—the mattress will be red —no, it will be dark-red, and the blood will soak through the straw … I wonder how much blood I have. It will gush from my heart—I must strike right here—strong and quick—it will not pain much. But the edge is ragged—it may catch—or tear the flesh. They say the skin is tough. I must strike hard. Perhaps better to fall against the blade? No, the tin may bend. I’ll grasp it close—like this—then a quick drive—right into the heart—it’s the surest way. I must not wound myself—I would bleed slowly—they might discover me still alive. No, no! I must die at once. They’ll find me dead—my heart—they’ll feel it—not beating—the blade still in it—they’ll call the doctor—“He’s dead.” And the Girl and Fedya and the others will hear of it—she’ll be sad—but she will understand. Yes, she will be glad—they couldn’t torture me here—she’ll know I cheated them—yes, she.… Where is she now? What does she think of it all? Does she, too, think I’ve failed? And Fedya, also? If I’d only hear from her — just once. It would be easier to die. But she’ll understand, she —
“Git off that bed! Don’t you know the rules, eh? Get out o’ there!”
Horrified, speechless, I spring to my feet. The spoon falls from my relaxed grip. It strikes the floor, clinking on the stone loudly, damningly. My heart stands still as I face the guard. There is something repulsively familiar about the tall man, his mouth drawn into a derisive smile. Oh, it’s the officer of the morning!
“Foxy, ain’t you? Gimme that spoon.”
The coffee incident flashes through my mind. Loathing and hatred of the tall guard fill my being. For a second I hesitate. I must hide the spoon. I cannot afford to lose it—not to this brute—
“Cap’n, here!”
I am dragged from the cell. The tall keeper carefully examines the spoon, a malicious grin stealing over his face.
“Look, Cap’n. Sharp as a razor. Pretty desp’rate, eh?”
“Take him to the Deputy, Mr. Fellings.”
III
In the rotunda, connecting the north and south cell-houses, the Deputy stands at a high desk. Angular and bony, with slightly stooped shoulders, his face is a mass of minute wrinkles seamed on yellow parchment. The curved nose overhangs thin, compressed lips. The steely eyes measure me coldly, unfriendly.
“Who is this?”
The low, almost feminine, voice sharply accentuates the cadaver-like face and figure. The contrast is startling.
“A 7.”
“What is the charge, Officer?”
“Two charges, Mr. McPane.88 Layin’ in bed and tryin’ soocide.”
A smile of satanic satisfaction slowly spreads over the Deputy’s wizened face. The long, heavy fingers of his right hand work convulsively, as if drumming stiffly on an imaginary board.
“Yes, hm, hm, yes. A 7, two charges. Hm, hm. How did he try to, hm, hm, to commit suicide?”
“With this spoon, Mr. McPane. Sharp as a razor.”
“Yes, hm, yes. Wants to die. We have no such charge as, hm, hm, as trying suicide in this institution. Sharpened spoon, hm, hm; a grave offence. I’ll see about that later. For breaking the rules, hm, hm, by lying in bed out of hours, hm, hm, three days. Take him down, Officer. He will, hm, hm, cool off.”
I am faint and weary. A sense of utter indifference possesses me. Vaguely I am conscious of the guards leading me through dark corridors, dragging me down steep flights, half undressing me, and finally thrusting me into a black void. I am dizzy; my head is awhirl. I stagger and fall on the flagstones of the dungeon.
The cell is filled with light. It hurts my eyes. Some one is bending over me.
“A bit feverish. Better take him to the cell.”
“Hm, hm, Doctor, he is in punishment.”
“Not safe, Mr. McPane.”
“We’ll postpone it, then. Hm, hm, take him to the cell, Officers.”
“Git up.”
My legs seem paralyzed. They refuse to move. I am lifted and carried up the stairs, through corridors and halls, and then thrown heavily on a bed.
I feel so weak. Perhaps I shall die now. It would be best. But I have no weapon! They have taken away the spoon. There is nothing in the cell that I could use. These iron bars—I could beat my head against them. But oh! it is such a horrible death. My skull would break, and the brains ooze out.… But the bars are smooth. Would my skull break with one blow? I’m afraid it might only crack, and I should be too weak to strike again. If I only had a revolver; that is the easiest and quickest. I’ve always thought I’d prefer such a death—to be shot. The barrel close to the temple—one couldn’t miss. Some people have done it in front of a mirror. But I have no mirror. I have no revolver, either.… Through the mouth it is also fatal.… That Moscow student—Russov was his name; yes, Ivan Russov—he shot himself through the mouth. Of course, he was foolish to kill himself for a woman; but I admired his courage. How coolly he had made all preparations; he even left a note directing that his gold watch be given to the landlady, because—he wrote—after passing through his brain, the bullet might damage the wall. Wonderful! It actually happened that way. I saw the bullet imbedded in the wall near the sofa, and Ivan lay so still and peaceful, I thought he was asleep. I had often seen him like that in my brother’s study, after our lessons. What a splendid tutor he was! I liked him from the first, when mother introduced him: “Sasha, Ivan Nikolaievitch will be your instructor in Latin during vacation time.” My hand hurt all day; he had gripped it so powerfully, like a vise. But I was glad I didn’t cry out. I admired him for it; I felt he must be very strong and manly to have such a handshake. Mother smiled when I told her about it. Her hand pained her too, she said. Sister blushed a little. “Rather energetic,” she observed. And Maxim felt so happy over the favorable impression made by his college chum. “What did I tell you?” he cried, in glee; “Ivan Nikolaievitch molodetz!89 Think of it, he’s only twenty. Graduates next year. The youngest alumnus since the foundation of the university. Molodetz!” But how red were Maxim’s eyes when he brought the bullet home. He would keep it, he said, as long as he lived: he had dug it out, with his own hands, from the wall of Ivan Nikolaievitch’s room. At dinner he opened the little box, unwrapped the cotton, and showed me the bullet. Sister went into hysterics, and mamma called Max a brute. “For a woman, an unworthy woman!” sister moaned. I thought he was foolish to take his life on account of a woman. I felt a little disappointed: Ivan Nikolaievitch should have been more manly. They all said she was very beautiful, the acknowledged belle of Kovno. She was tall and stately, but I thought she walked too stiffly; she seemed self-conscious and artificial. Mother said I was too young to talk of such things. How shocked she would have been
