At this period of the reign of Alexander II the Third Section was absolutely all-powerful. The gendarme colonels made searches by the thousand without troubling themselves in the least about the existence of laws and law courts in Russia. They arrested whom they liked, kept people imprisoned as long as they pleased, and transported hundreds to Northeast Russia or Siberia according to the fancy of general or colonel; the signature of the minister of the interior was a mere formality, because he had no control over them and no knowledge of their doings.
It was four o’clock in the morning when my examination began. “You are accused,” I was solemnly told, “of having belonged to a secret society which has for its object the overthrow of the existing form of government, and of conspiracy against the sacred person of his Imperial Majesty. Are you guilty of this crime?”
“Till I am brought before a court where I can speak publicly, I will give you no replies whatever.”
“Write,” the procureur dictated to a scribe: “Does not acknowledge himself guilty. Still,” he continued, after a pause, “I must ask you certain questions. Do you know a person of the name of Nikolái Tchaikovsky?”
“If you persist in your questions, then write ‘No’ to any question whatsoever that you are pleased to ask me.”
“But if we ask you whether you know, for instance, Mr. Polakov, whom you spoke about awhile ago?”
“The moment you ask me such a question, don’t hesitate: write ‘No.’ And if you ask me whether I know my brother, or my sister, or my stepmother, write ‘No.’ You will not receive from me another reply: because if I answered ‘Yes’ with regard to any person, you would at once plan some evil against him, making a raid or something worse, and saying next that I named him.”
A long list of questions was read, to which I patiently replied each time, “Write ‘No.’ ” That lasted for an hour, during which I learned that all who had been arrested, with the exception of the two weavers, had behaved very well. The weavers knew only that I had twice met a dozen workers, and the gendarmes knew nothing about our circle.
“What are you doing, prince?” a gendarme officer said, as he took me to my cell. “Your refusal to answer questions will be made a terrible weapon against you.” “It is my right, is it not?” “Yes, but—you know. … I hope you will find this room comfortable. It has been kept warm since your arrest.”
I found it quite comfortable, and fell sound asleep. I was waked the next morning by a gendarme, who brought me the morning tea. He was soon followed by somebody else, who whispered to me in the most unconcerned way, “Here’s a scrap of paper and a pencil: write your letter.” It was a sympathizer, whom I knew by name; he used to transmit our correspondence with the prisoners of the Third Section.
From all sides I heard knocks on the walls, following in rapid succession. It was the prisoners communicating with one another by means of light taps; but, being a newcomer, I could make nothing out of the noise, which seemed to come from all parts of the building at once.
One thing worried me. During the search in my house, I overheard the procureur whispering to the gendarme officer about going to make a search at the apartment of my friend Polakov, to whom the letter of Dmitri was addressed. Polakov was a young student, a very gifted zoologist and botanist, with whom I had made my Vitím expedition in Siberia. He was born of a poor Cossack family on the frontier of Mongolia, and, after having surmounted all sorts of difficulties, he had come to St. Petersburg, entered the university, where he had won the reputation of a most promising zoologist, and was then passing his final examinations. We had been great friends since our long journey, and had even lived together for a time at St. Petersburg, but he took no interest in my political activity.
I spoke of him to the procureur. “I give you my word of honor,” I said, “that Polakov has never taken part in any political affair. Tomorrow he has to pass an examination, and you will spoil forever the scientific career of a young man who has gone through great hardships, and has struggled for years against all sorts of obstacles, to attain his present position. I know that you do not much care for it, but he is looked upon at the university as one of the future glories of Russian science.”
The search was made, nevertheless, but a respite of three days was given for the examinations. A little later I was called before the procureur, who triumphantly showed me an envelope addressed in my handwriting, and in it a note, also in my handwriting, which said, “Please take this packet to V. E., and ask that it be kept until demand in due form is made.” The person to whom the note was addressed was not mentioned in the note. “This letter,” the procureur said, “was found at Mr. Polakov’s; and now, prince, his fate is in your hands. If you tell me who V. E. is, Mr. Polakov will be released; but if you refuse to do so, he will be kept as long as he does not make up his mind to give us the name of that person.”
Looking at the envelope, which was addressed in black chalk, and the letter, which was written in common lead pencil, I immediately remembered the circumstances under which
