Guilty Bonds

Awe-struck at finding myself under arrest, I sank upon the narrow stone shelf which served as chair, and tried to recollect the events of the past few hours. I knew nothing, save that I had been drugged, and by some means conveyed there. What was my crime? Why had I been arrested? I wondered.

Through the roof of the cell came a tiny glimmer of light, not half sufficient to enable me to discern anything, though it was evident from this, as well as from the sodden dampness of the walls, that my place of confinement was underground.

The horrors of that Dantean dungeon were indescribable. Before I had lodged at the expense of the Russian Government a few days, the fearful suspense and agony of mind had already added years to my age.

As I sat, desponding and forlorn, I experienced for the first time, regret that I had ever known Vera Seroff. All my good resolutions not to prejudge her went to the winds, and I found myself regretting from the bottom of my heart that I, who had passed unscathed through many a mad infatuation, had permitted myself to become so enamoured and fascinated by her irresistible charms.

Fool that I was to be so blind to her false assumption of injured innocence, to believe that she ever entertained any affection for me, or to imagine that by undertaking a journey across the continent I could render her a service.

And that crotchety old bore, Hertzen. Surely I must have been wilfully undiscerning not to have detected a closer tie between them. No doubt she was his wife, or, yet more probable – no relation whatever.

I ground my teeth and paced the slimy stone floor in anger as I thought how ingeniously I had been tricked; how from the beginning I had been an unresisting dupe in the hands of a heartless, designing woman. She must indeed be sadly wanting in womanly love and tenderness to be a party to this vile plot, whatever its object might be. Doubtless she knew of my arrest, and from her place of safety laughed with satisfaction as she reflected upon her own cleverness.

These and a thousand other thoughts surged through my brain as I walked to and fro in hopeless dejection. Alone, heart-broken at realising my idol shattered, that she whom I believed immaculate and loved so dearly was base and false, I felt utterly indifferent to what my fate might be, only desiring not to be kept in that horrible suspense, but to know the worst.

If it were death, what would it matter? Though young, I had seen the world, tasted of its pleasures, and grown blasé. The sun of my existence was the hope of making Vera my wife, yet now it was blotted out I cared no longer to live, for my life in future would be one of blank despair.

After a few hours I heard a rattling in the lock, a jingle of keys, and the door opened, revealing the brawny form of a man bearing a lantern. It was my jailer.

He held in his hand a basin containing soup and some black bread, which he placed upon the floor without deigning to bestow a word upon me.

As he turned to leave I rose and, clutching his arm, addressed him in French.

Turning the light full upon my face, he took a couple of paces backward, fearing perhaps that I was about to attack him.

“Why am I here?” I asked. “Tell me, what is the crime I am accused of?”

He regarded me for a moment in surprise, answering:

“How should I know?”

“But surely you are aware who brought me here?”

“The gorodovoi, I suppose,” he grunted savagely.

“And what is this detestable place called?” I asked.

“The Fortress; the prison from which no man has ever been known to escape.”

“Are its bolts and bars so strong?”

“Yes, and there is no way out for convicts unless they swim the Neva,” the man replied, grinning with satisfaction.

“Are you not aware of my crime?” I asked, persuasively.

“No, I know nothing about it. My business is not with the crime but with the criminal,” he growled.

“I am an Englishman – a foreigner – and cannot be supposed to know your laws. Is this what you term justice in Russia – to imprison a man without trial?”

“You have had your trial and been condemned. In the sentence passed upon you by the Court you were told the crime for which you must suffer.”

“Condemned!” I cried. “Condemned for what? Why, I have had no trial. I have never been before the Court!”

He turned from me, and as he did so, muttered:

“Ah! just what I thought – mad. These cells below the river always affect their brains.”

In another moment the key turned heavily in the lock, the bolts shot into their sockets, and I was again alone.

Was I mad, as the turnkey believed? I was almost convinced I must be, the events of the past few hours seemed so unreal – like the impression of some horrible dream.

I had been sentenced, the jailer said. Sentenced for what? I had wronged no man on earth that I was aware of, neither had I done an evil action willingly. What was my offence, and what was my sentence?