CHAPTER XXII

THE PRISON HOSPITAL

TWO days later the exiles reached the city prison, larger than the roadside étapes, which possessed a hospital. Anna Grigorovna had been looking forward eagerly to the hour when she would be delivered from the suffocating dust, the burning sun, and the jolting cart, and lie down in a quiet cot in a hospital ward, which she would never leave again. She had kept herself aloof from her fellow-convicts, and there would be no painful last farewells.

The last evening, when they reached the half-way étape, she sought the company of the Stundists. It had become the custom, as far as possible, for the better class of exiles to keep together in the kameras, avoiding the drunken and more degraded convicts. The Stundist men alone mingled freely with them, seeking earnestly any opportunity of lifting them a little out of the deep mire of their debasement. The band of exiles had been so long together, that they knew one another as intimately as the inhabitants of the same village. On the whole, the Stundists, both men and women, were regarded favourably by their fellow-exiles, to whom they were always ready to render any kindness.

Anna Grigorovna, who had seldom spoken to anyone, seemed to-night anxious to talk with the kindly comrades who must leave her for ever to-morrow. She sat on the edge of the nari, where Tatiania was lying speechless and tearless, and listened attentively to Alexis as he explained to her the simple creed of his sect.

"It is very beautiful," she said, with a sigh; "you believe that in very truth Jesus Christ, being equal with God, left His throne in heaven and came down to this earth, becoming a poor working-man, and dying a shameful death for our sakes. So He sacrificed all for our salvation."

"We believe it," said Alexis; and Khariton bowed his head in assent.

Tatiania lifted up her trembling hand; and Michael and Sergius cried, "Yes, we believe it!"

"You believe," she went on, "that He who was crucified Himself knows all your sorrows and sufferings;—nay! I've heard you say He is here, seeing all and knowing all."

"Yes," answered Alexis; "because He said, 'Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'"

"You believe," she continued, "that without any priest, or any form of prayer, you may ask God Almighty for all you want, as a child asks his father."

"We believe it," replied Alexis, "but with this reservation, that what we ask is in accord with His will. A child may ask for a scorpion or for a burning coal."

"Would to God I could believe as you do!" said Anna, with a sob. "Do you know that I, too, have sacrificed all, and given up my life for the sake of the people?"

"We know it," answered Alexis; "and God knows it. Be sure He who made the greatest sacrifice of all will not overlook it. He is not far from you, and you are drawing nigh to Him."

It was the evening of the next day when they reached the prison, where there was a hospital. It stood in one corner of the high stockade which enclosed all the prison buildings, a low-roofed kamera, very much like the rest. There was to be the usual third days' halt here, and the next morning the prison-yard was thronged with exiles. The men lounged under the walls, smoking and gambling, whilst the women washed and mended, or crouched on the ground gossiping. It was intensely hot again, and all were glad to rest as quietly as possible. Before the day was over, Michael and Sergius heard their names called in a shrill voice. A woman was standing at the door of the hospital, and they ran to her.

"A convict who came in here last night wants to see you," she said, looking with open admiration at the two sturdy, sunburnt boys; "she says she is fond of boys, and I don't wonder at it. We don't see many of your sort here."

They followed the woman into a filthy corridor, where the floor was thickly covered with all kinds of sweepings and slops from the wards. A noisome stench pervaded it, even worse than the foul air of the kamera to which they were so well used. With the tainted atmosphere of disease and rotting refuse was mingled the sickening odour of drugs and liniments. Michael and Sergius could hardly breathe, but they followed the woman in silence, keeping their lips closely shut.

But if the air was poisonous in the corridor, it was far worse in the women's ward. There were a number of low, narrow cots, placed so close together that there was barely room to pass between each pair of them, and as the suffering women lay, they breathed and coughed into each other's faces. But those who lay in the cots were well off, for the dirty floor was strewn with wretched creatures wherever there was sufficient space for them. These were packed as closely as the convicts in the kameras, and could not stir without disturbing their companions on either side. There was no ventilation except a few holes in the walls, for the windows would not open, and the cots were ranged against them. There was a dim light only, for the glass panes were thick with dust, and had, moreover, a coat of white paint obscuring them. In the grey gloom, surrounded by pallid and fevered faces, the boys were at a loss to find Anna, until they heard the racking cough with which they had grown familiar during Marfa's illness. They stepped carefully among the crowd of sick folk.

Anna was stretched on the ground, almost under a cot. A thin straw palliasse lay below her, but the sheet which had been thrown over her was ragged and bloodstained. It was impossible for her to raise herself, even when her throat and chest were most convulsed with coughing. She was choking now; and Michael knelt beside her, and put his arm under her head, until the paroxysm had passed away.

"This is hell!" she gasped, as soon as she could speak.

"Man makes it, not God!" cried Michael. Father Cyril's letter came into his mind, and he said in a low voice, "'If I make my bed in hell, Thou art there!'"

The dying woman looked up at him with anguish in her eyes.

"Thank God, Marfa died before we came here!" exclaimed Sergius, looking round with horror at the agonised forms and distorted faces of the women, whose mouths were open, gasping for breath in the suffocating atmosphere, and whose staring, feverish eyes wandered hopelessly in search of relief.

In a corner, on a layer of straw, five children were huddled together. The eldest was about seven years old, the youngest about five months. They were tossing to and fro, and wailing with the peculiarly piteous cry of ailing children. Sergius went to them, and sat down on the floor with the baby in his arms, after he had soothed the elder children, and given each of them some tepid water to drink.

"Their crying maddens me," said Anna; "all night long they were moaning, and I could do nothing for them, poor little creatures! We were locked up all night, with no nurse to help any one of us. One of the women died in the night, and lay there till the morning. Michael, this is the worst hell of all! I prayed to God to let me die too, but He did not hear me."

"He must have heard you," Michael answered, "because He is here."

"Not here! Not here!" cried Anna.

"I'm only a boy, and I hardly know how to say it," answered Michael, "but if I was here, I'd rather think God was here too, knowing all about me, and all I had to bear, than think that the devil was reigning here, with nobody stronger than he was, like the Czar."

"But how can God let it be?" she asked.

"We don't know yet," replied Michael, looking round with appalled eyes, "but this I do know, I'd rather be here than be one of the people who send us here. God knows them too! Oh, I wish my father could come and pray for you!"

"Do you pray for me," she said; "God will listen to an innocent soul like yours. Beseech Him to let me die this minute! Beseech Him to send the angel of death to sweep this place of all its misery. Let us all die at once, and then something will be done. But we go one by one, and nobody cares."

Her voice fell into sobs.

Michael was still kneeling beside her, and over him hung the yellow, withered face of an old woman, in the cot above listening eagerly to what was being said.

"I dare not ask God that," he answered; "our Lord does not teach us to pray for things like that. He bade us say, 'Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.' I can say our Lord's Prayer for you."

"Say it," she whispered.

The boy's clear young voice sounded distinctly through the ward, as he lifted up his head, and said "'Our Father!'"

The moans and cries ceased for the time, and pallid faces were turned to him. Some of the parched lips murmured the familiar words, as the women recalled the years when they were children, and said this prayer at their mothers' sides, in the old church at home. For a very brief space there was a lull in their misery—a moment or two of forgetfulness. They too, even they, had a Father in heaven.

Anna lay passive, with tears stealing down her cheeks.

"That is good," she said, when the prayer was ended. "After all, I shall soon know the great secret. Michael, I have a commission to charge you with."

She begged him to let her friends know that she was dead, as soon as he could, but not to pain them by details of her misery. He repeated the address she gave to him, and called Sergius to commit it to memory. Then Anna lifted up her feeble hand and touched his cheek.

"Kiss me!" she said. "I have a young brother Michael like you at home. Oh, how he will miss me, and mourn for me! Kiss me, and bid me good-bye."