This was the last time I saw Kotliarèvsky. I learned afterwards in Siberia, from comrades arriving there, that though he had dealt fairly by me, his conduct of some political trials had been considered altogether too mean; it not only drew down on him the bitter hatred of the accused, but was too much even for his superiors, and he was withdrawn from the cases. About three years ago he was President of the Courts at Vilna; where he is now (1902) I do not know. This interview convinced me still further that the Government would not be content to restrict themselves to prosecuting me in the Gorinòvitch case. Every morning I awoke wondering what would happen next; but day after day went by without anything fresh. July came, then August, and I was still waiting in my cell. One day towards the end of August gendarmes again came for me, and I was ordered to prepare for a journey; it had at last been decided to send me to Odessa. While the carriage conveyed me through the streets I sadly took leave of my beloved Petersburg, which I could never hope to see again. CHAPTER IX A RAY OF HOPE—AN UNHEARD-OF RÉGIME—THE HUNGER-STRIKE—OUR CLUB—A SECRET ALLY My removal to Odessa went off without any noteworthy incident. The change of scene, the railway journey, the sight of people, their doings, their speech, all had a reviving effect on me; but the company of three gendarmes did not allow me to forget for an instant that I was a prisoner on my way to judgment. The idea of escape, however, never left me, and once at least circumstances seemed favourable. It was night; we were already nearing Odessa. I had been dozing, and when I awoke I saw that all three gendarmes were fast asleep. My heart began to thump wildly, and my plan was made in an instant: to get my scissors out of their hiding-place, cut off my beard, stride over the sleeping gendarmes, step out on to the footboard of the train, and jump off. But as this flashed through my mind, one gendarme opened his eyes, waked the others by shaking them violently, and scolded them with a most self-righteous air for not keeping guard. I feigned sleep, and the scene was over. In Odessa a prison van with barred windows awaited me. I was taken at first to a prison for political offenders, under the rule of the gendarmerie. While my belongings were being searched, the scissors suddenly fell on the floor, to the no small astonishment of the warder, a former gendarme. “Nice order they keep in Petersburg! Prisoners are allowed to have scissors there!” he exclaimed. He imagined I had brought them openly in my luggage, and of course I left him in his pride at being cleverer than his colleagues in the capital.