The underground interrogation room at the Moscow Police Headquarters was bathed in the dim glow of kerosene lamps, the steam from cast-iron heating pipes making the mold spots on the walls emit a sweet, putrid sll.
Herzen leaned against the wall, holding a dog-eared copy of "Italian Rhetoric and Grammar" in his hands.
From deep within the corridor ca the occasional dull thud of Ural sabers clashing against the walls, followed by Latin prayers mixed with Russian curses, and finally all sounds being snuffed out by splashes of water. It’s obvious that several unlucky souls were being forced into wooden barrels filled with icy water again.
During the two months he had been detained, Herzen had beco accustod to the various intrigues commonly employed by the police and the deceitful tactics of the Constitutional Soldiers’ investigative agency: deliberately overturning right and wrong, confusing black and white, creating conflicts, or suggesting that others had already confessed, employing various forms of ntal torture.
Herzen did not care to elaborate on these situations.
The only thing he wished to mock was this—despite their tricks and exerting all efforts, they had yet to find a single topic for face-to-face confrontation.
Herzen, Ogarev, Sakin, and Ivan Obolensky, four young n captured almost simultaneously, although never detained together, tacitly refused to confess or betray any friends.
Tap, tap, tap...
The sound of hard-soled boots walking on brickwork grew closer, followed by the rustling of sleeves brushing against coats.
Soone was saluting?
Before Herzen could stand up to look out the iron window to see what was happening, the old cell door was pushed open by soone.
Standing outside was a man of shapely build, his age awkwardly straddling youth and middle age, just like his classically sculpted nasal wings and intentionally maintained polite corners of his mouth seed out of place.
Gray buckskin gloves akin to those of executioners were bleached snow-white by French powder, the black woolen frock coat collar tips always precisely maintained at a thirty-degree angle, the rubescent halo from ruby collar stays just encompassing his Adam’s apple, as if to envelop each sentence of exile in velvet.
Alexander Feodorovich Golitsyn, the most promising newcor among the young generation of the Golitsyn family, favored by Count Benkendorf, the head of the Imperial Office Third Bureau, the future leader, Judge of the Second Moscow Trial Committee, and the secret agent feared by all the Moscow Liberals.
Young Golitsyn walked in, appearing burdened with thoughts, his face full of empathetic sorrow, as though he genuinely disliked seeing Herzen stuck in a cell, with an Italian dictionary as his only ans of diversion.
However, this tactic did not work on Herzen, who trusted no one here, especially this young Golitsyn who frequently emphasized the longstanding relationship between the Golitsyn family and the Yakovlev family.
As soon as young Golitsyn entered the room, he gestured for the others to wait outside the door, half-closing it as though they were old friends, pulling out the wobbly chair to sit down: "You must be aware that the case is about to be judged. But before that, I wish to speak with you alone. Though hopes are dim, I think there’s still a chance to try and see if there’s any room for redemption."
Before Herzen could respond, young Golitsyn continued: "I know you bear resentnt towards , but our fathers were acquainted for many years, and our families are undeniably old friends; hence, I feel obliged to show you special concern. You are still young, and have a bright future, so you must rid yourself of this case. Since your capture, your father has been very worried, and he still holds hope for your release. This morning, I even discussed with the committee chairman, Duke Sergei Mikhailovich, who is also inclined to help you, but the premise is that you must create conditions for us to have so leeway with the Emperor."
Upon hearing this, Herzen’s anger surged, and he closed the dictionary with bitterness: "At this stage, what use are your words? I’ve said, there’s nothing more for to confess."
Young Golitsyn was not discouraged, his fingers lightly tapping on the book’s spine, the embroidered double-headed eagle crest on his cuffs flowing darkly with each move: "Your father’s gout flared up four tis last night, soothed by the Imperial Physician’s Opium Tincture. If you insist on following this path, the outco will be either military conscription or imprisonnt, while also endangering your father. Seeing you in grey coat would render him unable to live a day longer."
Just as Herzen was about to speak, young Golitsyn raised his hand to interrupt.
"I know what you’re about to say. Please be patient. You harbor anti-governnt sentints, which is evident. For the Emperor’s grace to befall you, we need proof of your sincere repentance. You refuse to admit anything, evade answering questions, out of a false sense of justice to protect others, but these people we know better than you. They are not as noble as you, your aid to them only serves to drag you into mutual ruin."
He flipped through Herzen’s interrogation record, abruptly tearing off the sketch page of Ogarev: "Last night he was sensible enough during confession, even providing specific dates when you drunkenly sang ’La Marseillaise.’ Fortunately, I suppressed his testimony. Now, write a letter to the committee, simple and straightforward, admitting your guilt, saying you were deceived due to youthful ignorance, and reveal those unfortunate individuals who led you astray, onto the wrong path. Thus you can exchange this minor price for your future, for your father’s life."
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