“Nevertheless we
do
deny it!” A.J. exclaimed, and Daly
echoed him. “It is absurd,” she cried, with well-acted emphasis.
“We are two poor people on our way to visit our friends, and you accuse
me of being someone I have never even heard of!”
The Jew laughed. “I accuse you of being the person you are,”
he said, harshly. “Stand aside—we can’t waste all night
over you.”
The sensation of the discovery had by this time reached the ears of the
soldiers, and had also attracted the attention of a small group of officers,
among whom was the youth who had conducted the earlier interrogation. He
hurriedly approached the Jew and whispered something in his ear, and for
several moments a muttered discussion went on between them. Meanwhile the
rank and file, fresh from their slaughter of the first batch of suspects,
were waiting with increasing impatience for the next. “Let’s have
her!” some of them were already shouting. The Jew seemed anxious to
conciliate them; he said, loudly so that they might all hear him: “My
dear Poushkoff, it would not be proper to treat this woman any differently
from the rest. Women have betrayed our cause no less than
men—especially women of high rank and position. The prisoner here may
herself, if the truth were known, be responsible for the lives of hundreds of
our soldiers. Are we to quail, like our predecessors, before a mere
title?”
Poushkoff answered quietly: “Not at all, Bernstein—I merely
suggest that the woman should not be dealt with before she is definitely
proved guilty. After all, she
may
be speaking the truth, and it would
be too had if she were to lose her life merely because of a slight
resemblance to one of those exceedingly bad photographs that headquarters
have sent us.”
“Slight resemblance, eh? And bad photographs? My dear Poushkoff,
look for yourself.”
He handed the book to the other, who examined it and then went on:
“Well, there seems to me only a slight resemblance such as might exist,
say, between myself or yourself and at least a dozen persons in this town if
we took the trouble to look for them. Frankly, it isn’t the sort of
evidence on which I would care to condemn a dog, much less a woman. And we
have this fellow’s statement, also—he sounds honest.”
“About as honest as she is, if you ask my opinion. We’ll
attend to him afterwards.”
“I merely suggest, Bernstein, that the matter should be deferred for
further investigation.”
“But, my dear boy, where’s the need of it? Surely we are
entitled to believe the evidence of our own eyes?”
“Photographs aren’t our own eyes—that’s just my
point. If this woman is really the Countess, it could not be very difficult
to have her identified by someone who knew her formerly. There is bound to be
somebody, either at Sembirsk or Samar, who could do it.”
“But not at Novarodar, eh? How convenient for her!” The
soldiers here began a renewed clamour for the prisoner to be surrendered, and
Bernstein, with a shrug of the shoulders, exclaimed: “You see,
Poushkoff, what the men are already thinking—they believe we are going
to favour this woman because of her high rank.”
Poushkoff replied, still very calmly: “I beg your pardon,
Bernstein—I thought the point was whether she is guilty or not. If it
is merely a matter of amusing the men, doubtless she will do as well as
anyone else.”
Bernstein snorted angrily. “Really, Poushkoff, you forget yourself!
The woman, to my mind, is already proved guilty—guilty of having
conspired against the Revolution and against the lives of the Red
army.”
“Quite, if you are positive of her identity. That is my
point.”
“Your point, eh? You change your point so often that one has an
infernal job to keep up with you! No, no, my dear boy, it won’t
do—we’ve proved everything—the Countess is guilty and this
woman is the Countess. There is no shadow of reason for any delay.”
“I am afraid I do not agree.”
“Well, then, you must disagree, that is all. The responsibility,
such as it is, rests with me.”
“Take note, then, that I protest most strongly.”
“Oh, certainly, my dear Poushkoff, certainly.”
“And in any case, since she is a woman, I suggest that she should be
treated mercifully.”
“And not be handed over to our young rascals, you mean, eh?”
He laughed. “Well, perhaps you deserve some small reward for your
advocacy. Arrange the matter as you want—you were always a lady’s
man. But remember—the penalty is death—death to all enemies of
the Revolution. You may gild the pill as much as you like, but the medicine
has to be taken.”
After this sententiousness Poushkoff saluted and signed to A.J. and Daly
to accompany him. He led them into the town-hall through a small entrance
beneath the portico. He did not speak till at length he opened the door of a
basement room in which a number of soldiers were smoking and drinking tea.
“Is Tamirsky here?” he asked, and an old and grey-bearded soldier
detached himself from the group. Poushkoff took him out into the corridor and
whispered in his ear for a few moments. Then, leading him to Daly, he began:
“Do you know this woman?”
Tamirsky gave her a profound stare from
head to foot and finally shook
his head.
“You are prepared to swear that you have never seen her
before?”
“Yes, your honour.”
“And you were—let me see—a gardener on the estate of
Count Adraxine before the Revolution?”
“I was.”
“So that you often saw the Countess?”
“Oh, very often indeed, your honour.”
“Thank you. You are sure of all this, and are ready to swear to
it?”
“Certainly.”
“Then come with me now.” To A.J. he added: “Wait there
with the soldiers till I return.”
They waited, and in that atmosphere of stale tobacco-smoke and heavy
personal smells, Daly’s strength suddenly gave way. She collapsed and
would have fallen had not A.J. caught her quickly. The soldiers were
sympathetic, offering tea, as well as coats for her to rest on. A.J. began to
thank them, but one of them said: “Careful, brother—don’t
tell us too much about yourselves.”
After a quarter of an hour or so Poushkoff and Tamirsky returned together,
and the former signalled to the two prisoners to follow him again. Outside in
the corridor several Red guards, fully armed, were waiting. Poushkoff said:
“Sentence is postponed. You are to be taken to Samara for further
identification. The train leaves in an hour; these men will take you to the
station.” He gave an order and went away quickly.
A few minutes later, thus escorted, they were hastening through the dark
streets. Scattered firing still echoed over the town, but all was fairly
quiet along the road to the railway. Dawn was breaking as they passed through
the waiting-hall; the station was crowded with soldiers, many asleep on the
platforms against their packs. The line, A.J. heard, had just been repaired
after the recent flood-damage. A train of teplushkas, already full, lay at
one of the platforms, and on to it a first-class coach, in reasonably good
condition, was being shunted. As soon as this operation was complete, A.J.
and Daly were put into one of the compartments, with two soldiers mounting
guard outside. The inevitable happened after that; the two
fugitive-prisoners, weary and limp after the prolonged strain of the day and
night, fell into almost instant sleep. When they awoke it was broad daylight;
snow was falling outside; the train was moving slowly over an expanse of
level, dazzling white; and in the compartment, quite alone with them, was
Poushkoff. He smiled slightly and resumed the reading of a book.
A.J. smiled back, but did not speak. He felt a sort of bewildered
gratitude towards the young officer, but he was not on that account disposed
to be incautious. The youth’s steel-grey eyes, curiously attractive
when he smiled, seemed both a warning and an encouragement. If there were to
be conversation at all, Poushkoff, A.J. decided, should make the first
move.
Several times during the next quarter of an hour Poushkoff looked at them
as if expecting one or the other to speak, and at last, tired of the silence,
he put down his book and asked if they were hungry.
They were, quite frantically, having eaten scarcely anything for twenty-
four hours, despite the fact that their bundles, miraculously unconfiscated,
were bulging with food. A.J. said ‘yes,’ and smiled; whereupon
Poushkoff offered them hard, gritty biscuits and thin slices of rather sour
cheese. They thanked him and ate with relish.
“We are due to reach Samara late this evening,” he said, after
a pause.
“A slow journey,” A.J. commented.
“Yes, the line is shaky after the floods. When the train stops
somewhere I may be able to get you some tea.”
“It is very kind of you.”
“Not at all—we are condemned to be fellow- travellers—is
it not better to make things as comfortable as we can for one
another?”
So they began to talk, cautiously at first, but less so after a while.
There was something very likeable about Poushkoff; both A.J. and Daly fought
against it, as for their lives, but finally and utterly succumbed. Its secret
lay perhaps in contrast; the youth was at once strong and gentle, winsome and
severe, shy and self-assured, boyish yet prematurely old. Like most officers
in the new Red army, he was scarcely out of his teens; yet his mind had a
clear, mature incisiveness that was apparent even in the most ordinary
exchange of polite conversation. After about ten minutes of talk that
carefully avoided anything of consequence, he remarked reflectively:
“The curse of this country is that we are all born liars. We lie with
such simple profundity that there’s nobody a man dare trust. You, for
instance, don’t trust me—obviously not. And I, just as naturally,
don’t trust you. Yet, once granting the initial untrustworthiness of
both of us, we shall probably get on quite well together.”
“We learn by experience how necessary it is to be cautious,”
said A.J.
“Oh, precisely. Don’t think I’m blaming you in the
least.”
Then Daly, who had not so far spoken, interposed: “Still less are we
blaming you, Captain Poushkoff. On the contrary, we owe you far more than we
can ever repay.” A.J. nodded emphatically.
“Not at all,” Poushkoff courteously replied. “Yet even
that, now you mention it, is a case in point—it could not have happened
without hard lying.”
Daly smiled. “On our part, Captain?”
“Well, no—I was rather thinking of Tamirsky. He lies so
marvellously—it is a pure art with him. And so faithfully,
too—his lies are almost more steadfast than the truth. You certainly
owe your life to him, Madame.”
“And why not also to you, Captain, who told him what lie to
tell?”
“Oh no, no—you must not look at it in that way. My own little
lie was only a very poor and unsuccessful one compared with
Tamirsky’s.”
“What was your lie, Captain?”
He answered, rather slowly, and with his eyes, implacable yet curiously
tender, fixed upon her: “I said, Madame, that in my opinion the
photograph bore only a slight resemblance to you. That was my lie. For the
photograph, in fact, was of you beyond all question.”
She laughed. “Nevertheless, don’t suppose for one moment that
I shall admit it.”
“Of course not. Your best plan is so clearly a denial that I
don’t find your denial either surprising or convincing.” He
suddenly smiled, and as he did so the years seemed to fall away and leave him
just a boy. “But really, don’t let’s worry ourselves. Quite
frankly, I don’t care in the least who you are.”
A.J. had been listening to the conversation with growing astonishment and
apprehension. There was such a charm about Poushkoff that he had been in
constant dread of what Daly might be lured into saying; yet an almost equal
lure had worked upon himself and had kept him from intervening. Even now he
was waiting for her answer with curiosity that quite outdistanced fear. She
said: “That leads up to a rather remarkable conclusion, Captain. You
believed I was really the Countess, yet you made every effort to save my
life.”
“Yes, perhaps I did, but I don’t see anything very remarkable
in it.”
They sat in silence for some time, while the train-wheels jog jogged over
the uneven track, across a world that was but a white desert meeting a grey
and infinite horizon. A.J. was puzzled still, but less apprehensive; it was
queer how the fellow’s charm could melt away even deepest misgivings.
More than queer—there was something uncanny in it; and he knew, too,
that Daly was aware of the same uncanniness. He glanced at her, and she
smiled half- enquiringly, half-reassuringly. Then she said, all at once
serene: “Captain, since you do not care who I am, there is no reason
why we should not all be the greatest of friends.” And turning to A.J.
she added: “Don’t you think we might share our food with the
Captain?”
A.J., after a moment’s hesitation, returned her smile; in another
moment one of the bundles that had been so neatly and carefully packed at the
Valimoffs’ cottage was being opened on that shabby but only slightly
verminous compartment-seat. There was a tin of pork and beans, a tin of
American mixed fruits, shortbread, chocolate, and—rarest delicacy of
all—a bottle of old cognac. As these treasures were displayed one after
another, Poushkoff showed all the excitement of a well-mannered schoolboy.
“But this is charming of you!” he exclaimed rapturously, and
then, with swift prudence, rushed to lock the door leading to the corridor
and pull down the blinds. “It will be best for us not to be
observed,” he laughed, and continued: “And to think that I
offered you my poor biscuits!”
“We were very grateful for them,” Daly said, with a shining
sweetness in her eyes.
Then began a most incredible and extraordinary picnic. Zest came over them
all, as if they had been friends from the beginning of the world, as if there
were no future ever to fear, as if all life held nothing but such friendship
and such joyous appetite. Poushkoff’s winsomeness overflowed into
sheer, radiant high spirits; Daly laughed and joked with him like a carefree
child; A.J. became the suddenly suave and perfect host, handing round the
food as gaily as if they had all been on holiday together. It was like some
strange dream that they were all, as by a miracle, dreaming at once. They
shouted with laughter when Poushkoff tried to open the tin of fruit with the
knife-blade and squirted juice over his tunic. They had to eat everything
with their fingers and to drink the brandy out of the bottle—but how
wonderful it all was, and how real compared with that unreal background of
moving snowfields and flicking telegraph-poles! They did silly
inconsequential things for no reason but that they wanted to do them;
Poushkoff made a fantastic impromptu after-dinner speech; A.J. followed it by
another; and Daly exclaimed, in the midst of everything: “Captain,
I’m sure you speak French—wouldn’t you like to?” And
they all, in madness to be first, began gabbling away like children.