The brandy passed round again, and Poushkoff made cigarettes out of the
coarse army tobacco, and they puffed away furiously as they chattered. It was
brilliant chatter, for the most part; Daly and Poushkoff were perfect foils
for each other, and the queerest thing of all was that they talked in an
intricate, intimate way that somehow needed neither questioning nor
explaining on either side. A.J., not talking quite so much, was nevertheless
just as happy—with a keenness, indeed, that was almost an ache of
memory, for he felt the had known Poushkoff not only before but many times
before. Then Poushkoff interrupted one of his own fantastic speeches to thank
them both with instant tragic simplicity. “I suppose,” he said,
“we shall not see one another again after we reach Samara. That is a
pity. The French say—’Faire ses adieux, c’est mourir un
peu’—but in this country it is ‘mourir entičrement.’
We have all of us died a thousand deaths like that during these recent
years.” He seized Daly’s hand and pressed it to his lips with a
strange blending of gallantry and shyness. “Oh, how cruel the world is,
to have taken away my life far more than it can ever take away
yours…” Then he suddenly broke down into uncontrollable sobbing. They
were astounded and moved beyond speech; Daly put her arm round the boy and
drew his head gently against her breast. He went on sobbing, and they could
not step him; his whole body shook as if the soul were being wrenched out of
it. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was all over, and he was looking up
at her, his eyes swimming in tears, and saying: “I humbly beg your
pardon. I don’t know what you must think of me—behaving like this
It was the brandy—I’m unused to it.”
They both smiled at him, trying to mean all they could without speaking,
and he took up his book and pretended to read again. A.J., for something to
do, cleared away the remains of the meal and repacked the bundle, while lolly
stared out of the window at the dazzling snow. A long time passed, and at
length came the same cairn, controlled voice that they had heard first of all
in the market-place at Novarodar. “Do you know Samara?” he was
asking.
“I’ve been through it, that’s all;” A.J.
answered.
Poushkoff continued: “It’s a fairly large town—much
larger than Novarodar. As you know, our army has just taken it from the
Czechs. Its full of important people—all kinds of people who were all
kinds of things before the Revolution. There are bound to be many who knew
Countess Adraxine personally.”
Daly said still smiling: “And no Tamirskys, eh?”
“Probably not. The perfect Tamirsky is the rarest of all
creatures.”
“I see So you are warning us?”
“Well, Hardly so much as that. But I am rather wondering what is
going to happen to you.”
“Ah, we none of us know that, do we?”
“No, but I thought you alight possibly have something in
mind.”
She looked at A.J. enquiringly and said: “I’m afraid we just
do what we can, as a rule, don’t we?”
“You mean that you just take a chance if it comes along?”
“What else is there we can do?”
“Do you think you will manage it in the end—what you are
trying to do?”
“With luck, perhaps.”
“And you have had luck so far?”
She said: “Wonderful luck. And the most wonderful of all was to meet
you.”
“Do you think so?”
“I would think so even if to-morrow sees the end of us, as it may
do.”
Every word of speech between them seemed to have infinitely deeper and
secondary meanings. He said, without emotion: “You are the most
astonishing woman I have ever met. I altogether love you, as a matter of
fact. I loved you from the minute I saw you last night. Am. I being very
foolish or impertinent?”
“No, no, I’m sure you’re not.”
“You mean that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Ali, how perfect you are!” He stared at the pages of the book
for another short interval. Then he turned to A.J. “I wonder if I might
be permitted to have a little more of that excellent cognac? It would be good
for me, I think—I feel a trifle faint.”
A.J. unpacked the bottle for him, and Daly said, warningly:
“Remember now—you said you were unused to it.”
Poushkoff answered, taking a strong gulp and laughing: “I promise it
won’t have the same effect again.” Then he leaned back on the
cushions and closed his eyes. The train rattled on more slowly than ever;
snow had stopped falling; it was nearly dusk. Neither A.J. nor Daly disturbed
the strange silence through which the boy appeared to sleep. Suddenly he
opened his eyes, yawned vigorously, and strode over to the window. “I
think I can see a church in the distance,” he said, in perfectly normal
tones. “That must be Tarzov—we have to change to another train
there. Pick up your luggage and come out with me to the refreshment
buffet—I may be able to get you some tea.”
In a few moments the train ground down to an impotent standstill at a
small, crowded platform of a station. It looked an odd place to have to
change; there was no sign of any rail junction, or of any other train, and
Tarzov, seen through the gathering dusk, had the air of a very second-rate
village indeed. There was the usual throng of waiting refugees, with their
usual attitude of having come nowhence and being bound no-whither; and there
was the usual shouting and bell-jangling and scrambling for places. Poushkoff
led them through the crowd to the refreshment buffet, which, by no means to
A.J.’s surprise, was found to be closed. The boy, however, seemed not
only surprised but depressed and disappointed to a quite fantastic
degree—he had so wished, he said, to drink tea with them once, before
they separated. “You see,” he said, “the next station is
Samara, only thirty versts away, and of course the authorities there have
been notified about you by telephone, and there will be an escort waiting,
and oh well, it is all going to be very difficult and complicated. Whereas
here we can still be friends.” He led them some distance along the
platform, away from the crowd, to a point whence there was a view of the
village—a poor view, however, owing to the misty twilight.
He seemed anxious to talk to them about something—perhaps about
anything. “Tarzov,” he said, “is only a small
place—it is on the Volga. If you go down that street over there you
come to the river in about ten minutes. There is a little quay and there are
timber-barges usually, at this time of the year. They take the rafts
downstream during the daytime, and tie up at the bank for the nights. Of
course the passenger-boats have been stopped since the civil war, but I
believe the timber- barges sometimes take a passenger or two, if people have
the money and make their own arrangements with the bargemen. Some of the
bargemen are Tartars—fine old fellows from the Kirghiz country.”
He added, almost apologetically: “This is really a most interesting
part of the world, though, of course, you don’t see it at its best at
this time of the year.”
Suddenly, as if remembering something, he exclaimed: “Excuse me, I
must go back to the train a moment—I shan’t be long.” He
dashed away into the midst of the still scurrying crowd before they could
answer, and in the twilight they soon lost sight of him.
“He looked ill,” Daly said.
A.J. answered: “He drank nearly all that brandy.”
“Did he? Poor boy! Do you like him?”
“Yes.”
“So do I—tremendously. And he’s only a boy.”
It was very cold, waiting there with the wind blowing little gusts of snow
into their faces.
A.J. said: “It’s rather curious, having to change trains at a
place like this. There doesn’t seem to be any junction, and if
it’s only thirty versts to Samara, where else can the train be going on
to?”
“Perhaps it isn’t going on anywhere.”
“Then why is everybody crowding to get into it?”
She clutched his arm with a sharp gesture. “Do you
realise—that we could
escape
—
now
? It’s almost
dark—there’s a mist—we should have a chance.”
He answered, his hand tightening over her wrist:
“Yes—yes—I believe you’re right!” But he did
not move. “Yes, it’s a chance—a chance!” Yet still he
did not move, and all at once there came the splitting crack of a
revolver-shot. It was not a sound to attract particular attention at such a
place and at such a time—it would just, perhaps, make the average
hearer turn his head, if he were idle enough, and wonder what it was. A.J.
wondered, but his mind was grappling with that more insistent
matter—
escape
. Yes, there would be a chance, and their only
chance, for, as Poushkoff had told them, Samara was close, and Samara meant
armed escorts and prison-cells. Yes, yes,—there was no time to
lose—Poushkoff would be back any minute—they must think of
themselves—they must go
now
—
instantly
….But
no—not for a minute—a little man with a ridiculously tilted fur
cap was pacing up and down the platform; he would pass them in a few seconds,
would reach the end, turn, pass them again, and then would come their
chance…Yet the man in the fur cap did not pass them. He stopped and
remarked, cheerfully: “Exciting business down there, comrade,”
and jerked his head backward towards the crowd. “Officer just shot
himself. Through the head. Deliberately—everybody saw him. Not a bad
thing, perhaps, if they all did it eh?” He laughed and passed on. A.J.
stared incredulously; it was Daly who led him back to the crowd. “We
must see,” she said. “We must make sure.” When they reached
the crown, soldiers were already carrying a body into the waiting-room; it
was she again who pressed forward, edging her way in what doubtless seemed
mere ghoulish curiosity. When she rejoined A.J. it was only to nod her head
and take his arm. They walked slowly away. Then she began to whisper
excitedly: “Dear, I’m just understanding it—that’s
what he
wanted
us to do—all that talk about the road to the
river, and the bargemen who might take us if we offered them
money—Dear, we
must
do it—think how furious he’d be
if he thought we hadn’t had the sense to take the chance he gave
us!”
“Yes. We’ll do it.”
They came to the end of the platform, but did not stop and turn, like
other up-and-down walkers. They hastened on through the darkness, across the
tracks and sidings, in between rows of damaged box-cars, over a ditch into
pale, crunching snowfields, and towards the river.
They skirted the village carefully, keeping well away from the snow-
covered roofs, yet not too far from them, lest they should lose themselves in
the mist. But A.J. had sound directional instinct, and despite the mist and
the deep snow it was no more than a quarter of an hour before they clambered
over a fence and found themselves facing a black vastness which, even before
they heard the lapping of the water, reassured them. They stopped for a few
seconds to listen; as well as the water, they could hear, very faintly, the
lilt of voices in the distance. They walked some way along the path, their
footsteps muffled in snow. Then a tiny light came into view, reflected far
over the water till the mist engulfed it; the voices became plainer. Suddenly
A.J. whispered: “The timber-barges—here they
are!”—and they could sec the great rafts of tree-trunks,
snow-covered and lashed together, with the winking light of the towing barge
just ahead of them. Voices were approaching as well as being approached; soon
two men passed by, speaking a language that was not Russian, though it was
clear from sound and gesture that one of the men was bidding farewell to the
other. They both shouted out a cheerful ‘Good-night’ as they
passed, and a moment later A.J. heard them stop and give each other
resounding kisses on both cheeks. Then one of them returned, overtaking the
two fugitives near the gang-plank that led down at a steep angle to the barge
itself. They could not see his face, but he was very big and tall. He cried
out a second cheerful ‘Good-night,’ and was about to cross the
plank, when A.J. asked: “Are you the captain of this boat?”
The man seemed childishly pleased at being called ‘captain,’
and replied, in very bad Russian: “Yes, that’s right.”
“We were wondering if you could take us along with you?”
“Well, I might, if you were to make it worth my while.”
To accept too instantly would have looked suspicious, so A.J. went on:
“We are only poor people, so we cannot afford very much.”
“Where do you want to go to?”
“A little village called Varokslav—it is on the river, lower
down.”
“I don’t think I know it at all.”
A.J. was not surprised, for it was an invented name.
“It t is only very small—we would tell you when you come to
it.”
“But how can we settle a price if I don’t know how far it
is?”
To which A.J. answered: “Where is it you are bound for,
Captain?”
“Saratof. We are due there in three weeks.”
“Very well, I will give you twenty gold roubles to take us both to
Saratof.”
“Thirty, comrade.”
They haggled in the usual way and finally came to terms at twenty-four.
Then the bargeman, whose Russian became rapidly imperfect when he left the
familiar ground of bargaining, conveyed to them with great difficulty the
fact that accommodation on the barge was very poor, and that there was only
one cabin, which he himself, his wife, and five children already occupied,
and which the passengers would have to share. A.J. said that would be all
right, and they did not mind. Then the bargeman confided to A.J. that his
name was Akhiz, and A.J. returned the compliment. Having thus got over the
introductions, Akhiz gave A.J. two very loud kisses as a token of their
future relationship and invited both passengers to come on board immediately.
It was beginning to snow again, for which A.J. was thankful, since their
tracks would soon be covered. As they crossed the steep plank there came,
very faintly over the white fields, the sound of a train puffing out of
Tarzov station.