be as Ilya said—no one would give a beggar’s kopeck to know where
Kirsakoff lived. For that matter, Rimsky cared about nothing. The world
was a very pleasant place for all people said about bad times. He could
feel himself slipping away into a delicious unconsciousness, and he
talked aloud the thoughts which crossed his mind.
“There is something wrong about this,” he confided to himself, unaware
that Ilya could hear what was said. Then he went on, head on chest, and
almost under the table, muttering into his whiskers.
“The American officer—no, a Russian—well, the American officer—he wants
to know where Michael lives. And he—will pay well. Didn’t he come to my
place asking about the old Governor? And where did he go? Yes, the
Dauria, I remember, even if I am drunk—to the Dauria, where the
Bolsheviki smashed all the windows. I know. I remember the time my
father’s cow fell in the river. Was Ilya there? No. How could Ilya be
there—I am dreaming now. Let us all—be merry, for this is Carnival. Am I
not a young man? That is right—dance—dance——”
Rimsky began to snore softly. The gypsy girl came and grinned at Ilya,
who reached out unsteadily and plucked the flame from the candle.
“Let him sleep,” said Ilya to the girl. “He is a good fellow,” and
putting the cork back into the vodka-bottle which was half full by the
best of good luck, he slipped it into his pocket, pulled his ragged old
coat about his shoulders and tightened the rope belt. Then he slipped
out of the restaurant, chuckling at his cleverness at putting Rimsky
under the table and learning something which might put money into his
own purse. Besides, he had the half-bottle of vodka.
He made up his mind to go at once to the house of Michael Alexandrovitch
Kirsakoff and sell the news he had heard—an American officer was at the
Hotel Dauria and wanted to find the old Governor. Perhaps Michael would
give five rubles for that news—if not five, then four, anyhow, a piece
of boiled partridge. But Ilya decided that he would do his best to get
five rubles. Michael Kirsakoff had plenty of money, and who was he
anyway?—once a Governor, true, but no better now than Ilya Andreitch.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
VIII
PETER LAYS HIS PLANS
PETER went back to the Hotel Dauria after his talk with Rimsky. The
sleepy-eyed youth who had promised a room, carried Peter’s baggage to
the upper floor, where Peter signed the register in a cage-like little
office.
Then they went on down a hall past a dining room which was deserted.
Peter looked in. It was filled with battered tables, tubbed rubber
plants in the window sills, and crazy chairs which had been used in
defense and had legs in splints.
The walls had been stripped of paper. The mirrors of the buffet-counter
at one end of the room had been smashed out and triangles of broken
glass still stuck in the frames. The curtains had been pulled from the
poles over the windows and the doors. Painted decorations on the
wainscoting had been smeared with the contents of catsup and vinegar
bottles, which had burst against the walls like star shells and the
acids had discolored the pictures of the crude drawings so that the wall
was spotted and leprous-looking.
Peter was taken to a large room at the end of the hall. It had three
double windows overlooking the end of a side street that ran into the
Sofistkaya, with a view of the latter. He could see the old post-house
and the roof of Rimsky’s hut sticking up between two higher buildings.
There was an iron bed without bedding. There was a standing screen in
front of it. The chairs had been broken but were repaired. There were
slashes in the woodwork about the door where bayonets had evidently been
thrust at former guests. And some of the guests had fared badly, judging
by the dark stains on the old oilcloth which covered the floor.
The plaster of the walls was pitted with bullet-holes, especially
opposite the windows, and the panes of glass were newly puttied and
still marked with the thumb-prints of the workmen.
“Can I have my meals served in the room?” asked Peter. The youth yawned.
“Yes. If you pay extra. Ring this bell three times for the samovar
girl,” and he pointed to a button in the wall near the door, and the
youth departed, as if afraid that he would be asked to do something.
There was an electric drop lamp on a writing table, and running water in
a little sink against the wall behind the screen. There was a tall
wardrobe set against a second door which evidently led to another room.
It was hard for Peter to realize that Chita could be so modern. And the
room, poor as it was, seemed like a palace to Peter. His mind had been
readjusted to the things he had known as a boy by his visit to Rimsky.
Peter Petrovitch Gorekin would have thought himself a king to have a
room like this one in which Peter Gordon was to live.
But there was no Peter Gordon now. Peter Gorekin was back in Chita. The
scene which opened to him from the windows had been for twenty years in
the back of his brain. The little hut, the post-house, the Sofistkaya!
He found it hard to believe that he had ever been away from Chita at
all.
He sat down by the window. The mild heat from the radiator had thawed
away most of the frost in the panes and he looked out over the city.
Things that had been but memories were now real, truly existing before
his eyes in spite of his years of trying to blur their images out of his
mind.
The old superstitions of peasants and exiles which he had learned in his
father’s hut as a boy returned to his mind—tales of werewolves who took
the shapes of men for diabolical purposes. Was there not something in it
all? Was not he himself something like a werewolf? Was he not a Russian
in an American coat? Michael Kirsakoff would never suspect an American
officer of being the son of a dead exile. Nor would Kirsakoff suspect an
American officer of being the same poor boy who had been thrown into
prison for a whim—now come for vengeance.
The mysticism inherent in his race, the queer inarticulate yearnings and
the dissatisfactions of the Slavic soul, came to the surface in Peter’s
consciousness. But now he had knowledge of things, and power, and the
means of carrying out his own ends. He would play the game carefully to
an end in Chita, and then go on to Irkutsk without any one’s suspecting
that the American officer had killed Kirsakoff.
He began to think of his return to Chita as a holy mission. Affairs had
turned out well for him from the first. He had managed to get to Siberia
instead of going to France. He had managed to get himself ordered to
Irkutsk, and had slipped away from his Russian orderly with no one the
wiser that Peter Gordon was really a Russian. And there was every
evidence that Kirsakoff was still alive and that he was still in Chita.
The reticence of Rimsky in discussing Kirsakoff was proof enough to
Peter that the former Governor might be found somewhere in the Valley of
Despair.
He took off his tunic and rang for a samovar. A slattern of a girl,
dirty and unkempt, came trembling to the door to ask what was wanted.
She was not more than fifteen—round-cheeked, with scared blue eyes, and
brown hair down her back. She was wearing men’s cast-off old shoes.
Peter looked at her with pity.
“Will you bring me some spice-cakes and a samovar?” he asked gently.
“Yes, master,” she said, and turned to escape.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Peter. “I am an American.”
“Yes, master,” she repeated. But she had no comprehension of what he had
said.
“Here are five rubles for you,” said Peter, holding out the note to her.
But she fled through the door as he moved toward her.
“The same old system working,” thought Peter, as he watched the poor
girl running down the hall. “The poor people frightened out of their
wits by the ruling class! Damn such a country!”
He closed the door. He realized now that oppression was not dead in the
country. His years in America had dimmed his memories of such scenes. He
had begun to think that the revolution had bettered conditions for the
people, that in the twenty years since he was a boy in Siberia there had
been improvement.
The old rage began to grow in him again. He lusted to kill. He wanted to
help the people, aside from his own blood vengeance. He wondered if his
dead father had not been able to help in having the son return to Chita.
His return might be in the nature of a destiny which it would be sinful
to avoid, even divine in its workings. It was all as if some controlling
star had put power into his hands, and had swung him back to the land of
his boyhood. It would be impossible to go against fate. He felt that no
man could stand out against what had every sign of being a directed
destiny.
Peter was filled with a strange exaltation, a very frenzy of joy over
the thought that it would now be possible to pay off his old debt of
revenge against Michael Kirsakoff. The words of an old folk song began
to run through his mind and he hummed it gently, pausing to catch some
of the almost forgotten words.
He got out his razor and shaved himself before the big wall mirror
between the windows. The peace and quiet of his room were luxuries after
the days and nights of living and sleeping on the pounding train among
the Czech soldiers. He had time now for careful planning, and he desired
to make the acquaintance of Kirsakoff at leisure, arrange the details of
how the Governor should be killed and then carry through the project
with all possible skill so that his tracks might be covered. There would
be many pitfalls to avoid, many nicely balanced circumstances.
It would not be enough for Peter merely to kill Kirsakoff. The Governor
must know who brought death to him, must understand before he was sent
into eternity that it was Peter Petrovitch Gorekin, son of the
bootmaker, who took vengeance.
The girl came with the samovar and the cakes and left them on the table.
She fled again without taking the five-ruble note which Peter had left
upon the table for her.
Peter sat by the window and ate and drank. The sun dropped behind the
rim of the hill and twilight came swiftly. In the street below a line of
rude carts passed, drawn by frosty ponies with their drivers plodding
along behind the carts. They walked like men in their sleep, oblivious
of everything about them and steeped in the torturing cold.
Farther up the street four men were drifting about aimlessly, tipsy with
vodka. They drew together at times to engage in maudlin argument, and
staggered about like clumsy bears, lurching at one another in wild
plunges and falling in the street.
The four roisterers disappeared. A squad of Japanese soldiers came
stumbling down the street, evidently going on guard at the station for
the night. They appeared to be half frozen, but they doggedly maintained
some semblance of military formation. Their heads were so wrapped in
cloths that they could hardly see their way, and the fur straps across
their faces were white with frost from the moisture of their nostrils.
Their big shoes were stuffed with straw, which hung out over the tops.
The agonizing cold, despite the heavy clothing of the men, had
penetrated to their bodies and had chilled them to a condition akin to
lethargy. They walked as if through semiliquid air which impeded their
movements.
Peter remained by the window smoking, while the frost gradually grew up
the windows. He was wondering how he could find Kirsakoff. It would not
do to make direct inquiries. It might be possible to draw more from
Rimsky, but it would be wise to wait before pressing the
cigarette-seller to talk about Kirsakoff. The graybeard would be
suspicious—he was already suspicious that Peter had some other motive in
going to the hut than buying cigarettes. Yes, it would be safer to keep
away from Rimsky for a few days, and perhaps wise not to move about the
city too much and start gossip. He might be watched at first, but after
a few days his presence in the city would be taken as a matter of
course. Then he could begin his quest for Kirsakoff.
With this decision for the future, Peter prepared for bed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
IX
ILYA USES HIS WITS
ILYA ANDREITCH, having left Rimsky in a state of gorgeous befuddlement
at the gypsy’s restaurant, hurried up the street to the house of Michael
Kirsakoff and his daughter. It would be great news, the coming of an
American who wished to find Kirsakoff. It might be a government matter,
for as everybody with an ounce of brains in his head knew, the Americans
were going to take full control of Russia—some wise folk even said that
the Americans would annex Russia as a province of America. Others said
the Czar had gone to America and had conquered it, including Venice.
Those were matters which Ilya considered in spare moments; just now he
felt that this news of the American needed full attention.
Ilya could see the glowing coals of a sentinels’ bonfire up near the
church. Also, there were sounds of music and singing in the direction of
a barrack, and the rattle of a droshky coming across the little bridge
over the Ingoda. So he did not feel too lonely. There was no moon up
yet, but the stars were out and hanging low. The thin, sweet air
drenched his lungs, and cleared his brain somewhat.
Now he heard a man walking near by. Ilya stopped to listen, cocking his
head to one side. But when Ilya stopped, the man stopped also—and then
Ilya realized that it was his own footsteps which he had heard,
crunching the hard snow musically. He laughed discreetly, taking care
that the sentries should not hear him, and started on again toward the
outer rim of the city.
But he was a little afraid that he might not get past some of the sentry
groups without being stopped and questioned, or perhaps arrested. He got
off the hard walk and into the center of the sandy street, so that his
boots would not make a noise. He got out his bottle—the bottle which he
had taken from the restaurant table—and had a swig from it to give
himself courage. It would be no simple matter to go talking to
Kirsakoff, who, though an Excellence, was a cruel old bones of a man.
But Ilya reflected that times had changed. He was as good as anybody
now, and knew as much as anybody. The revolution had done that for him,
and a revolution was good fun. Was not even Rimsky, who had once held
himself to be better than a _moujik_, now buying vodka for _moujiks_?
Hurrah for the revolution! And as for that, hadn’t he fooled Rimsky and
drawn from him the news that the American had come to see Kirsakoff?
That was proof enough as to who had the better wit. Ilya gave himself
credit for the manner in which he had handled the whole matter.
Kirsakoff should give at least five rubles for the news, not a kopeck
less. Ilya settled that to his own satisfaction, took another swig, and
went on. A wolf howled in the hills above the city, and Ilya crossed
himself against the wiles of the devil.
He passed the black dome of the church. The air was like crystal and
nothing cast a shadow, not even the iron fence about the old cemetery of
the church. And when the stars are so bright and hang so low that
nothing throws a shadow, there are witches about.
Ilya hurried on, getting more nervous with every step, till he was in
the outer limits of the city. Then he crossed some old gardens to get in
among the log houses which stood at the end of the street. In that way
he avoided a group of sentries who were singing about their fire.
He located Kirsakoff’s house. It stood on a corner of two streets, with
a log wall enclosing the _dvor_, or courtyard—the garden, the well, the
wagon-sheds. The windows let out no light, but stood out like tablets of
ivory set into the dark house, their frosty panes glistening under the
stars.
Ilya went round to the great gate. Some old water casks were lying about
it in disorder. One of them was close to the wall of the court. Ilya
moved it a little, and mounting it, reached up to some old cords and
dead vines running along the top of the logs. He took off his mittens
and felt for a cord that had tied in it a certain number of knots. He
pulled it thrice, and then climbed down from the cask, and stood in
close to the wall, so that any person looking up the street would not
see him, for his figure would be merged with the dark background of the
wall.
A sentry-fire burned redly out in the end of the street. A few dark
figures were visible about it. Somewhere Ilya heard a Cossack challenge,
and the rattle of a riflebolt in the crisp air. A pig began to squeal
away in the direction of the Chinese quarter. Ilya missed the friendly
barking of dogs, for the dogs of the city had somehow disappeared since
the troubles came and many people were starving. The unnatural stillness
of the night held a covert menace, as if all creatures, humans and wild
beasts, were walking about on their toes in dread, or crouched to spring
upon some lurking enemy. It was likely that hill tigers were about. The
occasional howl of a wolf seemed to be tinged with a note of triumph, as
if they were waiting for their old wilderness to be restored to them by
men. The wolves were once more hunting close to the city and getting
arrogant and fat. Men were too busy hunting each other to waste time or
ammunition on the great packs of timber wolves.
A small door in the wall, close to where Ilya stood, opened inward a few
inches, slowly and cautiously, for the frost cracked the ancient hinges
with sharp complaints.
“It is Ilya—Ilya Andreitch,” he whispered into the aperture of the gate.
“You are a fool to come here in the starlight,” growled Wassili. “Are
you blind, that you cannot see the brightness of the stars, or have you
a mole for an uncle?”
“What does it matter?” whispered Ilya easily. He did not mind being
insulted by Wassili, knowing in time that he would have the laugh on
Kirsakoff’s _moujik_.
The gate opened a few more inches, and Ilya needed no greater hint, but
slipped through, and the gate closed after him.
“You smell like a _kabak_,” grumbled Wassili.
“That is why you opened the gate,” said Ilya with a chuckle. “You have a
nose for vodka, even if you are not civil to your friends.”
“But you will be seen by enemies, to come here so boldly,” went on
Wassili, not so easily altered in his temper.
“I? No one saw me. I am as secret as an owl. Those fools of soldiers are
all drunk and talking in their sleep. They shoot their guns at the moon
every night, to scare honest folk away.”
“What brings you?” demanded Wassili. “Am I to stand here freezing
because you want to gossip?”
“I came to talk with Michael Alexandrovitch,” said Ilya with pomposity.
He swayed unsteadily on his feet, for the vodka he had drunk was again
asserting its potency because he had been standing still so long outside
the gate. He blew gently down into his whiskers to melt away the ice
which had formed in the bristles from his breath.
“Hmf!” growled Wassili. “Perhaps you think Michael Alexandrovitch has
baked a pig for your coming? Have you forgotten that Michael
Alexandrovitch is an Excellence?”
“I am as good as he, Excellence or no Excellence,” retorted Ilya. “What
I remember is the revolution, and that Ilya Andreitch is as good as the
Czar. But I have brought news for the Excellence. Are we to stand here
warming the night with our breaths, when Michael Alexandrovitch would be
glad to know what I know?”
“He could salt his porridge with what you know,” scorned Wassili. “What
news do you bring?” He was still doubtful of the legitimacy of Ilya’s
visit, and suspected his coming to be a desire for drunken argument.
“When a man brings news in these times, he might have a glass of hot
tea,” hinted Ilya. “It is about government, and I have come with big
news about what is being done outside this place.”
“You have brought a monkey with you, that is what,” muttered Wassili,
meaning that Ilya was foolishly drunk. But he fastened the bolt of the
gate. He was now shivering with the cold and sulky about it, though he
did not dare risk sending Ilya away if there was any chance of valuable
information’s coming to the attention of his master, Kirsakoff.
“Whoosh! Is not a monkey smarter than a fox? You old pothead, you sit
here all day looking at your feet, while I learn government news and
risk my neck to bring it here and——”
“Be still!” commanded Wassili. “You can be heard to the hills a night
like this! You smell of fresh-killed pig and vodka, for all your
government talk. Is that the way to come to the house of Excellence?
Follow along with that noisy tongue of yours, but keep your fingers on
it, for it wags too freely and you will lose it along with your head, if
you are not careful.”
“Yes, and I’ll bring a drink of vodka along for you, if you have a fire
in your samovar, you old spider.”
“It is good you bring something besides talk,” grumbled Wassili, as he
led the way under the overhanging roof of the shed and along through the
gloom to the door of the kitchen. Ilya stumbled along after him,
blundering among the kettles and other gear and making such a racket
that Wassili cursed him for having too many legs. But Ilya, in a gay
mood, chuckled into his beard and was only concerned lest he lose his
footing and have a tumble that would break the precious bottle in his
pocket.
They entered the kitchen, which had its windows hung with old blankets
to keep the light hidden. There was a wall-stove and a cooking stove
with ovens built of stone. A candle burned on the table. There were
partridge feathers in a sink and the remnants of cabbages that had been
cut up on a board. A big earthen jar of gooseberry jam stood open on the
table and beside it a fat yellow bowl full of white honey, which gave
off a sweet odor and made Ilya think of bees in the fields in summer.
Wassili sat down and rested his elbows on the table. His pockmarked face
had a glum look, and his pale yellow whiskers bristled with belligerency
for Ilya, as if the _moujik_ were in for trouble unless his story should
be of sufficient import for the visit. Wassili’s blue caftan, pale and
washed out like the garment of a Chinese coolie, was strapped about him
with a bit of scarlet cloth which had once been embroidered. His feet
were wrapped in skins, ready to be slipped into the big boots standing
limply by the bench upon which he sat. He had not put them on when he
went out to admit Ilya.
“Let us be merry while we can,” began Ilya, anxious to improve the
atmosphere of the kitchen as represented by the scowling Wassili. So
Ilya threw himself down sprawlingly on a bench opposite Wassili, and
loosened the old rope about his coat. Then he pulled his bottle from his
pocket with a flourish of good-fellowship and slammed it down upon the
table with a thump. “We will all be dead in time that will come soon
enough, so I will have a glass of tea and a spice-cake before I talk
with the Excellence.”
“The wind is full of news,” said Wassili sadly, but the sight of the
bottle put him in slightly better humor. He leaned down and squinted
across it, to gauge its contents.
“How is the health of Excellence?” asked Ilya, his courage bolstered by
a sudden remembrance of his own importance and a desire to return to the
subject of statecraft in connection with Michael Kirsakoff.
Without answering, Wassili poured himself a generous draft from the
bottle into a thick glass, and nodding to Ilya in place of speaking a
health, tossed the liquor off with a clicking sound in his throat and a
harsh appreciative grunt.
“Bring the spice-cakes and the glasses for tea,” he called out to the
other room. An old serving woman peered into the kitchen, appraised Ilya
with critical eyes, and then shambled away for the cakes and glasses.
Ilya’s yellowed teeth grinned across the table at Wassili.
“Now when am I to talk with Michael Alexandrovitch, eh?” he demanded,
crossing his legs importantly and rubbing one knee with his paw of a
hand. “Don’t forget why I have come, Wassili, and that my business is
with the master.”
“You will see Excellence when you see him,” said Wassili.
“True!” said Ilya. “But I shall not leave that to you, if I have to
hammer him up myself. This is a matter of government.”
“There is no one in the house but the old woman and myself,” said
Wassili, with a flourish of his arm. “Excellence is gone, and your
whiskers will be longer before you see him.”
“May the devil tear out your tongue, for it does not speak the truth,”
said Ilya without anger. “This is not a time for lying, when your master
is waiting for news from me.”
Wassili flourished his arm as an expression of his annoyance, and
blurted out surlily, “Then go above for yourself and see, if you know
better than I.”