Kamarowsky took me to the railway station, where I found the compartment
he had reserved for me already filled with flowers. I thanked him with
trembling lips.
"In three weeks, my love," he said, "you will be back again, and then I
shall not part from you any more." He kissed me and stepped down upon
the platform, where he stood gazing up at me with smiling eyes. Many
people stood near, watching us. I leaned out of the carriage window, and
as I looked at him I kept repeating to myself: "This is the last time I
shall see him! The last time!"
It seemed strange and incongruous to see him there, with his usual
aspect, making ordinary gestures and uttering commonplace remarks.
Knowing as I did that he stood on the threshold of death, I wondered
that he had not a more staid and solemn demeanor, slower, graver
gestures and memorable words.
Whereas he was saying, with a smile: "Mind you don't lose your purse;
and remember to look after your luggage at the Customs. You will have
the dining-car at Bozen." And then, looking about him: "Would you like
some newspapers?" He hurried away after the newsvendor, and then counted
his change and argued about a coin which he thought was counterfeit. He
came back to my carriage door, handed me the newspapers, and with his
handkerchief dried his forehead and the inside of his hat.
"Fearfully hot," he said, looking up at me with a friendly laugh.
All this seemed terribly out of keeping with the tragic situation of
which, all unconsciously, he was the hero. I tried to say something
tender and affectionate to him, but my agitation stifled me.
"Mind you are good," he said, still smiling, and he threw a glance at
some officers in the compartment next to mine.
I heard the doors being shut and the guard calling out "_Partenza!_" My
heart began to beat wildly. I felt as if once again I were strapped in
the car on the switchback railway. I wanted to get out, to stop, to turn
back. A whistle sounded and a gong was struck.
"Well, Mura, _au revoir_," cried Kamarowsky, stretching up his hand to
me. "A happy journey and all blessings."
I leaned out as far as I could--the bar across the window hindered me,
but I managed to touch his outstretched hand with the tips of my
fingers.
A spasm caught my throat. "Paul, Paul!" I gasped. "Oh, God, forgive me!"
A shrill whistle drowned my voice as the train moved slowly forward.
He must have seen the anguish in my face, for he cried anxiously:
"What? What did you say?" Now he was running beside the train, which was
beginning to go faster.
I repeated my cry: "Forgive me! Forgive me!" and stretched out my arms
to him from the window.
He shook his head to show that he had not understood. The train was
throbbing and hastening.
He ran faster beside it. "What--what is it? What did you say?" But the
train was gaining speed, and he was obliged to stop. He stood there,
erect and solitary, at the extreme end of the platform, following with
perplexed and questioning gaze the train that was carrying me away.
It is thus always that I see him in my memory--a solitary figure, gazing
at me with perplexed and wondering eyes.
Surely it is thus, thus wondering and perplexed, that he must have
looked in the face of death and treachery, on that summer morning when
he was struck down by the hand of his friend.
The switchback plunges downward in its mad race to the abyss--the end is
near.
At Kieff, as arranged, I meet Naumoff.
I sob out my despair to him. Paul Kamarowsky must die. I give no reason,
I explain nothing; I repeat unceasingly the three words: "He must die,"
until there seem to be no other words in the world--until the universe
seems to ring with those three words: "He must die!"
Naumoff recoils from me, pale-faced and horrified. Then I drive him from
me, crying: "Go, you are a coward. Let me never see you again!"
"But why should he die?" cries Naumoff. "What has the poor man done to
you?"
Ah, what, indeed, has the poor man done?
Ramblingly, incoherently, I try to explain to Naumoff; I tell him of
Tioka and his illness, of my vow.... He listens amazed, without
comprehending.
"But Mura, Mura! This is delirium, this is madness. You are ill, you are
out of your mind. How can such an insensate idea possess you? How can
you imagine that God would demand such an iniquity?"
Then I rack my brain for arguments that will convince him. I invent all
manner of falsehoods; I repeat the tale of insults and outrages that I
have endured at the hands of Kamarowsky; I accuse him of violence and
brutality ... and even as I tell these mad stories they seem to myself
to be true. I am thrilled by my own words; I tremble, I weep
convulsively; and Naumoff, ever more pale, ever more bewildered, does
not know what to believe.
Continually, a dozen times a day, blind to all caution, reckless of all
consequences, I send telegrams to Prilukoff--the telegrams that
afterwards were found, and led to our arrest--"Berta refuses."
(Prilukoff, I know not for what reason, had nicknamed Naumoff "Berta.")
Then again: "Berta will do it." And again: "Berta irresolute. What am I
to do?"
Then seized by sudden panic: "Wait! Do no harm to any one. Advise me.
Help me. I am going mad."
Prilukoff telegraphs back his usual set phrase: "Leave it to me." And he
forthwith proceeds to send me a number of telegrams, all of which
contain a series of insults and taunts addressed both to Naumoff and to
myself. He signs them "Paul Kamarowsky." Naumoff reads them in
amazement, then in anger; finally he, too, becomes possessed of the idea
of crime, obsessed by the frenzy of murder.
How can I tell the terrible story further?... The gust of madness caught
us in its whirlwind, dashing us round like leaves blown in a storm.
One evening--it was a pale, clear twilight at the close of August--I
sprang suddenly to my feet, and winding a black veil round my hair, I
ran from my rooms and down the wide shallow flights of the hotel
staircase. There were large mirrors on every landing. As I descended I
saw at every turn a woman coming to meet me, a tall, spectral creature
with a black veil tied round a white, desolate face ... her light, wild
eyes filled me with fear, and I hurried forward to reach the hall, where
I heard voices and music.
Standing beside the piano in the vast lounge, two young girls were
singing; they were English girls, and they sang, with shy, cool voices,
a duet of Mendelssohn:
[Illustration: Fair Springtime bids the bluebells ring
Sweet chimes o'er vale and lea]
Some distance away, listening to them with tranquil contentment on their
peaceful faces, sat their parents--the father, a stern, stately old man
with kindly eyes; the mother, gentle and serene, wearing the white lace
cap of renunciation on her smooth gray hair. As I passed them with
faltering step the mother turned and looked at me. What did she read in
my face that wakened such a look of tenderness and pity in hers?... She
smiled at me, and that smile seemed to stop my heart, so guileless was
it, so maternal and so kind.
For an instant a wild thought possessed me: to stop, to fall upon my
knees before this gentle, unknown woman and implore her help.
What if I cried out to her: "Help me, have pity upon me! I am an
unhappy creature whom the Fates pursue.... I am distraught, I am
demented--to-morrow I shall have murder on my soul. Keep me near you ...
save me! Unless you help me I am lost...."
But the Furies that pursued me laughed aloud and lashed me forward.
And now Nicolas Naumoff, who had noticed my flight, came running down
the staircase to follow me....