What is this dry rustling all around? It is the rye. But where are the
little cornflowers, where is Boris? The little blue-eyed flowers are in
the rye, and Boris has been hanged.
“And I?” Natasha asks herself in a strange, oppressive perplexity. She
looks round her like one just awakened.
“Why am I here?”
She answers herself: “I escaped. A lucky chance saved me.”
Natasha is oppressed by the thought. How had she survived it? “Far
better if I had perished!”
It all happened very simply. Natasha, being Number Three, was placed at
the railway station itself, her duty being contingent on the failure of
Number One and Number Two. But the first was successful, though he
himself perished in the explosion.
The second, upon hearing the explosion not far away, lost his presence
of mind. He ran to save himself. He caught a cab, and got off near the
river. Here he hired a row-boat. When near the middle of the river, he
threw the bomb into the water. The man who rowed had guessed that
something was wrong. Besides, he had been seen from the Government
steamer and from the banks. Number Two was taken, tried and hanged.
Natasha did not betray herself in any way. She walked calmly, without
haste, bearing her dangerous burden, observed by no one. She mixed
freely with the passing crowd. She delivered the bomb at the appointed
place.
A few days later she left for home. She had not been followed. Natasha
was awaiting a second commission, and quite suddenly she abandoned the
business, because her trust in it had died.
It happened even before Borya was hanged. But her decision came finally
in those nightmare days when, quickly and unexpectedly, his life came
to an end.
Those were terrible days.
But, no, it is better not to think of them, it is better not to
remember them. To remember them is to suffer. Far better to remember
other things, things cloudless and long past.