He slept restlessly. The music and the dancing rarely halted. Once when
he roused, it was with the suffocating sense that a man was bending
over him, fumbling at the handle of Santa's door. As he sat up, he was
convinced that the man looked back just before he vanished around the
corner.
When he finally wakened, it was in the chill of dawn. He was surrounded
by a ghostly stillness. Rising softly, he slipped down the passage and
out into the public rooms of the hotel. It was as though a wizard had
waved his wand. The merry-makers lay strewn about carelessly, wherever
sleep had overtaken them. In the pale light of morning, robbed of
animation, their faces showed waxlike and wan. Swords, which had
clattered martially, sprawled grotesquely by crumpled bodies. Uniforms
looked tarnished, dresses shabby. Girls, with their lips parted and
their hair disordered, lay with heads stretched back in their lovers'
arms. Over all was spread the weariness of folly.
Tiptoeing from group to group, he searched for the man who had tried
Santa's door. Nowhere could he find him. Returning to her room, he
tapped lightly. He was afraid to make more noise in that atmosphere of
menace. Receiving no answer, he pushed the door stealthily and peered
across the threshold. He had feared lest he might find her gone; there
she lay curled up in her cot, her hair poured across her pillow, her
face cushioned against her hollowed arm. Gray light falling from a
narrow window clothed her with a lonely pathos. Bending over her, he
shook her shoulder. “Santa.”
She sat up with a start.
“Has it happened?”
“Not yet. They're sleeping like the dead.”
“Then why--?”
“There's someone who knows us here. He tried your door. It makes me
think we're watched. We can slip out now and hunt up Varensky. If we
wait till later, we'll be followed.”
Her pupils dilated, obscuring the grayness of her eyes; they became
black pools, mirroring her terror. “To be caught with Varensky would
mean death.” He seated himself on the edge of her cot. “I didn't think
you knew what fear was. Don't be frightened. I'll protect you.”
“Dear!” All of a sudden she had become intensely calm. “Did you think I
was afraid for myself? Before many days, perhaps before to-day is out,
it'll be you who'll need protecting. I beg you, don't go near Varensky.”
“But--”
“Let me go myself,” she implored. When he glanced away without replying,
she rushed on impetuously. “Some one's got to take risks. I don't count.
Your life must be spared.”
With an effort he brought his gaze back. “There's Anna.”
Instead of the explosion he had expected, her voice became gravely
tender. “I forgot. You care for her as I care for you. I'm sorry.”
Her feet slipped to the floor; he saw them marble white against the
bare, scrubbed boards--beautiful as hands, the feet of a dancer. As he
retreated, she smiled bravely, “You shan't wait long.”
V
So far as they were aware, no one had noticed their departure. The
deep breathing of the motley throng had been like the beat of a muffled
engine. Even the night-porter, who should have been on guard, had
collapsed across his desk with his face buried in his arms.
They had stepped out of the hotel into a pulseless street where mists
from the Danube hung like cobwebs. Hindwood could not rid himself of the
suspicion that they were followed. He glanced back repeatedly, drawing
Santa sharply into doorways in attempt after attempt to trap the
tracker. If a tracker there was, he never revealed himself. At last
Hindwood realized that precautions were profitless. The cessation of
their own footsteps gave ample warning. A pursuer had only to halt when
they halted, to escape detection behind the fog.
They scarcely dared talk, and then only in brief whispers. It puzzled
him how she could keep her direction. It was like tunneling a passage
through chalk, which crumbled, yielded, and caved in as one went
forward. The whole world dripped sullenly--unseen gutters, unseen trees,
treacherous pavements. And there was always the drifting whiteness,
pricking one's eyes as with little darts.
She had gone too far and turned back, feeling her way along the wall.
Before a large double-door she paused and knocked. She rapped three
times peculiarly before a grill was slipped back and a question asked.
The answer which she gave appeared to be the countersign. A smaller door
in the doubledoor was opened and they entered.
The person who had admitted them was a new type to Hindwood: flat
featured, fair-headed, blue-eyed, clad in a loose khaki shirt, which
bulged like a blouse, and in a pair of baggy breeches which were tucked
into high-boots, roomy as pouches. But it was the expression of the man
that was most impressive--his brooding appearance of enormous patience.
Santa spoke rapidly in a language which was neither German nor French.
The man nodded and led the way across a gloomy courtyard, up stairs
rotten with decay, into a stone corridor lined with stout forbidding
doors.
“Is it a prison?” Hindwood whispered.
“Little better. It's a barracks inhabited by the brains of outcast
Russia--students, for the most part, male and female, who have escaped
from the Red Terror. Russia has no use for brains at present. Brains are
too dangerous. Wherever the Bolshevist finds them, he blows them out.
Many of these exiles are survivors of Denikin's and Kolchak's armies.
Having tried to save their country with rifles, they're now preparing
themselves to rescue her with knowledge. They're learning to be doctors,
engineers and lawyers, so that they may become the soul of the Russia
of the future. Meanwhile they live anyhow, sleep anywhere and starve
abominably. They're not wanted in Hungary or in any European country.
They're suspected and hounded. The only reason they've been allotted
this mildewed dwelling is in order that they may be watched.”
The guide had thrown open a door and stood signing to them, trying to
catch their attention.
It was a grim sight that met their eyes, similar to the one they had
left behind at the hotel only a thousand times more sordid. The windows
were locked and heavily barred. The air was poisonous. The room was
stripped of furnishings. On bare boards innumerable human beings,
without a shred of bedding, sprawled, drugged with sleep, herded
together in indecent proximity. There was scarcely space to walk between
them. They were of both sexes. Here and there a child lay folded in a
parent's arms. The men were of all ages, but for the most part young and
still in the tattered uniforms of their defeated armies. The women were
scarcely distinguishable from the men. Their heads were cropped. They
wore odd garments of mixed masculine and feminine attire, such as could
be purchased for next to nothing at any rag-shop. Some retained the
soldier-garb of the Battalions of Death. As Hindwood gazed across the
pool of mud-colored faces, “Heaven help us, if this is the soul of the
future Russia!” he thought.
Suddenly his interest shifted. In the corner remotest from the door,
his eye had caught the shining of golden tresses. Their owner's face
was turned away from him; they seemed to weigh her down and were piled
beneath her head in a cushion. On her left lay an aged peasant woman; on
her right a man with a death-white face and a head that was peaked like
a dunce's cap. The guide was already stooping over the man, touching
him with a strange reverence. The man sat up. His green eyes opened.
Hindwood experienced the same sensation of discomfort he had felt, when
he had first seen them peering at him above the edge of the cliff at
Seafold.
Varensky had risen. With his peculiarly catlike motion, he was picking a
path towards them. He held out his hand.
“It was brave of you to come.” And then to Santa, “Of you, too. But of
you it was expected.”
Hindwood bristled like a dog. He was distrustful of romantic attitudes.
“Let's get down to facts. You know as well as I do that it wasn't any
lofty motive that brought me.”
“No?” The eye-brows arched themselves comically. “Then what?”
“Your wife's message.”
“Ah! I understand. She didn't tell me. You see, she thinks I'm going to
get myself killed at last; probably she wants you to help stop me. Not
that I'm of the least use to her--don't think that. But she's the soul
of honor. My death would mean her freedom; because of that she'd do
anything in her power to prevent--”
Hindwood drew himself erect. “These are matters which it's not decent
for us to discuss.”
The narrow shoulders flew up into a shrug. “Why on earth not? When
things are so, there can be nothing indecent in being frank about them.
Is it less indecent for you to love my wife than for me to tell that
I know you love her? There'd be no sense in your loving her unless you
both hoped--I won't finish what I was going to say; your feelings are
so sensitive.” He rested his hand not unkindly on Hindwood's arm. “Don't
you realize, my dear fellow, that you're to be congratulated? This
happening which means catastrophe for countless millions, for you and
Anna spells opportunity. Be honest. You would not have risked visiting
me, if you had not realized that.”
Hindwood sought for spitefulness in Varensky's tones. All he found was
the surge of a quiet happiness.
“One would think that I wanted you to die!” he exclaimed blankly.
“Well, don't you? Why shouldn't you?” Varen-sky smiled sadly. “If I
could love Anna or any other woman the way you do---- But no--to me such
affections have been denied. I love people only in crowds, by tens of
thousands and by nations; in my heart there's no room for more human
passions. I'm God's instrument; the hour of my testing is at hand. These
mildewed walls inclose my Gethsemane.”
He flung his arms apart grotesquely; they formed with his body the shape
of a cross. The fire of fanaticism blazed in his eyes. “To-morrow I
shall be crucified.” He drew a shuddering breath.
“A born actor!” was Hindwood's silent comment--“An egoist who craves the
lime-light.”
And yet, to his chagrin, he found himself impressed. He was so deeply
stirred that he dared not trust himself to speak for a moment; when he
did, it was with calculated coldness.
“You think only of yourself. It's not you alone; even those of us who
make no claim to be God's instruments, stand more than a sporting
chance of being crucified, as you call it. There are Santa and Anna, for
instance; there's the collection of wretched down-and-outs gathered in
this building; there are the scarecrows I saw in the death train; there
are all the teeming swarms of human lice crawling westward along a
thousand roads. In the presence of an agony so widespread, I can't
muster a tear for your individual tragedy. It's no time for theatrics.”
For an instant Varensky's gaunt face quivered. Making an effort, with an
air of mocking courtliness he mastered his injured pride.
“I was mistaken and I ask your pardon. We all have our plans to make
ahead. I supposed you were here to ascertain approximately the hour at
which I proposed to---- Shall we say, depart?”
“You were badly mistaken,” Hindwood cut in contemptuously. “I'm here
to find out if there's any possible way in which we can save the
situation.”
“We!”
Varensky stared. He became rigid as though he were carved from marble.
“We!” he repeated haughtily.
While Hindwood was searching for a clue to his amazement, his next words
supplied it.
“I thought it was I who was to save the world.”
“Splendid! You have a plan?”
Varensky's eyes filmed over. “Yes. But if I were to tell you, you
wouldn't understand.” Coming out of the clouds, he placed his hand
tolerantly on Hind-wood's shoulder. “Splendid, you said. So you want me
to have a plan? Let's sit down and talk more quietly. These people are
tired--in sleep they forget. So you also have ambitions to become a
saviour?”
It was like the night in the hut all over again, when they had talked of
Santa's redemption. There he sat, this discredited dictator, half-saint,
half-charlatan, his knees drawn sharply up to his chin, his white face
peering over them. The stale air sighed with the breathing of sleepers.
A child whimpered and was hugged closer to the breast. In the far corner
lay the desired woman. Gazing eagerly into both their eyes was the
oriental countenance of the other woman, for whom neither of them cared.
“A saviour! No. I have no ambitions in that direction. But I have a
scheme,” Hindwood admitted.
“What is it?”
“Bread. I came to sell bread for trade-concessions. In Austria I found
the Government unwilling to purchase. This morning, when I consult with
Hungarian officials, I may be met with the same refusal. What's the
game? Why should men in control of hungry nations refuse my help?
For six months they've been urging me to come to them. Something's
happened--the signs of it are everywhere. Trains running westward are
packed with women. The last sight we had of Vienna was a street-riot and
people brutally shot down. And again at the frontier there were piles of
dead--not only men: women and children who had been butchered to prevent
them from escaping. Budapest's under military law. By some error, Santa
and I on arrival were mistaken for conspirators in an army plot. We're
billeted at what appears to be its headquarters--a place jammed with
carousing officers of supposedly disbanded regiments. What's in the air?
What is this dreadful news which some people rejoice over, from which
others flee in panic, but which no one dares to mention? If you can tell
me, I shall know how to act.”
“If I can tell you--! Suppose I were to tell you the worst, how would
you act then?”
“That depends. I'm no more unselfish than anybody else. At a pinch I
could forget my own interests and ruin myself for the public welfare.
Here's how I stand. I have enough food at my command to keep Europe for
several weeks from actual starvation. If the crisis is genuine, that
ought to give time for the conscience of the civilized world to be
aroused. But even if the world's conscience should prove too sluggish, I
still have a personal fortune which would keep hunger at bay for
several months. I'm no philanthropist--I should make myself penniless
reluctantly. I'm in no sense your rival for the honors of Calvary. My
mission in Europe is to sell at a profit. So if you can do better----”
“What you're telling me,” Varensky interrupted, “is that, if by personal
sacrifice you could avert a world disaster, you'd be willing to give
something for nothing.”
“Precisely. But I must first be convinced that the circumstances warrant
it.”
“There's one point you've overlooked.” Varen-sky's green eyes narrowed.
“Up to the moment you entered this room, I was fully persuaded that I
was the man on whom the privilege of paying the price must fall. I'd
coveted the privilege. All my life I'd worked for it. If you rob me of
it, have you reckoned the cost?”
“In money?”
“In something more valuable. If I live, you can never be Anna's
husband.”
Hindwood hated the man for his subtlety. He was being deliberately
tempted. He threw a glance toward the sleeping woman in the corner whose
fate, as well as his own, he was deciding. Close to him, drawing nearer,
he saw the pleading eyes of Santa. He gave his answer.
“I may be the man who was born for this moment. Play fair by me; tell
me what's happened.” Varensky rocked himself slowly back and forth.
Suddenly he came to rest.
“I'm the thing that's happened. I'm responsible for everything. I've
never learnt to let bad alone; in trying to make things better, I make
them worse. It was my hand that shot down the crowd at Vienna. It was
I who butchered the women and children at the frontier. I'm the force
which drives behind the human lice who crawl westward along a thousand
roads. You think me mad; but listen. Every freedom gained entails a new
bondage. I helped to free Russia from the Czar; in so doing, I prepared
the way for Bolshevism. I've fought Bolshevism with my dreams, my
happiness, with everything I possess. Bolshevism is overthrown. What
have I produced? Chaos.”
“Overthrown! Then that's the meaning of it.” Santa had half risen.
Varensky turned his death-white face on her, chilling her enthusiasm.
“It's collapsed like a pack of cards. With it have vanished the last
of the restraints. Every Russian's his own master now to choose his own
ditch in which to perish. We've destroyed a vision that turned out to
be a nightmare, but we've set up nothing in its stead. We, who are
idealists, have worked the final disillusion. We've made two hundred
millions hopeless. They're fleeing from the emptiness. The contagion of
their despair is spreading. You saw its results in Vienna. It runs
ahead of them; they're already on the march. They've broken into Poland.
They're drawing nearer. How to stop them----?”
Hindwood's lips had squared themselves. “I can stop them. My food-trains
will be here by tomorrow. What hungry men need is not political
programs, but bread.” Then he added thoughtfully, “I can stop them, if
I'm not prevented. There's some one who's playing a different game; he's
some one who wants the world to starve. That's what Austria's refusal
meant; that's the meaning of these secret signs of rejoicing. He's
bigger than any nation. Who is he?”
Varensky shook his head. “There was a man.” He looked knowingly at
Santa. “He was drowned.”
Hindwood jumped to his feet as though there was no time to be lost. “I'm
going to find out. I have an appointment with the Governor of Hungary.
If he rejects my offer, I shall demand----”
“And if he refuses----?”
“I shall play my winning-card. Don't ask me what it is. But if I play
it, I shall need your help. You've talked of crucifixion: I may provide
you with the chance. How many of these----?” He pointed to the sleeping
outcasts.
Varensky's eyes were shining. “I've four hundred: three hundred veterans
of Denikin's and Kolchak's armies and a hundred girl-soldiers of the
Battalions of Death.”
“Have them warned.”
As he turned on his heel, he saw that Anna had wakened. She cried out
after him. He dared not face her. Leaping down the stairs, he went at a
run across the courtyard. It was only when the door into the street had
closed behind him, that he realized that Santa was panting at his elbow.