“About as honest as she is, if you ask my opinion. We’ll attend to him afterwards.”
“I merely suggest, Bernstein, that the matter should be deferred for further investigation.”
“But, my dear boy, where’s the need of it? Surely we are entitled to believe the evidence of our own eyes?”
“Photographs aren’t our own eyes—that’s just my point. If this woman is really the Countess, it could not be very difficult to have her identified by someone who knew her formerly. There is bound to be somebody, either at Sembirsk or Samar, who could do it.”
“But not at Novarodar, eh? How convenient for her!” The soldiers here began a renewed clamour for the prisoner to be surrendered, and Bernstein, with a shrug of the shoulders, exclaimed: “You see, Poushkoff, what the men are already thinking—they believe we are going to favour this woman because of her high rank.”
Poushkoff replied, still very calmly: “I beg your pardon, Bernstein—I thought the point was whether she is guilty or not. If it is merely a matter of amusing the men, doubtless she will do as well as anyone else.”
Bernstein snorted angrily. “Really, Poushkoff, you forget yourself! The woman, to my mind, is already proved guilty—guilty of having conspired against the Revolution and against the lives of the Red army.”
“Quite, if you are positive of her identity. That is my point.”
“Your point, eh? You change your point so often that one has an infernal job to keep up with you! No, no, my dear boy, it won’t do—we’ve proved everything—the Countess is guilty and this woman is the Countess. There is no shadow of reason for any delay.”
“I am afraid I do not agree.”
“Well, then, you must disagree, that is all. The responsibility, such as it is, rests with me.”
“Take note, then, that I protest most strongly.”
“Oh, certainly, my dear Poushkoff, certainly.”
“And in any case, since she is a woman, I suggest that she should be treated mercifully.”
“And not be handed over to our young rascals, you mean, eh?” He laughed. “Well, perhaps you deserve some small reward for your advocacy. Arrange the matter as you want—you were always a lady’s man. But remember—the penalty is death—death to all enemies of the Revolution. You may gild the pill as much as you like, but the medicine has to be taken.”
After this sententiousness Poushkoff saluted and signed to A.J. and Daly to accompany him. He led them into the town-hall through a small entrance beneath the portico. He did not speak till at length he opened the door of a basement room in which a number of soldiers were smoking and drinking tea. “Is Tamirsky here?” he asked, and an old and grey-bearded soldier detached himself from the group. Poushkoff took him out into the corridor and whispered in his ear for a few moments. Then, leading him to Daly, he began: “Do you know this woman?”
Tamirsky gave her a profound stare from head to foot and finally shook his head.
“You are prepared to swear that you have never seen her before?”
“Yes, your honour.”
“And you were—let me see—a gardener on the estate of Count Adraxine before the Revolution?”
“I was.”
“So that you often saw the Countess?”
“Oh, very often indeed, your honour.”
“Thank you. You are sure of all this, and are ready to swear to it?”
“Certainly.”
“Then come with me now.” To A.J. he added: “Wait there with the soldiers till I return.”
They waited, and in that atmosphere of stale tobacco-smoke and heavy personal smells, Daly’s strength suddenly gave way. She collapsed and would have fallen had not A.J. caught her quickly. The soldiers were sympathetic, offering tea, as well as coats for her to rest on. A.J. began to thank them, but one of them said: “Careful, brother—don’t tell us too much about yourselves.”
After a quarter of an hour or so Poushkoff and Tamirsky returned together, and the former signalled to the two prisoners to follow him again. Outside in the corridor several Red guards, fully armed, were waiting. Poushkoff said: “Sentence is postponed. You are to be taken to Samara for further identification. The train leaves in an hour; these men will take you to the station.” He gave an order and went away quickly.
A few minutes later, thus escorted, they were hastening through the dark streets. Scattered firing still echoed over the town, but all was fairly quiet along the road to the railway. Dawn was breaking as they passed through the waiting-hall; the station was crowded with soldiers, many asleep on the platforms against their packs. The line, A.J. heard, had just been repaired after the recent flood-damage. A train of teplushkas, already full, lay at one of the platforms, and on to it a first-class coach, in reasonably good condition, was being shunted. As soon as this operation was complete, A.J. and Daly were put into one of the compartments, with two soldiers mounting guard outside. The inevitable happened after that; the two fugitive-prisoners, weary and limp after the prolonged strain of the day and night, fell into almost instant sleep. When they awoke it was broad daylight; snow was falling outside; the train was moving slowly over an expanse of level, dazzling white; and in the compartment, quite alone with them, was Poushkoff. He smiled slightly and resumed the reading of a book.
A.J. smiled back, but did not speak. He felt a sort of bewildered gratitude towards the young officer, but he was not on that account disposed to be incautious. The youth’s steel-grey eyes, curiously attractive when he smiled, seemed both a warning and an encouragement. If there were to be conversation at all, Poushkoff, A.J. decided, should make the first move.
Several times during the next quarter of an hour Poushkoff looked at them as if expecting one or the other to speak, and at last, tired of the silence, he put down his book and asked if they were hungry.
They were, quite frantically, having eaten scarcely anything for twenty- four hours, despite the fact that their bundles, miraculously unconfiscated, were bulging with food. A.J. said ‘yes,’ and smiled; whereupon Poushkoff offered them hard, gritty biscuits and thin slices of rather sour cheese. They thanked him and ate with relish.
“We are due to reach Samara late this evening,” he said, after a pause.
“A slow journey,” A.J. commented.
“Yes, the line is shaky after the floods. When the train stops somewhere I may be able to get you some tea.”
“It is very kind of you.”
“Not at all—we are condemned to be fellow- travellers—is it not better to make things as comfortable as we can for one another?”
So they began to talk, cautiously at first, but less so after a while. There was something very likeable about Poushkoff; both A.J. and Daly fought against it, as for their lives, but finally and utterly succumbed. Its secret lay perhaps in contrast; the youth was at once strong and gentle, winsome and severe, shy and self-assured, boyish yet prematurely old. Like most officers in the new Red army, he was scarcely out of his teens; yet his mind had a clear, mature incisiveness that was apparent even in the most ordinary exchange of polite conversation. After about ten minutes of talk that carefully avoided anything of consequence, he remarked reflectively: “The curse of this country is that we are all born liars. We lie with such simple profundity that there’s nobody a man dare trust. You, for instance, don’t trust me—obviously not. And I, just as naturally, don’t trust you. Yet, once granting the initial untrustworthiness of both of us, we shall probably get on quite well together.”
“We learn by experience how necessary it is to be cautious,” said A.J.
“Oh, precisely. Don’t think I’m blaming you in the least.”