Peter, full of hatred, told everything briefly to Leonid, when a knock on the door interrupted him. 'The soldiers!' exclaimed Peter, who looked through the keyhole.
'This way,' pointed Leonid shortly, pointing at the cupboard in the room.
Peter jumped into it without any noise. Leonid, who opened the door to the soldiers, let them in and, as if amazed, asked: 'What made you enter my quiet house, my worthy friends?'
The deceived soldiers asked in loud voices: 'Leonid Ivanov, confess that your cousin is hiding here. You will not be remembered in the court as a guilty man (for we know all your little faults for which you deserve to be punished).'
Peter trembled in his hiding place when he heard this.
'No, my worthy friends, you are on the wrong path, and very much mistaken in thinking that Peter my cousin is here. He never entered my house since his last visit two weeks ago.' Leonid played his part so well that the soldiers were ready to believe that they made mistake.
'But we saw Peter enter this house ... In any case you would not mind if we would search the house instantly.'
'But my friends,' protested Leonid, 'surely you would not mind a glass of good wine before you start!
'Ahoy! Gregory, bring some of my best wine for these worthy veterans,' cried Leonid, not waiting for the answer of the soldiers. 'Now then friends, let us be merry.'
Leonid all the time added more and more wine to the cups of the 'comrades' while himself hardly touched his own cup. Two hours passed and the drunken soldiers were carried off to unconscious. Meanwhile Peter thanked Leonid for his narrow escape, when suddenly Vasily the old servant of the Ivanovs rushed in.
'Your father is murdered by the wretches,' exclaimed the man, 'by the order of Uritsky, and there is the evidence,' said Vasily, hastily pulling out of his pocket the document he picked up when the officer dropped it. It run like this: 'By the hand of Uritsky minister of justice in the Republic of the Soldiers', Peasants' and Workmen's deputies: allowance given to Captain B. to arrest Andrew Ivanov and if necessary also Peter Ivanov. Uritsky.'
When Peter had read this he found a bit of paper between the folds of the document: 'Andrew Ivanov to be shot 3.1 5 p.m. at Gorohovaya 3. Peter Ivanov to be executed at 5.30 the same day. Uritsky.'
Peter looked at his watch. It showed 3.Ю p.m. Without telling a word he darted from the house in the direction of Gorohovaya 3. He entered the gate at 3-I4j. Thirty seconds remained. Not looking where he went, he slipped and fell down. When he got up he heard a horrible scream. Death and life fought in this scream. 'Boom!' Twelve guns sounded, and Peter knew the fate of his father.
He wandered on the streets like a madman. At last, when he came back to Leonid's house, he fainted on the doorstep. Leonid at once understood what had happened. He tried to keep himself up but failed, and burst into bitter tears.
After Peter came to his senses again the old Vasily said to him: 'Peter! Thy enemies the Bolshevist wretches have executed thy father! Therefore swear that thou wilt revenge for thy father!'
In that minute a shot was fired through the window by the officer which came to know how his soldiers were treated. He fired to revenge himself for the blow he received. His shot hit Vasily in his back.
'I swear!' said Peter. Meanwhile the old man's eyes for a moment closed, opened, and had that clear look that people only get in their last moments.
'Revenge!' he murmured, and fell heavily on Peter's hands, unconscious. A minute elapsed, and he opened his eyes for the last time. 'I'm going to meet you, my Master . .. Andr. . .'. He did not finish for death cut his bounds on the earth.
'As long as I live I shall try to revenge upon Uritsky,' called Peter loudly.
'And I am with you, 0 Peter!' cried Leonid, taking a step forward and raising his hand.
'Death to Uritsky!' they cried both.
III
It was the year 1919. A dark November night. The wind blew outside and the soft armchair before the burning stove seemed so warm and comfortable. In this deep armchair sat a man about forty years old with long flowing hair which showed a big white forehead, two deep little black eyes covered with long eyebrows grown together (which gave his face a somewhat severe look), a sharp nose, a carnivorous mouth and a sharp chin covered with a little French beard. This was the famous Uritsky.
He possessed a clever but also cruel look and all his countenance bore an expression of a fanatic. He signed death verdicts without moving his eyebrow. His leading motto in life was 'The purpose justifies the ways.' He did not stop before anything for bringing out his plans.
He made a good impression at first, but if one looked at the man with his little burning eyes, the man felt that Uritsky read all his thoughts. His eyes made an impression of a thousand little spears shooting through one's brains.
His look hypnotised people whom he wanted to obey him. This was once a famous man, 'comrade' Uritsky, the man of action and one of the greatest Bolshevist factors.
He divided manhood in two classes: first class, people that stood in his way; second, the people who obeyed him. The former, according to Uritsky's understanding, did not deserve to live at all.
'Tzin! tzin!' sounded the bell rung by Uritsky. A moment later Uritsky's young secretary appeared. His name was Michael Sere- veev. He wore a big black beard and a black curling moustache. Had he not the moustache and the beard, which at a careful examination would be recognised as false, you would see our old friend Peter Ivanov.
'Sit down Michael,' said Uritsky to him in a weak voice. After Michael alias Peter sat, Uritsky continued his talk. 'Come here,' he said melancholically, 'and tell me a story that would quieten my nerves, for I am tired of the day's work, you know, Michael. Tell me a story that a nurse told you when you were a baby. It is foolish, but it will quieten my nerves. Go on and tell me your tale.'
'I see, sir,' answered Peter, and began.
'Thousands of years ago and thousands of miles away there lived a folk of good people. The people were kind and noble and enjoyed their life thoroughly until a great disaster came along. A new not worthy government ruled the country and destroyed it. It shed the blood of the people. At the head of it stood an ex- murderer, a cruel and clever villain.
'Between others, also one of the most honourable citizens was executed. His son also was to be executed. But he escaped and swore to revenge his father's death upon the villain who signed the death verdict.
'And now', finished Peter loudly, pulling out his automatic, 'the hour come! Hands up!' he shouted, levelling his pistol with Uritsky's forehead. 'Boom!' sounded the pistol, and Uritsky without a groan fell heavily on the floor.
'Ho! Ahoy! Soldiers!' shouted Peter, and when the soldiers appeared he faced them with his pistol. The soldiers moved back in alarm. 'I killed your master,' he cried, 'and now my mission on earth is finished. My father is executed, so is Leonid, both without a trial, and I have not got anybody to live for! О Father, I am going to join you!' 'Boom!' fired Peter and fell heavily over the body of his dead enemy.
When the soldiers came near they found that both were dead.
A LETTER TO GEORGE KENNAN
plainly, and very, if I may say so, poignantly, depends one's entire moral outlook, i.e. everything one believes.
Let me try and say what I think it is; you say (and I am not quoting) that every man possesses a point of weakness, an Achilles' heel, and by exploiting this a man may be made a hero or a martyr or a rag. Again, if I understand you correctly, you think that Western civilisation has rested upon the principle that, whatever else was permitted or forbidden, the one heinous act which would destroy the world was to do precisely this - the deliberate act of tampering with human beings so as to make them behave in a way which, if they knew what they were doing, or what its consequences were likely to be, would make them recoil with horror and disgust. The whole of the Kantian morality (and I don't know about Catholics, but Protestants, Jews, Muslims and high-minded atheists believe it) lies in this; the mysterious phrase about men being 'ends in themselves' to which much lip-service has been paid, with not much attempt to explain it, seems to lie in this: that every human being is assumed to possess the capacity to choose what to do, and what to be, however narrow the limits within which his choice may lie, however hemmed in by circumstances beyond his control; that all human love and respect rests upon the attribution of conscious motives in this sense; that all the categories, the concepts, in terms of which we think about and act towards one another - goodness, badness, integrity and lack of it, the attribution of dignity or honour to others which we must not insult or exploit, the entire cluster of ideas such as honesty, purity of motive, courage, sense of truth, sensibility, compassion, justice; and, on the other side, brutality, falseness, wickedness, ruthless- ness, lack of scruple, corruption, lack of feelings, emptiness - all these notions in terms of which we think of others and ourselves, in terms of which conduct is assessed, purposes adopted - all this becomes meaningless unless we think of human beings as capable of pursuing ends for their own sakes by deliberate acts of choice - which alone makes nobility noble and sacrifices sacrifices.