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:
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....
I crossed the hall rapidly and went out into the dusk.
XLI
Through the twilight streets I hastened, and Naumoff followed, calling me by my name; but I did not answer him. Through the long Road of the Cross I hurried silently, and out through the Golden Gate, and on, down dusty solitary streets, past the Church of All Saints, until at last I stood before the cemetery where my mother is laid to rest.
“Where are we going?” asked Naumoff. “Why have you come here?”
But without answering him I threw a ruble to the gatekeeper and entered the silent pathways of the churchyard.
The sky was still light in the west, but the paths were gloomy in the shadow of willow and cypress trees. Hastening on between the double rows of flower-decked graves, and the monuments that gleamed whitely in the twilight, I reached my mother's tomb. I knelt and kissed the great marble cross that stands so heavily above her frail brow. And the thought of her lying there, so desolate and alone, abandoned to the rains and the winds and the darkness of long dreadful nights, struck terror to my heart.
“Speak to me, mother,” I whispered to her. “Tell me what I am to do. You who know all—all about the vow and little Tioka, and the terrible things that are in my life—tell me, mother, must Paul Kamarowsky die?”
My mother did not answer.
“Tell me, tell me, mother! Is he to die?” My mother was silent. But the evening breeze passed over the delicate flowers, the lilies and campanulas which cover her grave; and they all nodded their heads, saying: “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Did you see?” I whispered to Naumoff.
But he only looked at me with bewildered eyes. And I drew him away. “We must go quickly,” I said.
Now it was growing dark. I hastened along the winding narrow pathways until in a deserted corner I found what I was seeking: a neglected grave marked by a gray stone bearing a name and a date.
As I gazed at that mound of earth, on which a long-since withered wreath spoke of forgetfulness, a wave of desolation swept over my heart. How sad and empty and useless was everything! Life and hope and love and desire—all empty, all unavailing....
“Who is buried here?” asked Naumoff under his breath. He bent forward and read the name aloud: “Vladimir Stahl.”
Something stirred. Perhaps it was only the dry leaves of the withered wreath, but I was afraid—afraid that I should see Stahl suddenly move and rise up, covered with mold, to answer to his name.
“Vladimir Stahl…” whispered Naumoff again, raising his haggard boyish face and gazing at me, “Mura, Mura, I see you encompassed by the dead.”