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expedition had perished, and I found it because I was a soldier."

CHAPTER EIGHT

MY PAPER

Everybody came to hear my paper, even Kiren's mother.

Unfortunately, I do not remember the exact words of the little speech of

welcome, with quotations from the classics, with which she greeted me.

The speech was a bit longish, and it amused me to see the look of

resignation and despair on Valya's face as he listened to it.

I seated Korablev in the front row, directly facing the speaker's desk—

1 was accustomed to looking at him when I made speeches.

"Well, Sanya," he said gaily, "I'll hold my hand like this, palm

downward, and you keep an eye on it when you speak. When I start

drumming my fingers, it means you are getting excited. If I don't you're

not."

"Ivan Pavlovich, you're a dear."

I wasn't in the least excited, though I did feel a bit nervous, wondering

whether Nikolai Antonich would come or not.

He did. After hanging up my maps I turned round and saw him in the

front row, not far from Korablev. He sat with his legs crossed, looking

straight in front of him with an immobile expression. I thought he had

changed these last few days-his face had a hangdog sort of look, with

sagging jowls and a thin, wrinkled neck showing high above the collar. It

was very pleasant, of course, when the chairman, an old, distinguished

geographer, before calling on me to speak, himself said a few words

about me. I even regretted that he had such a quiet voice. He said that it

was to my "talented tenacity" that Soviet Arctic science owed one of the

most interesting pages-and I took no exception to this either, especially

as the audience applauded, loudest of all Kiren's mother.

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I ought not, perhaps, have made such a long preamble dealing with

the history of the Northern Sea Route, even though it was an interesting

history.

I spoke about this rather lamely, often halting and forgetting the

simplest words, and generally humming and hawing, as Kiren said

afterwards.

But when I came to our own times and gave a general outline of the

military significance of the North, I caught a glimpse of Katya far down

the dark isle. She had been indisposed-having caught a cold—and had

promised to stay indoors. But what a good thing, how splendid it was

that she had come! It cheered me up immensely and I began to speak

with greater confidence and assurance.

"It may seem strange to you," I said, "that in a time of war I should be

talking to you about an old expedition, which ended nearly thirty years

ago. It's now history. But we have not forgotten our history, and perhaps

our main strength lies in the fact that war has not negated or arrested a

single one of the great ideas which have transformed our country. The

conquest of the North by the Soviet people is one such idea."

I hesitated for a moment, as I wished to speak of how Ledkov and I had

surveyed the Arctic region, but this was remote from the subject, so I

switched over, none too skilfully, to the Captain's life story.

I spoke about him with an indescribable feeling. As if it were I, not he,

who had been that boy, the son of a poor fisherman, born on the shores

of the Sea of Azov. As if it were I, not he, who had sailed before the mast

in oil-tankers plying between Batum and Novorossiisk. As if it were I,

not he, who had passed his examination for sub-lieutenant and had then

served in the Hydrographical Board, suffering the slighting arrogance of

the aristocratic officers with proud indifference. As if it were I, not he,

who had made notes in the margins of Nansen's books and by whose

hand was written down that brilliant idea: "The ice itself will solve the

problem." As if his was not a story of ultimate defeat and obscure death,

but, on the contrary, of victory and joy. The story of friends, enemies,

and love was repeated, but life was different now, and it was friends and

love, not enemies, who had won the day.

As I spoke I experienced a mounting sense of exhilaration verging

on inspiration. It was as though I were looking at a distant screen and

had sighted beneath the open sky a dead schooner buried in snow. But

was she dead? No, there was a sound of hammering: skylights were

being boarded up and ceilings covered with tarred felt in preparation for

wintering.

Naval men standing in the aisle made way for Katya as she passed

to her seat, and I thought it was only right that they should make way

respectfully for the daughter of Captain Tatarinov. Besides, she was the

best one there, especially in that simple tailored suit. She was the best,

and she, too, in a manner of speaking, had a share in that fervour and

exhilaration with which I spoke about the voyage of the St. Maria.

But it was time I passed on to the scientific aspects of the drift, and I

prefaced it with the statement that the facts established by Captain

Tatarinov's expedition had lost none of their significance today. Thus,

from a study of the drift, Professor V., the well-known Arctic scientist,

deduced the existence of an unknown island between the 78th and 80th

parallels, and this island was actually discovered in 1935 just where V.

had figured it should be. The constant drift-current shown by Nansen

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was confirmed by the voyage of Captain Tatarinov, whose formulae of

the comparative movement of ice and wind were a notable contribution

to Russian science.

A stir of interest ran through the hall when I began to relate how we

had developed the expedition's photographic films, which had lain in

the earth for nearly thirty years.

The light went out, and on the screen appeared a tall man in a fur cap

and fur boots strapped under the knees. He stood with head doggedly

bent, leaning on his rifle, and at his feet lay a dead bear, its paws folded

like a kitten's. It was as though he had stepped into that hall—a strong

intrepid soul, who had been content with so little! Everyone stood up

when he appeared on the screen, and the hush that fell upon the hall

was so deep and solemn that not a soul dared breathe, let alone utter a

word. And in this solemn silence I read out the Captain's report and his

letter of farewelclass="underline"

" 'It makes me feel bitter to think of all I could have accomplished if I

had been-I would not say helped-but at least not hindered. What's done

cannot be undone. My one consolation is that through my labours

Russia has discovered and acquired large new territories...'

"But there is a passage in this letter," I continued when everybody had

sat down, "to which I want to draw your attention. Here it is:

'I know who could help you, but in these last hours of my life I do not

want to name him. I didn't have a chance to tell him to his face

everything that had been rankling in my breast all these years. He

personified for me all that force that kept me bound hand and foot...'

Who is that man whose name the Captain did not want to utter at his

dying hour? It was to him that he referred in another letter: 'It can

positively be said that we owe all our misfortunes to him alone.' It was

of him that he wrote: 'We were taking a chance, we knew that we were