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the town. Like the judge he was, he questioned me rigorously about all

my affairs, school and private.

I told him I wanted to be an airman, and he gazed at me long and

steadily from under his bushy eyebrows.

"The air force?"

"An Arctic pilot. In the air force, if necessary."

"A dangerous, but interesting job," he said after a pause.

One thing I didn't tell him, though that I had come to Ensk in the

wake of Katya. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that if it hadn't been

for Katya it would very likely be a long time before I came back to my

home town, to my home.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE OLD LETTERS

I slept until eleven. Sanya had gone a long time ago, the old man was

at work and Aunt Dasha had already put the dinner on, as she informed

me.

While I drank my tea she kept making horrified comments on how

little I was eating.

"So that's how they feed you!" she said tartly. "The gypsy fed his horse

better, and that croaked."

"You know, Aunt Dasha, I was looking for you at the old place. The

houses have been pulled down I see?"

"Yes," Aunt Dasha said with a sigh.

"Aunt Dasha, do you know the Bubenchikovs?"

The Bubenchikovs were relations of Nina Kapitonovna, and I had no

doubt that Katya had gone to them.

"The people who were pronounced? Who doesn't know them?"

"Pronounced?"

"The priest pronounced the ban on them," said Aunt Dasha. "They

sent him packing, so he pronounced 'em. That was a long time ago,

before the Revolution. You were a little boy then. Why do you ask?"

"People in Moscow asked me to give them their regards," I lied.

Aunt Dasha shook her head doubtfully.

"Ah, I see..."

109

I asked Aunt Dasha for an envelope and some paper and sat down to

write a letter. "I'll write to Katya and Sanya will deliver it."

"Katya," I wrote. "As you see, I am back in Ensk, and I'm dying to see

you. Come down to Cathedral Gardens at four. This note will be

delivered to you—guess by whom? By my sister. A. Grigoriev."

"Aunt Dasha, Pyotr used to have some interesting books. Where are

they? Where do you keep books, anyway?"

Pyotr's books were discovered in Sanya's room, on a bric-a-brac

stand. Evidently no great store was set by them, because they stood on

the bottom shelf among all sorts of junk. I felt a bit sad when I picked up

The Ghastly Night or the Most Marvellous Adventures of a Don

Cossack in the Caucasus Mountains. Dammit, what a wretch of a little

fellow I was then!

A package wrapped in a yellowed newspaper dropped on the floor

during my energetic search for A Guide To Letter Writing. It was the

batch of old letters. I recognised them immediately. They were letters

which the river had one day washed up into our yard in a post bag.

Those long winter evenings, when Aunt Dasha used to read them to us,

came back to me. How wonderful, how delightful those readings had

seemed to me!

Other people's letters! And who knows where these people now were?

This letter, for instance, in its thick yellowed envelope. Maybe

somebody had not slept nights, waiting for it?

Mechanically I opened the envelope and read several lines:

"Dear Maria Vasilievna,

"I hasten to inform you that Ivan Lvovich is alive and well. Four

months ago, on his orders, I left the schooner along with thirteen of the

crew..."

I read on and could not believe my eyes. It was the letter of the

navigating officer, which I used to know by heart and which I had

recited on the trains on my way to Moscow! But it was not this that

struck me.

"The St. Maria," I read on, "became icebound in the Kara Sea and

since October 1912 has been drifting steadily north with the Arctic

icefields."

The St. Maria'. Why, that was the name of Captain Tatarinov's

schooner! I turned back the sheet and read the letter again.

"Dear Maria Vasilievna"—Maria Vasilievna! I hasten to inform you

that Ivan Lvovich..." Ivan Lvovich! Katya was called Katerina

Ivanovna—the patronymic was from the name Ivan!

Aunt Dasha decided that I had gone crazy, because I suddenly emitted a

yell and started frantically to search among the old letters.

I knew what I was after, though. Aunt Dasha had once read to me

another of those letters describing the life amid the icefloes and about

the sailor who had fallen to his death and how they had to chop the ice

away in the cabins.

"Aunt Dasha, are they all here?" "Goodness gracious, what's happened?"

"Nothing, Aunt Dasha. There should be one particular letter here." I

didn't hear myself speak. Ah, here it was! "My darling, my own dear,

sweet Maria,

"It's nearly now two years since I sent you a letter through the telegraph

dispatch office on Yugorsky Shar. And what a lot of changes ' there have

been since then, I can't tell you! To begin with, we were standing on a

110

straight set course, but since October 1912 have been drifting slowly

north with the Arctic ice. Willy-nilly, we had to abandon our original

plan of making Vladivostok along the coast of Siberia. But this proved to

be a blessing in disguise. It has given me quite a new idea. I hope it does

not strike you, as it does some of my companions, as childish or

foolhardy..."

The first sheet ended here. I turned it over, but could make out

nothing except a few disconnected words which stood out amid the

smudges and stains.

The second sheet started with a description of the schooner:

"...in some places reaching a considerable depth. Amid one such icefield

stands our St. Maria snowed up to the gunwale. At times a garland of

hoarfrost breaks off the rigging and comes down with a soft swishing

sound. As you see, dear Maria, I've become a poet. We have a real poet

on board, though—our cook Kolpakov. A cheerful soul! He goes about

all day long singing his poem. Here are four lines from it for a keepsake:

Under the flag of Mother Russia,

In the good ship Saint Maria,

We shall sail the Siberian coast along

With our Captain brave and strong.

"I read this endless letter of mine over and over again, and find that I

am simply gossiping when I have so many important things to tell you. I

am sending with Klimov a packet addressed to the head of the

Hydrographical Board, containing my observations, official letters and a

report giving the story of our drift. Just in case, I am writing you, too,

about our discovery: north of the Taimyr Peninsula the map shows no

land whatever. But situated in latitude 79°35', between meridians 86

and 87 east of Greenwich, we observed a sharply defined silvery strip,

slightly convex, running out from the very horizon. On April 3rd this

strip became an opaque patch of moonlight, and the next day we saw

clouds of a very queer shape, resembling a mist enveloping distant

mountains. I am convinced that this is land. Unfortunately, I couldn't

leave the ship in her present plight in order to explore it. But its turn

will come. Meantime, I have named it after you, so now you will find on

every map a heartfelt greeting from your..."