blame for the failure of such a vast venture on a single man. I could have
said that your insistence was due to your hatred of the man."
I listened to Korablev in silence. I had always liked him and had a
great respect for him, and it was all the more unpleasant to me to see
him in this abject state. He kept blowing his nose, and his hair and
moustache were dishevelled.
"Whether I hate him or not," I said -quietly, "has nothing to do with
it. I don't know what you meant by it, anyway. Do you mean that I stuck
to my version for base personal motives?" Korablev was silent. "Ivan
Pavlovich!" He was still silent.
"Ivan Pavlovich!" I shouted. "You think I got mixed up in this on
purpose so's to have my revenge on Nikolai Antonich? Is that why you
said that even if it was him and not some 'von' or other—all the same
you couldn't throw the blame for the failure of such a vast enterprise on
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a single man? You believe it's all my fault? Why don't you answer? Do
you?"
Korablev was silent. Everything went dark before my eyes and my
heart pounded in my ears.
"Ivan Pavlovich," I said in a quivering but determined voice. "It
remains for me now to prove that I am right, even if I have to die in the
attempt. But I will prove it. I'll go and see Nikolai Antonich this very day
and ask him to show me those documents and letters. He has convinced
you, now let him convince me."
"Do whatever you like," Korablev said drearily.
I went away. He hadn't stirred and remained seated by the stove,
weary and sunk in despair. We were both in despair, only with me this
feeling was mixed with a sort of cool fury, whereas he was utterly
desolated, old and alone in a cold, empty flat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SLANDER
It was all very well to say I'd go and see him and ask him to show me
those letters. I felt sick at the mere thought. I doubted whether he would
even speak to me. As likely as not he'd throw me down the stairs without
further ado. I couldn't very well fight him. After all, he was a sick old
man.
I would have abandoned the idea but for a single thought that never
left me - Katya.
I felt my head beginning to ache at the mere thought of how she had
turned away from me at the funeral. Now I knew why she had done that:
Nikolai Antonich had convinced her that it was all my fault.
I could imagine him talking to her and my heart sank. "That friend of
yours has such an excellent memory. Why did he never mention those
letters before his trip to Ensk?"
Why indeed? How could I have forgotten them? I, who had been so
fascinated by them as a child? I, who had recited them by heart on the
trains between Ensk and Moscow? To forget letters which had dropped
upon our little town like a message from some distant stars?
I had only one explanation-judge for yourselves whether it is correct
or not.
When Katya told me the story of her father, when I examined those
old photographs of him in his regulation jacket with epaulettes and
service cap, when I read his books, it had always seemed to me that all
this belonged to a very distant past, at any rate years before I left Ensk.
The letters, on the other hand, belonged to my childhood, that is, to
quite a different time. It never occurred to me that these two entirely
different periods followed close upon each other. This was not an error
of memory, but quite a different kind of error.
I thought about that "von" a thousand times if I thought about him
once. It was about him, then, that Captain Tatarinov had written:
"The whole expedition sends him our curses." It was about him, then,
that he wrote: "We owe all our misfortunes to him alone." And Korablev
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had said that you couldn't throw the blame for the failure of such an
enterprise on a single man. The Captain had thought otherwise.
So it was about him that he wrote: "That's the price we had to pay for
that good office." But why should some "von" or other render Captain
Tatarinov this good office? A good office could have been rendered by
his rich cousin—no wonder he had always had so much to say about it.
In short, I had no plan of action whatever when, dressed in my
Sunday best, I called on the Tatarinovs that evening and told the girl-a
stranger to me-who answered the bell that I wanted to see Nikolai
Antonich.
Through the open door I could see them drinking tea in the dining-
room. Nina Kapitonovna was saying something in a low voice and I saw
her sitting by the samovar in her striped shawl.
I don't know what Nikolai Antonich thought when he saw me, but
when he appeared in the doorway he started and slightly recoiled.
"What do you want?" "I wanted to talk to you." There was a brief pause,
then he said: "Come in." I was about to go into his study, but he said:
"No, this way." Afterwards I realised this had been a deliberate ruse on
his part-to get me into the dining-room so as to deal with me in front of
everybody.
They were all somewhat startled to see me following at his heels. The
old Bubenchikov ladies, who were the last people I expected to see
there, jumped up all together. Katya came into the dining-room through
another door and stood stockstill in the doorway. I murmured: "Maybe
it's inconvenient here." "No, it's quite convenient."
I should have said "good evening" the moment I came in, but now it
was too late to say it. Nevertheless, I bowed. Nina Kapitonovna was the
only one who responded-with a slight nod. "Well?"
"You told Ivan Pavlovich that Captain Tatarinov wrote you about a
von Vyshimirsky. I want to know this because it makes me look as if I
purposely tried to convince Maria Vasilievna of your guilt because I had
a grudge against you. At least, that's what Korablev thinks. And others
too. In short, I ask you to show me these letters which go to prove that
some von Vyshimirsky or other is responsible for the loss of the
expedition and that the death of—" (I swallowed the word) "and that all
the rest is my fault."
It was rather a long speech, but as I had prepared it beforehand I
rattled it off without a hitch. I only stumbled when I mentioned the
death of Maria Vasilievna and again at the words "and others too",
because I was thinking of Katya. She was still standing in the doorway,
tensed, holding her breath.
Only now, during this speech, did I notice how old Nikolai Antonich
had grown. With that hooked nose of his and the sagging jowls he was
like an old bird, and even his gold tooth, which used to light up his
whole face, had lost its brightness.
He breathed heavily as he listened to me. He seemed to be at a loss for
a reply. Just then one of the Bubenchikov ladies asked in surprise: "Who
is this?"
He drew his breath and began to speak.
"Who is this?" he queried with a hiss. "It's that foul slanderer I've
been telling you about day in day out."
"Nikolai Antonich, if you're going to call names—"
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"It's the person who killed her," Nikolai Antonich went on. His face
quivered and he began to crack his knuckles. "That is the person who