title of the article was "A Forgotten Expedition"-the title of my own
paper!—and was signed "N. Tatarinov". It had been written by Nikolai
Antonich!
It was a long article written in a reminiscent vein but with a faint
touch of scholarship. It began by describing the schooner St. Maria as
she lay at her moorings near Nikolayevsky Bridge in St. Petersburg in
the summer of 1912: "The white paint on her walls and ceilings was still
fresh, the polished mahogany of her furniture gleamed like a mirror and
carpets covered the floors of her cabins. The storerooms and hold were
packed with all kinds of supplies. They had everything conceivable-nuts,
sweets, chocolate, different kinds of tinned fruit, pineapples, crates of
jam jars, biscuits, and many other items, including such necessities as
preserved meat and stacks of flour and cereals in bags."
It was amusing to see the way Nikolai Antonich began his article by
first describing the food—for me this was further incriminating
evidence. Further on, however, he was more circumspect. While
mentioning that the expedition had been fitted out at public expense, he
modestly hinted that it was to him that the idea of "following in the
191
footsteps of Nordenskjold" first occurred. He spoke with bitterness
about the obstacles which the reactionary press and the Ministry of
Marine had put in his way. He quoted the note which the Minister of
Marine wrote on the report concerning the loss of the St. Maria: "It is a
pity that Captain Tatarinov has not returned. I should have had him
prosecuted for negligence in the handling of government property."
Still more bitterly did he write about how the Archangel tradesmen
had cheated his cousin by palming off on him poor, untrained dogs,
which might well have been bought off any street urchin for twenty
kopecks a pair, and how the whole business had gone to pieces the
moment Nikolai Antonich was forced by illness to withdraw from it. He
did not name the tradesmen-no fear! Only one of them was indicated by
the initial V. Nikolai Antonich blamed V. for having supplied, at great
profit to himself, meat which had had to be thrown overboard even
before they reached Yugorsky Shar.
This part of the article was written knowledgeably. Nikolai Antonich
even quoted Amundsen to the effect that the success of any expedition
depends entirely on its provisioning, and brilliantly proved this point by
the example of his "late cousin's" expedition. He quoted passages from
his "late cousin's" letters, complaining bitterly of the speculators who
took advantage of the fact that he had to cut short his stay at Archangel
and put out to sea in a hurry.
Nikolai Antonich wrote practically nothing about the actual voyage,
beyond mentioning that at Yugorsky Shar the St. Maria encountered a
number of merchant vessels lying at anchor waiting for the break-up of
the ice which filled the southern part of the Kara Sea. According to one
of the skippers the St. Maria was seen heading into the Kara Sea at
dawn on September 17th and was lost to view over the horizon behind
an uninterrupted line of ice. "The task which I. L. Tatarinov set himself,"
Nikolai Antonich wrote, "was not fulfilled." "In passing, however, he
made a remarkable discovery—that of Severnaya Zemlya, which he
named 'Maria Land'."
I bought this issue of Soviet Arctic, all the more as it contained
references to other articles by the same writer on the same subject, and
returned to my hotel.
I returned in anything but a good humour. It seemed to me that since
this lie had been printed, and so long ago into the bargain—over a year
ago—then there was nothing more to be said. It was too late to challenge
it, and nobody would listen to me if I did. He had forestalled me. It was
a lie, but a lie mixed with truth. He had been the first to point out the
significance of the expedition of the St. Maria. He had been the first to
show that Severnaya Zemlya had been discovered by Captain Tatarinov
six months before it was first sighted by Vilkitsky. He had taken this, of
course, from the Captain's letter, which I had given to Katya. He had
beaten me to it on all points.
I paced my room whistling.
Truth to tell, what I wanted most at that moment was to go to the
railway station and book a ticket to Krasnoyarsk and from there fly to
Zapolarie. But instead of going to the station I sat down to write my
memorandum. I wrote it all day, and when you work all day all the
cheerless thoughts that keep coming into your head have to go away
again because the place is occupied.
192
CHAPTER FOUR
NEWS GALORE
I came in to find Korablev squatting in front of the stove, which he
was making up. It was such a familiar scene-Korablev there at the stove
in his old, shaggy jacket-that I even felt for a moment that all those
years had never been, that I was still a schoolboy, and was going to get a
wigging, as I did that time when I went to Ensk to see Katya. But then he
turned round. "How old he has gone," I thought, and in a flash
everything fell back into place.
"There you are at last!" Korablev said gruffly. "Why didn't you come
and stay with me?"
"Thanks, Ivan Pavlovich."
"You wrote you'd stay with me, didn't you?"
"I'd be inconveniencing you."
He looked at me, closing one eye, as if the better to take me all in. It
was the appraising look of a master examining his handiwork. The sight
must have pleased him, because he stroked his moustache and told me
to sit down.
"I didn't get a proper look at you yesterday," he said. "I was too busy."
He laid the table, got a bottle out of the cupboard, cut some bread,
then got out some cold veal and cut it up. He was still living alone, but
the damp old flat looked cosier and did not seem to be so damp. The
only thing I didn't like was that while I was talking he was helping
himself to the bottle without taking a bite. It worried me.
I said I was going to tell him only the bare essentials, but it is not easy
to pick these out when after so many years you meet a person who is
near and dear to you. Korablev questioned me about the North, about
my work as an airman, and was displeased at the brief answers I gave
him.
"Do you remember, Sanya, what you said to me when you were
leaving Moscow? You said: 'It remains for me now to prove that I am
right even if I have to die in the attempt.' Well, have you proved it?"
It was an unexpected question and I digested it. I remembered our
talk all right. I remembered how Korablev had shouted: "What have you
done, Sanya! My God, what have you done!" And how he had wept,
saying that it was all my fault, because I had insisted that the Captain's
letter referred to Nikolai Antonich when in fact it referred to some von
Vyshimirsky or other.
I couldn't quite see why Korablev should have mentioned that talk of
ours. But he must have had some reason for wanting me to remember it.
He looked at me gravely and seemed secretly pleased about something.
"I don't know who cares whether I prove something or not," I said