“You have not a care in the world, is that it, Count Remizov?” sneered the familiar voice. “You dispose of the doctor’s worthless, crazy son, then go blithely to your favorite vodka hole, leaving the woman you supposedly love to her own fate—”
“If you have harmed Katrina—”
“Have no fear, Count,” said Basil patronizingly. “First you must go. Then with you out of the way, she may yet have a change of heart.”
“Now that she has seen what kind of beast you are? Ha!” exclaimed Dmitri, the vodka in his blood making him too brave for his own good.
“I would hate to kill the beautiful princess without first giving her the chance to do right by me,” said Basil with cunning, evil humor.
“You are crazy if you think she would look twice at you now, Anickin!” Dmitri struggled to break free of Basil’s grip.
“Be still, you cur!” hissed Anickin. “I would prefer not to kill you in such a public place, but I will if I have to.”
“Give me a gun and let us fight this out like men of honor.”
Anickin barked a low, humorless laugh. “You deserve no honor. None of you do!”
“And your kind, I suppose, do?”
“Shut up! When they find your rotting body in an alley, it will be chalked up to one more political killing. And they will be half correct.”
“You are insane!”
“Your death will give me particular pleasure, as vengeance for ruining everything with Katrina. But at the same time it will make me a hero with the masses!”
“You will never get away with it.”
“Who’s to stop me? Now silence—and drive!”
Dmitri recalled the grip of Basil’s fingers around his throat, and the memory sobered him. He was not dealing with a man who would have the least compunction about using a pistol. He probably had done so already many times.
Without another word, Dmitri flicked the reins and urged his horse slowly forward into the night.
Leaving the meeting earlier, Basil had felt a certain slight gratification, but he was not entirely satisfied. Assassinating the Fedorcenkos would take time. It would be pleasing when it finally took place, but such delayed pleasure did nothing to satiate the hunger for revenge burning in his guts now. He had been rejected, dishonored, assaulted, and treated as less than dirt. And that must be atoned for immediately! Blood had to be spilled!
Basil still held a small hope that he might yet win Katrina. In his deranged mind, none of his behavior was sufficient to repulse her. He was only a victim whose actions were justified by circumstances.
But winning Katrina was secondary to drawing blood. Remizov must die whether any real hope for Katrina existed or not.
The carriage rattled along the cobbled street, now slick and glistening in the moonlight. The farther they went, the less Dmitri doubted the validity of Basil’s threat. That he had come back to hunt him down so soon after the afternoon’s incident was proof enough that the man was not to be taken lightly. He was not only dangerous, but unpredictable as well. It was a lethal combination. And if Basil had his way, Dmitri knew he would be a dead man within the hour. He was gambler enough, however, to consider his odds and wager, with no less than his life at stake, on his surest option for escape. His only hope lay with the unexpected, to take the very risk Basil had cautioned him against. And he must do it soon, while they were still on a public street where help might be summoned. To let Basil lead him to some lonely section of the city or deserted dock by the river would be nothing short of suicide.
Fifty meters ahead the street veered to the left. Gradually Dmitri relaxed his grip on the reins. His well-trained horse increased his pace. As they approached the corner, with his left hand he suddenly yanked the rein. The horse pulled quickly left, the carriage lurched sideways, and with a quick movement Dmitri thrust his right shoulder brutally into Basil.
Only quickness and strength kept him from getting his head blown off. Basil’s disorientation lasted only long enough to make his aim, when he finally managed to discharge the pistol, off its mark. Instead of hitting Dmitri’s head, the wild slug only grazed his shoulder. Pain seared through him, but he had to ignore it if he was to follow up on his daring move.
Without even thinking about it, he lashed the reins with his uninjured left arm, yelling his horse into a gallop. On even footing he had already discovered all too clearly that he would have no chance against Basil’s superior strength. His only hope was to keep him off balance. In a careening carriage, he might somehow be able to keep the madman off him.
Again he lashed the reins, turning at the same time and kicking futilely at his foe, who was attempting to take aim to fire again. But the jostling on the rough cobbles and the horse’s panicked movements delayed him. Dmitri’s third jab with his foot found its mark just as Basil’s fingers completed their work. The gun exploded through the quiet night as Dmitri’s boot crashed against the murderous hand. The bullet ripped through the leather roof of the carriage, and the pistol clattered to the floorboards. Loud cursing from Basil followed.
The sharp report of gunfire was enough to attract the attention of two or three policemen some distance away, who came running in the direction of the sound. At the same time, the frightened horse reared, then lunged forward with frenzied fear in his eyes. The two men tussling inside were thrown about by the swaying carriage. In vain Basil tried to land several blows, but Dmitri’s feet proved better weapons than his fists had earlier in the day, and for a minute or two as they sped recklessly along the street, Basil had the worst of it.
At length, sensible animal that he was, the horse began to slow. Basil took advantage of the steadying carriage to right himself, and the next moment sent a punishing smash of his fist directly into the side of Dmitri’s already painfully throbbing head.
An involuntary cry escaped Dmitri’s lips. But the reflex action brought on by the intensity of the blow sent his booted foot into Basil’s midsection with a force neither man had anticipated. Slightly off balance from the punch he had just thrown, and still wobbling from the movement of the carriage, Basil lurched onto the wet cobblestones, and Dmitri found himself alone again in his carriage.
Instinctively he tugged at the reins to stop his horse. Knowing the danger of prolonging the fight, he yet had to keep track of his adversary. Leaning across the seat and peering out the other side, he saw Basil lying flat on his back a few meters away.
Dmitri jumped out and ran back. Basil lay motionless, a gash on the side of his head above the right ear where his head had struck the cobbles. Dmitri scarcely had time to focus his own blurred vision or take stock of the pain that suddenly shot through his wounded shoulder before two uniformed policemen approached, swinging clubs in their hands and shouting.
Dmitri had no thought of resisting when one of the men roughly grabbed at his arm and yanked him away from Basil’s prostrate form. Still he was unable to speak when they began to interrogate him. Apparently they believed a murder had taken place right before their eyes.
Only Basil’s moaning as he began to come to consciousness succeeded in shifting some of the attention away from their hasty accusations.
Once on his feet, Basil silently surveyed the scene, and was not long in concluding that for once his best position would be to keep his mouth shut. While the police were distracted with Dmitri, he began to wander off down the street. Suddenly Dmitri found his tongue again.
“Don’t let that man go!” he cried.
Basil immediately quickened his pace, but not before one of the men went after him. Basil would have quickly outstripped him and found safety in the darkness had it not been for a sudden wave of dizziness from his wound. He had risen too quickly to his feet, and now stumbled and staggered for two or three steps. In a moment he felt his arm restrained. He fought to resist but had none of his usual strength. A minute later he was hauled back to the scene.
“Now, what’s this all about?” said one of the gendarmes to both men at once.
“Can you prove it?”
“You’ll find his gun on the floor of my carriage over there,” said Dmitri, cocking his head in the direction where his horse stood. “And if you’ll examine my shoulder, I think you’ll discover I have been wounded by his gunfire.”
“And what have you to say to that?” the gendarme asked, turning toward Basil.
Anickin spit in his face.
“Do you see what I mean?” said Dmitri. “The man’s an animal. And if you check your records, you’ll find he’s a known insurgent. Earlier today he tried to attack a young woman. I advise you to arrest him immediately.”
The gendarme glanced back and forth between the two men. “I half believe you, Lieutenant,” he said at last, eyeing Basil again suspiciously. “But I’ll have to take you both in until we can sort this all out.”
At the words, Basil began to twist and writhe in his captor’s grip.
“You miserable swine!” he snarled. “Let me go! I am the only justice left in this city!”
The policeman who had spoken to Dmitri now turned savagely on Basil, swinging his club toward his head.
“Hold your tongue, man, or I’ll give you a gash on the other side of the head to match the one you’ve already got!”
He turned toward Dmitri. “Bring your horse along, Lieutenant. All right,” he added to the others, “let’s go. And hold on to that one!” he said, indicating Basil, who continued to shout out vile imprecations as he was led off down the street.
51
Hours later, as dawn streaked the sky over the Gulf of Finland between layers of black clouds, and as the previous night’s rain descended in torrents into the heart of the Motherland, the St. Petersburg police had sorted out the violent incident.
They were more than pleased to have a solid charge by a distinguished soldier and citizen against young Anickin, whom they had been watching since his return to the capital. Dmitri was satisfied for Katrina’s sake, although part of him could not help wishing he had killed the lunatic in fair battle. He swore he would do his best to see that Basil’s father would not use his influence to get him off this time, and the policeman in charge of the affair hinted that a long stay in prison was in order for the young troublemaker, lawyer or not.
Without the least knowledge of any of these events, Paul Burenin had spent the night wrestling with his conscience, torn, as seemed his eternal lot, between his ideals and his inbred sense of duty. Had his sister not been involved, he probably would not have given the outcome of last night’s meeting more than a passing thought, for the Fedorcenko name meant nothing to him. He might have even offered to carry out the job himself. As much as he wanted to kill Vlasenko, he could see the ingenuity of Basil’s rather warped reasoning.
But he could not ignore Anna. He could not accept the possibility of her becoming an innocent victim in Basil’s vendetta against the aristocratic family that employed her. And Paul knew that the greatest hazard with the use of explosives was the inescapable fact of their unpredictability. The innocent were often brought down with the guilty. It was an unfortunate fact he had already debated within himself and eventually decided to live with. No sacrifice is too great for the cause, as The People’s Will put it.
No sacrifice . . . except for Anna!
Suddenly everything had changed. Could he knowingly place her life in jeopardy? His own sister? Had he sunk that low?
In order to insure her safety, the only path that lay open before him was to betray his comrades. Could he do that? What if they found out? Where would that place him in The People’s Will, except in the most despicable position of all—that of a traitor!
Thus he debated back and forth with himself most of the sleepless night in great agony of mind. In the end he knew what course he must take.
He waited until morning had come to full light so that his presence in the exclusive South Side district would not be suspect. Dressed in his shabby working garb, a belted red tunic over baggy brown wool trousers, he might have been taken for a housebreaker in the middle of the night. But in the gray, drizzly morning he looked the part of a poor errand boy.
The guard at the gate of the Fedorcenko estate scrutinized him closely, then, accepting his story that he bore a message from Dr. Anickin, admitted him. It was all Paul could dream up, but it seemed good enough. After inquiring of a gardener, he found his way to the kitchen entrance, where the servants were already preparing for the day’s meals.
“I have a message for one of the servants,” he said to a tall, slender woman passing by with a tray of late-ripened fruits.
“Who do you want?” she asked, pausing.
“It’s for Anna Burenin.”
“Give it to me,” said Polya. “I’ll see that she gets it.”
“It is a verbal message. I must deliver it to her personally.”
“That will be impossible. She is not here.”
“When will she return?”
“I don’t know.”
Frustrated, Paul asked anxiously, “Surely she does not come and go without some word to someone?”
“She no longer works in the kitchen.”
“But you seem to have some knowledge of her whereabouts.”
Polya surveyed the young man carefully. “And you think I am under some obligation to give out her private information to every stranger that comes along?” she asked finally. There was still caution in her voice, but it was weakening. Perhaps something in the young man’s eyes hinted to her of the truth even before Paul’s next words.
“I am not a stranger,” he said.
Polya’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly.
“I must know where she is,” Paul went on. “This message is extremely important.”
Polya hesitated, looking him over one last time. She then seemed to arrive at a decision.
“She has gone to her home in Katyk,” she said.
“Home!” exclaimed Paul. “But why . . . when will she return?”
“I do not know. It is for an undetermined length of time. Her father is ill.”
Paul gaped at the unexpected news. His mind began spinning in several directions at once as a myriad of conflicting emotions surged through him.
He could not think of his father just now! It made everything too confusing. His father was dead to him. He had no father!
All he must think of was Anna. She was safe. That was all that mattered. His purpose had been accomplished. There was no more for him to do.
He said nothing else to the scullery maid. Polya saw the glazed look come over the young man’s face. If she did guess his identity, she did not betray her suspicion but merely watched as he slowly turned around and shambled down the walkway and back outside.
In a daze, Paul stumbled back the way he had come. The thought of giving any warning to the Fedorcenkos or anyone of the household did not occur to him. Even if it had, he would have dismissed the absurd notion out of hand. He would be arrested just for delivering such a message.
Anna was home . . . Anna was safe. He could not let himself dwell on anything else.
Papa is ill, his distraught mind tried to scream at him. Papa is ill.
But he shook the thought away. He made his way back along Nevsky Prospect, utterly oblivious to the rain falling upon him. As the drenching downpour soaked his head and hair and clothes, chilling him to the bone, he forced his footsteps along by repeating, It does not matter . . . he is dead to me . . . I am dead to him.
He had a new family now and to them his heart and soul were committed!
Even as he forced himself to say the words, he ignored the tears streaming out of his eyes and down his hot cheeks. There were no tears, only rain! The People’s Will . . . they were his brothers and sisters and father and mother! He would kill for them . . . he would die for them!
Faster he walked as the rain beat upon him. Faster came the tears that were not tears! The cause was everything,
and it made no room for those whose hearts were weak with weeping!
But even as he made his way across to Vassily Island, he could not keep back the terrible longing he suddenly felt deep in his soul for the shabby little izba in Katyk where he had been born.
52
Yevno knew the rains had begun even though he could hear nothing of the drops on the soft thatch of his roof.
He felt the change rather than heard it, and it had awakened him. He had been a man of the earth too many years, and the very marrow of his being quietly resonated with the changes of the seasons and weather and atmosphere. And now as he lay awake in the dark stillness of the early morning hours, listening only to the breathing of his family, he knew that for this year, stradnya pora had come to an end.
As quietly as he could, he slipped out of the large bed. Sophia moved slightly, but then resumed her peaceful slumber. By the light of the embers of the fire, he drew on his coarse trousers and heavy woolen tunic, then crept across the hard dirt floor and out of the cottage.
It was equally dark out in the byre, but the shifting movements of the animals gave evidence that dawn was not far away. As silently as he was able, so as not to disturb the prince asleep on a makeshift straw bed on the other side near Lukiv, Yevno opened the great barn door and stood staring outside. A faint glow from the moon shining somewhere above the clouds combined with a hint of gray in the east to cast an eerie luminescence over the fields of Katyk. He could hear the rain, thudding softly into the earth below, rustling the uncut ears of grain in the distance. It was a gentle rain at first, but the gusty wind indicated fiercer weather was probably on the way.
Yevno breathed in deeply. His senses took pleasure in the aroma of newly moistened soil, the heavy, wet air, and the scent of cut grain lingering over the fields from the previous day’s activity. Most wonderful of all, however, was the warm, pungent smell from inside the barn, where enough grain was stored to keep his family from starvation. He smiled, lifting his hands in thankfulness to the Maker of children and grain and rain alike. The work had been strenuous. He had himself brought cartload after cartload back from the field yesterday; the children had helped him unload it in the great stacks that were now piled almost to the roof. Anna and the prince had labored in the fields for as long into the night as their arms would allow. They had probably only been asleep three or four hours before he had himself arisen.
The Russians Collection Page 69