man with his great ideas and his great heart.'
I wanted to remind Nikolai Antonich that he had not always held such
a high opinion of his cousin, but he would not let me get a word in.
'I recognise only one witness,' he went on, 'Ivan himself. He alone
can accuse me, and if I were to blame, he alone would have the right to
do so.'
He broke down and wept. He cut his fingers with his glasses and
fumbled about in his pocket for his handkerchief. Romashka ran up and
offered him one, but Nikolai Antonich pushed his hand aside again.
'Even the dead, I think, would have spoken,' he said and reached for his
hat, breathing heavily.
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'Nikolai Antonich,' I said very calmly, 'I don't want you to think that
I intend to devote my whole life trying to convince mankind of your
guilt. It has been clear to me for a long time and now it is clear to others
too. I did not invite you here to go over all this again. I simply
considered it my duty to show you the real face of this scoundrel. I have
no use for the things he has been telling me about you—I have known
them long before. Don't you want to say anything to him?'
Nikolai Antonich was silent.
'Then get out!' I said to Romashka.
He ran over to Nikolai Antonich and began whispering something to
him. But the latter stood stiffly, staring straight in front of him. Only
now did I notice how he had aged these last few days, how defected and
pitiful he looked. But I felt no pity for him, none whatever.
'Get out!' I repeated to Romashka.
He did not go but kept whispering. Then he took Nikolai Antonich by
the arm and led him to the door. This was unexpected, seeing that it was
Romashka I had ordered out, not Nikolai Antonich, whom I had asked
to come. I had wanted to ask him who had written an article 'In Defence
of a Scientist', and whether I. Krylov was a descendant of the famous
fabulist. But I was too late—they had already left the room.
I hadn't set them at odds after all. They walked slowly down the
corridor arm in arm, and only once did Nikolai Antonich stop for a
moment. He started to tear his hair. He had no hair to speak of, but a
sort of childish down came away in his fingers and he stared at it with
agonised amazement. Romashka restrained him and brushed his
overcoat, and they moved along sedately until they disappeared round a
bend in the corridor.
On the eve of my departure C. phoned to tell me that he had spoken to
the Chief of the N.S.R.A. and read out to him my Memo. His answer was
a favourable one. It was too late to send out an expedition this year, but
it was highly probable that they would do this next year. My plan was
detailed and convincing, but the part dealing with the route needed
clarifying. The historical section was most interesting. I would be
summoned to the N.S.R.A. and would receive further notice.
I spent all that day around the shops. I wanted to buy a present for
Katya, as we were parting again. It was no easy job. A tea-cosy? But she
had no teapot. A dress? But I could never tell crepe de Chine from faille
de Chine. A camera? She needed one badly, but I didn't have enough
money for a Leica. I would probably have ended by buying nothing at
all, had I not met Valya in the Arbat. He was standing before the
window of a bookshop, thinking—I would have once guessed
unerringly—of animals. But now he had other things on his mind.
'Valya,' I said, 'have you any money?'
'I have.'
'How much?'
'Five hundred rubles.'
'Let's have it.'
He laughed.
'You're not going to Ensk again for Katya, are you?'
We went into a shop and bought a Leica.
As far as the rest of the world was concerned I was leaving at
midnight, but with Katya I started taking my leave in the morning and
kept it up all day, now dropping in on her at home, now at her office. We
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were parting only for a short time. In August she was to come to
Zapolarie, and I was expecting to be called out before that-in July,
perhaps. Nevertheless I thought of our parting with a pang, fearing that
it might be a long one again.
Valya came to see me off at the station and brought a copy of Pravda
containing my article. It was printed just as I had written it, except that
in one passage the style had been improved and the article as a whole
had been condensed to half its size. The excerpts from the diaries,
however, were printed in full. 'I shall never forget that leave-taking, that
pale, inspired face with its inward look! How different from that once
ruddy-faced, cheerful man with his fund of yarns and funny stories, the
idol of his crew, a man who always came to his task, however difficult,
with a joke on his lips! Nobody moved after his speech. He stood there
with closed eyes, as though nerving himself for the last word of farewell.
But instead of words a low moan broke from his lips and tears glistened
in the corners of his eyes...'
Katya and I read this in the corridor of my carriage, and I felt her hair
against my face, felt that she, too, could hardly keep back her tears.
The End of Book One
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BOOK TWO
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