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...'
Here ended the reverse side of the second sheet. I laid it aside and
started on the third. The first few lines were washed away. Then came:
'It's galling to think that everything could have turned out differently.
I know he will try to put himself right with you, perhaps he will even
persuade you that it is all my own/fault. One thing I beg of you: do not
trust that man. It can positively be said that we owe all our misfortunes
to him alone. Suffice it to say that most of the sixty dogs he sold to us at
Archangel had to be shot while we were still at Novaya Zemlya. That's
the price we had to pay for that good office. Not I alone, but the whole
expedition send him our curses. We were taking a chance, we knew that
we were running a risk, but we did not expect such a blow. It remains
for us to do all we can. What a lot I could tell you about our voyage!
Stories enough to last Katya a whole winter. But what a price we are
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having to pay, good God! I don't want you to think that our plight is
hopeless. Still, you shouldn't look forward too much...'
Like a flash of lightning in a forest that suddenly illumines everything
around and transforms the dark scene so that you can even make out
the leaves on a tree which a moment before had worn the shape of a
beast or a giant, the whole thing dawned on me as I read these lines.
Even trivial details which I never thought I could remember came back
to me.
I understood Nikolai Antonich's hypocritical speeches about his 'poor
cousin'. I understood that false solemnity of expression he wore when
speaking about his cousin, the pucker between his brows deepening as
though you, too, were partly to blame for what had happened. The full
depth of the man's baseness, the show he made of being proud of his
own nobility, were brought home to me. He had not been named in the
letter, but that it was he who was meant I did not have the slightest
doubt.
My throat went dry through excitement and I was talking to myself so
loudly that Aunt Dasha was seriously alarmed. 'Sanya, what's the
matter with you?'
'Nothing, Aunt Dasha. Where do you keep the rest of these old
letters?'
'They're all there.'
'That can't be! Don't you remember reading me this letter once? It
was a long one, on eight sheets.'
'I don't remember, dear.'
I found nothing more in the packet-only these three sheets out of the
eight. But they were enough!
I changed the 'come at four' in Katya's letter to 'come at three', then
to 'come at two'. But as it was already two o'clock I changed it back to
three.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A RENDEZVOUS IN CATHEDRAL GARDENS.
'DO NOT TRUST THA Т MAN'
I had been to Cathedral Gardens a thousand times as a boy, but it had
never struck me then as being such a beautiful place. It stood high on a
hill overlooking the confluence of two rivers—the Peschinka and the
Tikhaya, and was surrounded by the old ramparts. These were in an
excellent state of preservation, but the towers seemed to have shrunk
since Pyotr and I had last met there to take the 'blood-oath of
friendship'.
At last they came-Katya and Sanya. I saw Sanya, wrapped in an old-
womanish, yellow sheepskin coat, wave her hand around as much as to
say, 'this is Cathedral Gardens', and immediately take her leave with a
mysterious nod of the head. 'Katya!' I cried. She started, saw me and
laughed.
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We spent half an hour scolding each other: I her for not having told
me she was going away, and she me, for not having waited for her letter
before coming. Then we both recollected that we had not spoken to each
other about the most important thing of all. It appeared that Nikolai
Antonich had had a talk with Katya. 'In the name of my poor cousin' he
had forbidden her to see me. He had delivered a long speech and wept.
'Believe me or not, Sanya,' Katya said gravely, 'but I saw it with my
own eyes, honestly!'
'Well, well,' I said and placed my hand on my chest.
There, in my breast pocket, wrapped in a piece of lint which I had got
from Aunt Dasha, lay Captain Tatarinov's letter.
'Listen, Katya,' I began on a firm note, 'I want to tell you a story. It's
like this. Imagine that you're living on the bank of a river and one fine
day a postman's bag turns up on this bank. It hasn't dropped from the
skies, of course, it's been washed up by the water. The postman
drowned. And his bag falls into the hands of a woman who's very fond of
reading. And this woman has a boy of eight among her neighbours
who's very fond of listening. So one day she reads him a letter which
begins 'Dear Maria Vasilievna'.'
Katya looked up at me, startled.
' 'I hasten to inform you that Ivan Lvovich is alive and well,' I went on
quickly. 'Four months ago, on his orders...' ' :.
I recited the letter of the navigating officer in a single breath. I did not
