His temper was clearly becoming a danger, which called for a remedy. A physician came to Amga only once a month. As Yasha considered himself in good health, there could be no question of suggesting to him that he should consult the physician. It was, therefore, agreed among my friends that Prince Gutemurov should take a walk about the village with the doctor when he arrived, pass by our house as if by accident, and that I should greet them with an invitation to come in for tea. Everything went smoothly. The physician was introduced to Yasha and immediately remarked upon his pallor and his bloodshot eyes.
“What ails you?” he asked Yasha, “you seem to have fever. Let me examine you.”
The result of the examination was the advice to Yasha to go to a hospital for treatment, which he, of course, scoffed at. Privately, the doctor informed Prince Gutemurov that Yasha’s nerves had broken down and that he was dangerous to live with, as he might kill me for some trivial cause. The physician urged that I should leave him at once. But I hesitated. Another quarrel, however, was not long in coming. Yasha actually made another attempt to kill me, but was stopped by our comrades. The cup was full. I decided to escape.
Day and night my imagination carried me to the fields of battle, and my ears rang with the groans of my wounded brethren. The impact of the mighty armies was heard even in uncivilized northern Siberia. There were rumours in the air, rumours of victory and of defeat, and in low voices people talked of torrents of blood and of rivers of maimed humanity, streaming back from the front, and already overflowing into the Siberian plains. My heart yearned to be there, in the seething cauldron of war, to be baptized in its fire and scorched in its lava. The spirit of sacrifice took possession of me. My country called me. And an irresistible force from within impelled me.
I only waited the opportunity when Yasha should be away for several days. It arrived one September day. Some Yakuts called for Yasha. As soon as he left I cut off my hair, dressed in men’s clothes and provided myself with two loaves of bread. I had no money to speak of, as I took none of the colony into my confidence.
It was evening when I stealthily hurried out of Amga and took the road to Yakutsk. I had before me a journey of over 130 miles. I ran at such a pace that night, since I could not expect to travel in the daytime without being recognized, that I covered thirty-three miles before dawn.
Several times I met Yakuts, and answered their greetings in their native dialect, with which I had grown familiar. In the dark they must have taken me for a Yakut. Otherwise, the journey was uneventful. The road was dry, the weather calm, and only the stars lit my way, while the loud throbbing of my heart echoed my footsteps.
When day broke I stopped beside a stream and breakfasted on bread and cold water. I then made a bed of twigs in a hole by the road, lay down, covered myself with branches and went to sleep for the day. I awoke when evening came, offered my prayers to God, dined on some more bread and water, and resumed my journey. It took me six nights of walking to arrive at Yakutsk, living only on bread and water, and sleeping in hidden nooks by the road during the day.
There was a new Governor in Yakutsk. Baron Kraft had gone to western Europe to join his wife at some health resort, was stranded there after the outbreak of the war, and later died a prisoner in the hands of the enemy. The new Governor received me well, and granted my request to be sent home, to Tomsk, at the expense of the Government. He even offered me a convoy for protection.
My escape was a success, but my heart would not rejoice. The image of Yasha, stricken with grief, frantically searching for me, calling to me, rose before my eyes, and demanded an account from my conscience. Was it right, was it just, to leave poor Yasha all alone in forlorn Amga? Had I not vowed to remain eternally faithful to him? Was it not my bounden duty to stand by him to the end? Should I not return to him, then and give up this wild fancy of going to war?
I hesitated. Was it not true, on the other hand, that Yasha had become a professional gambler? Was not life with him a perilous adventure? Devotion to Yasha, a voice within me argued, did not mean perishing with him, but an effort to save him. Indeed, to get Yasha out of that wilderness was an idea which suddenly gripped my imagination. And how could I ever expect to find a better opportunity to do so than by distinguishing myself in war and then petitioning the Tsar in his behalf?
So there I was again in the magic circle of war. I asked an acquaintance to write a letter for me to Yasha. Apologizing for my strange departure, I informed him that I was going to Tomsk to enlist as a soldier, leave for the front and win distinction for bravery, then petition the Tsar to pardon him, so as to enable us to resume our peaceful life in Stretinsk.
It was a plan with which Destiny, which held no more peace for me, played havoc. The war was to continue as many years as I had
