matter now and then and in the end decided to suspend judgement and let events take their course. Or had he just got bored, left off pondering? He was not sure.
The long morning crept by. Every few minutes someone used one of the slop-pails, always having to step over him to reach it and sometimes kicking or hacking him in the leg. There was no conversation. A guard paced up and down the corridor outside, his footfalls very distinct on the flagstones. The cell was at the end of the row; Theodore could hear his regular tread receding towards the other end, turning, coming back. By estimating the length of his stride while he was in view through the bars and counting his steps, it should have been possible to calculate the length of the corridor, but that piece of information was not worth the trouble of acquiring; it had no point. How long to the midday meal? Nobody could know; all dials and watches, together with all other personal effects, had been removed by the guards before the prisoners had been taken to the cells. They were too far below ground to hear anything of the outside world.
Further questions, thornier questions, began to come lumbering up, presenting themselves to Theodore’s reluctant attention. He conducted a slow-paced dialogue with himself.
Was the revolution a good cause? – or rather, was I right to think it one?
Certainly. The English had been deprived of what was theirs by right and to restore it must be good.
What about Vanag’s point? They’d have to be trained to run the country, wouldn’t they?
Yes. Yes, of course they would.
And they’d have to be given responsibilities a little at a time, as they became more experienced.
I suppose so.
But that would have run directly counter to our declared policy of giving them full political control at a stroke.
What of it?
Why was I in favour of that policy?
Wait… Because Sevadjian recommended it.
Did I understand his arguments?
Yes. If the handing-over was done in stages it would never be done at all.
Why not? How does that follow?
What’s the next question?
Do I care about the English? Enough to risk my life for them?
No. I joined the revolution because I wanted to fight for what I believed in.
What do I believe in?
Justice and freedom and so on.
Do I care about them enough to risk my life for them?
No. I wanted an adventure.
Enough to risk my life?
No. I didn’t think it would come to that.
This is a pretty squalid story.
Is it’? Whatever my motives I was at any rate working for what I believed in.
What do I believe in?
I’ve mentioned justice and freedom. Then there’s truth and art and perseverance and power and happiness and loyalty. All the things that matter.
What does ‘matter’ mean’?
At this point Theodore broke off his internal colloquy. His cell was the first in the row, which meant that anybody arriving from upstairs was visible from it. And somebody was visible now, standing in a stooped attitude not five metres away while one guard showed another a piece of paper. It was Nina. She had a dirty bandage round her head and looked ill, listless and confused. He was going to call to her, then did not. He said to himself that it would have done no good, though he was far from clear about what he meant by that. In another moment she had gone. He let his head hang. It occurred to him that he ought to be feeling sadness, or remorse, or even a consoling awareness of duty done. But for a variety of reasons nothing of the sort was possible. All he could feel was some apprehension and a great indifference.
22
The little churchyard was crowded. A guard of honour from the regiment lined the paths and stood in a double line at the graveside. Across the road, 8 Troop were paraded under Sergeant Ulmanis, who at a signal from Colonel Tabidze ordered a party to dismount. Six men did so, went to the nearby waggon and, with Lyubimov in charge, lifted the coffin on to their shoulders. They moved carefully but not very smartly into the churchyard while a contingent from the regimental band played a slow march.
Lomov was not one of the six; he had not volunteered for the duty and was in any case too small. He sat his horse in a soldierly way, holding the reins of Lyubimov’s. The last time he came this way he had wept a great deal, genuine tears produced by very genuine relief. He had broken military regulations, disobeyed an officer’s order, had a hard ride, seen (or rather not seen) two strange things and come within a second of being a party to murder. Always a quick thinker, he had instantly and rightly guessed that to have saved Controller Petrovsky from death would square his account with the army; Lyubimov’s too. Now Lomov congratulated himself on the native curiosity that had taken him up to the house just in time, and held back a smile of complacency at knowing what all but a very few besides himself would have given a month’s pay to know. He was on the whole sorry that the ensign was dead, but he had been too changeable for a good officer, exciting to ride with, dangerous to cross, in fact dangerous at all times.
Some members of the regiment had attended the burial as private persons and stood here and there inside the churchyard: Victor, Boris, Dmitri among others. Major Yakir was there too, but in his capacity as the deceased’s squadron commander. Victor had picked his station with some care, in a corner of the walls where everyone within reach would have his back to him and he would be able to wield his vodka-flask without being noticed. As the place filled up, other mourners moved quite close to him. The closest was a woman wearing a curious black dress and hat, evidently on her own. She was in her thirties and had a remarkable bosom which he glimpsed when she half turned and gave him a brief stare. After that, she took another step or two backwards until she was standing really very close to him. He had started to take a quick swig from his flask, thinking this an ideal opportunity, when he suddenly choked. His feelings of grief for the dead, never profound, vanished altogether.
The coffin was lowered into the grave. Colonel Tabidze rested at the salute for a minute afterwards and there was comparative silence everywhere. Then he lowered his hand to his side, took a pace forward and began to speak.
‘We bury here today a gallant young officer who gave his life for his country and also, by an inspiring chance, for his father. In the midst of our grief we can only rejoice that the ruthless assassins responsible for this atrocity have been caught and punished. May their names perish in infamy. In their victim, Alexander Petrovsky, Russia and England have lost a good soldier and a good friend. His parents, to whom our hearts go out in sympathy and love, have lost the best of sons. Everybody who knows the family knows how Alexander revered his father and mother. As one who knew him all his life and was his commanding officer for the whole length of his brief career, I am perhaps specially qualified…’
By now, almost everyone had stopped listening. All but a few had paid close attention at first in the hope of picking up some clue to the truth about Alexander’s death, which by common consent could not have happened as officially described. The general disbelief arose not from any inherent improbability in the story of the two masked gunmen who escaped after their assassination attempt but were captured later at some distant place; elsewhere there had been plenty of successful attempts of that kind within an hour or two. It was just that the notion of Alexander giving half an hour of his free time, let alone his life, for his country or his father (or any other entity) could not be a true one. Such persons were none the wiser, and likely to remain so. The others, the few like
