The White Terror and The Red: A Novel of Revolutionary Russia

  CHAPTER III.

  PIEVAKIN PLEADS GUILTY.

  A lesson in Latin was in progress. The teacher was a blond Czech. Pavellooked at him intently, trying to follow the exercises, but he onlybecame the more aware of the foreigner's struggles with Russian and madethe discovery that his clumsy carriage, as he walked up and down theroom, was suggestive of a peasant woman trying to catch a chicken. Histhoughts passed to Pievakin and almost at the same instant a questionflashed into his brain: If Pievakin was unreliable politically, why,then, was he getting off so easily? How was it that instead of being cutoff from the living world, instead of being thrown into a dungeon towaste and perish, as was done with all fellows of that sort, he wasmerely transferred to another school?

  The bell sounded. The Czech put his big flat record-book under his armand left the room. Most of the pupils went out soon after. The two longcorridors were bubbling with boys in blue, a-glitter with nickel-platedbuttons and silver galloon, some laughing over their experience with thelesson just disposed of, others eagerly reviewing the one soon to berecited. Pievakin passed along. The pupils bowed to him with curioussympathetic looks, and he returned their salutes with an air of mixedtimidity and gratitude. Presently the teacher of mathematics emergedfrom one of the glass doors, his deformity bulging through the bluebroadcloth of his uniform.

  "Alexandre Alexandrovich!" he shouted demonstratively, and catching upwith him he threw his arm around his waist.

  Pavel, who had been watching the scene, was about to return to hisclass-room so as to avoid bowing to Pievakin, when, by a sudden impulse,he saluted the two teachers, and advancing to meet them, with thatpeculiar air of politeness which reminded his classmates of his equipageand the colonnade in front of his mother's mansion, he accosted theinstructor of history and geography, turning pale as he did so:

  "May I speak to you, Alexandre Alexandrovich?" When the mathematicianhad withdrawn, he inquired in a tone of pain and concern: "What hashappened, Alexandre Alexandrovich?"

  "Oh, I'm in trouble, prince," the old man faltered. He had neveraddressed the youth by his title before, and there was a note of abjectsupplication in his voice, as if the boy could help him. His face had apinched, cowed look.

  "But, Alexandre Alexandrovich, it's a terrible thing they are accusingyou of. You've been so dear to me, Alexandre Alexandrovich. I want toknow all. I cannot rest, Alexandre Alexandrovich."

  "The story is easily told. A misfortune has befallen me. While touchingupon the constitutional form of government, I was somewhat carried away.That I don't deny. I know it was wrong of me, but I assure you, prince,I meant no harm."

  It sounded as though he were a pleading pupil and the boy before him histeacher.

  Pavel was touched and perplexed.

  "But that's in the text-book, Alexandre Alexandrovich."

  "To be sure it is. Only the text-book merely uses the term withoutexplaining it, while I, absent-mindedly, proceeded to do so, which isagainst the rules, and, as ill luck would have it, I warmed up a bit.When I was first asked about it I was not aware of having done anywrong. I was so shocked, in fact, I lost my temper. That was the worstof it. I am a ruined man, prince. Thirty-six years have I served theCzar and there is not a blemish on my record."

  "But why should you call yourself a ruined man, AlexandreAlexandrovich," Pavel said impetuously. "I don't see why it should betoo late to straighten it all out. I'm going to see my uncle. Or, betterstill, my mother will see him. We can't let it go that way. We shouldall be a lot of scoundrels if we did. I'm going to tell him so."

  "Do it, prince, if you can," the old man said with shamefaced eagerness."I shall never forget it."

  * * * * *

  When Pavel came home he found his mother's sleigh in front of the mainentrance, her coachman in dazzling attire, waiting with pompousstolidity. When the liveried porter threw the door open to him and heentered the vestibule he saw coming down the immense staircase hismother and his five-year-old half-brother, Kostia, dressed for theirafternoon drive, Anna Nicolayevna in her furs and the little fellow inthe costume of a Caucasian horseman, which became his grave little facecharmingly. Following at some distance, with a smile of admiration, halfservile, half sincere, on her fresh German face, was Kostia's governess.She was not dressed for a drive. She was merely going to see her chargeoff.

  "Mother, I am afraid I shall have to detain you," Pavel said, solemnly."I wish to speak to you about Alexandre Alexandrovich."

  "Won't it keep?" she asked, with a facetious gesture.

  "Don't make fun of it, mother," he reproached her. "It's a seriousmatter. My head is in a whirl."

  Kostia was burning to show himself in public in his new Circassian capand when he saw his mother yield he screwed up his face for a cry, buthe forthwith straightened it out again. He scarcely ever cried inPavel's presence for fear of being called "damsel" by him--anappellation he dreaded more than being locked up alone in theschoolroom.

  They went into Anna Nicolayevna's favorite sitting-room, a squarechamber furnished and decorated in tan, in no particular style, but withan eye to the combined suggestions of old-time solidity and latter-dayelegance. It was the embodiment of rest and silence, an effect to whichtwo life-sized bronze statues--a Diana and a Venus de Medici--and thedrowsy ticking of an ancient clock contributed not a little. It wasknown as the English room because its former furnishings had beenmodelled after London standards.

  Pavel painted Pievakin as a penitent, broken spirit till AnnaNicolayevna's eyes grew red.

  "Still, maybe he does hold dangerous views?" she asked.

  "Dangerous nothing! It's all nonsense. He's more loyal than Novikoffanyhow, for Novikoff is a soulless, attitudinising nincompoop, while heis the kindliest, most conscientious, most soulful man in the world."

  "Unfortunately all this has nothing to do with loyalty," she said,sadly. "This is a very queer world, Pasha. It's just like thosewretches who would do away with czars to be warm-hearted and good toeverybody. They don't believe there ought to be rich and poor, either.When you come across a man of this sort keep away from him, Pasha."

  "But what has that got to do with Pievakin?" he shouted. "The very sightof a Nihilist would be enough to frighten him out of his wits. I wantyou to tell it all to uncle, _mamman_. Give him no peace until hepromises you to write to the curator about the poor old man."

  The governor of Miroslav was a Boulatoff, being a cousin of Pavel'sdeceased father; but he was also related to the young man by marriage tohis mother's sister, who had died less than a year ago. Anna Nicolayevnapromised to see her brother-in-law the next morning, but Pavel would notwait. He pleaded, he charged her with heartlessness, tapping the thickrug with his foot and shaking all over as he spoke, until she agreed togo at once.

  While she was gone Pavel and Kostia went into the ball room and played"hunter and partridge," a game of the gymnasium boys' inventing. Theyhad not been many minutes at it before Pavel had forgotten all about theerrand on which he had despatched his mother and the vast ball roomechoed with his voluminous laughter. His great pleasure was to teaseKostia until the little boy's mouth would begin to twitch, and then toshake his finger at him and say: "Better not cry, Kostia, or you knowwhat I am going to call you." Whereupon Kostia would make a desperateeffort to look nonchalantly grave and Pavel would burst into a new roarof merriment.

  Anna Nicolayevna came back converted to a rigorous point of view, andalthough her son had no difficulty in convincing her once again thatPievakin deserved mercy, he made up his mind to see his uncle himself,and he did so the very next morning.

  Governor Boulatoff was a massive, worn, blinking old satrap, shrewd,tight-fisted, and, what was quite unusual for a man of his class, withan eye to business. His nose was extremely broad and fleshy, his hairwas elaborately dressed, and altogether he looked like a successful oldcomedian. Bribe-giving was as universal in Miroslav as tipping was inits leading cafe. One could not turn round without showing "gratitude."The wheels o
f government would not move in the desired direction unlessthey were greased, the price of this "grease" or "gratitude" varying allthe way from a ten-copeck piece to ten or fifteen thousand rubles.Governor Boulatoff, who had come to Miroslav a ruined man, was now thelargest land-owner in the province. Whenever he was in need of readycash he would galvanize into a new lease of life some defunct piece ofanti-Jewish legislation. This was known among the other officials as"pressing the spring"--the spring of the Jewish pocketbook, that is, theinvariable effect of the proceeding being the appearance of a delegationwith a snug piece of Jewish "gratitude." He was continually sneering atthe powers behind the throne, and mildly striving for recognition; yetso comfortable did he feel in this city of gardens, card-playing and"gratitude," from which "the Czar was too far off and God too high up,"that he was in mortal fear lest the promotion which he coveted shouldcome in the form of a transfer to a more important province.

  Pavel found him in his imposing "den." The old potentate was in hismorning gown, freshly bathed, shaved and coiffured and smelling ofpomade and cigarette smoke.

  "Well, my little statesman," he greeted him in French. "What brings youso early this morning? Aren't you going to school at all?" He called himstatesman because of his ambition to follow in the footsteps of hisdiplomatic grandfather.

  "I shall stay away from the first three lessons," Pavel answered. "Icannot rest, uncle. I want to speak to you about that unfortunate man."

  The governor was very fond of Pavel, but he persisted in treating him asa boy, and the only serious talk young Boulatoff got out of himregarding Pievakin was an exhortation to give "men of that sort a wideberth."

  "But, uncle----"

  "Don't argue," the governor interrupted him, blinking as he spoke. "Thisis not the kind of thing for a boy of your station to get mixed up in."

  "Oh, it's enough to drive one crazy. The poor man is sincerelyrepentant, uncle. He'll never do it again, uncle."

  "I see you're quite excited over it. Just the kind of effect fellows ofthat stamp will have on the mind of a boy. This is just where the dangercomes in. Don't forget your name, Pasha. Come, throw it all out of yourclever little head. There's a good boy."

  "Uncle darling, he'll never do it again. Let him stay where he is."

  "You're a foolish boy. Whether he'll do it again or no, his verypresence in this town would be a source of danger. Whoever sets his eyeson him will say to himself: 'Here is the man who once talked of the waypeople live under a constitution.' So you see he'll be a reminder ofunlawful ideas. We have no use for fellows of this sort. They are likeliving poison. Do you see the point? Let your teacher thank his starsthe case was not put in the hands of the gendarmes entirely, or hewould be sent to a colder place."

  All this the governor said in the playful manner of one conversing witha child and, by way of clinching the matter, he explained that he hadnothing to do with the case and that it was under the jurisdiction ofthe "curator of educational district."

  Pavel was in despair and his being treated as a boy threw him into arage, but he held himself in check for Pievakin's sake.

  "Oh, the curator will do anything you ask of him, uncle," he said in atone of entreaty and resentment at once.

  "You don't want your uncle to write letters begging for a fellow who wasfoolish enough to get mixed up in such an affair as that, do you? I usedto think you really cared for your uncle."

  Pavel contracted his forehead and put out his chin sullenly.