Knight Without Armour

A few minutes later, thus escorted, they were hastening through the dark streets. Scattered firing still echoed over the town, but all was fairly quiet along the road to the railway. Dawn was breaking as they passed through the waiting-hall; the station was crowded with soldiers, many asleep on the platforms against their packs. The line, A.J. heard, had just been repaired after the recent flood-damage. A train of teplushkas, already full, lay at one of the platforms, and on to it a first-class coach, in reasonably good condition, was being shunted. As soon as this operation was complete, A.J. and Daly were put into one of the compartments, with two soldiers mounting guard outside. The inevitable happened after that; the two fugitive-prisoners, weary and limp after the prolonged strain of the day and night, fell into almost instant sleep. When they awoke it was broad daylight; snow was falling outside; the train was moving slowly over an expanse of level, dazzling white; and in the compartment, quite alone with them, was Poushkoff. He smiled slightly and resumed the reading of a book.

A.J. smiled back, but did not speak. He felt a sort of bewildered gratitude towards the young officer, but he was not on that account disposed to be incautious. The youth’s steel-grey eyes, curiously attractive when he smiled, seemed both a warning and an encouragement. If there were to be conversation at all, Poushkoff, A.J. decided, should make the first move.

Several times during the next quarter of an hour Poushkoff looked at them as if expecting one or the other to speak, and at last, tired of the silence, he put down his book and asked if they were hungry.

They were, quite frantically, having eaten scarcely anything for twenty- four hours, despite the fact that their bundles, miraculously unconfiscated, were bulging with food. A.J. said ‘yes,’ and smiled; whereupon Poushkoff offered them hard, gritty biscuits and thin slices of rather sour cheese. They thanked him and ate with relish.

“We are due to reach Samara late this evening,” he said, after a pause.

“A slow journey,” A.J. commented.

“Yes, the line is shaky after the floods. When the train stops somewhere I may be able to get you some tea.”

“It is very kind of you.”

“Not at all—we are condemned to be fellow- travellers—is it not better to make things as comfortable as we can for one another?”

So they began to talk, cautiously at first, but less so after a while. There was something very likeable about Poushkoff; both A.J. and Daly fought against it, as for their lives, but finally and utterly succumbed. Its secret lay perhaps in contrast; the youth was at once strong and gentle, winsome and severe, shy and self-assured, boyish yet prematurely old. Like most officers in the new Red army, he was scarcely out of his teens; yet his mind had a clear, mature incisiveness that was apparent even in the most ordinary exchange of polite conversation. After about ten minutes of talk that carefully avoided anything of consequence, he remarked reflectively: “The curse of this country is that we are all born liars. We lie with such simple profundity that there’s nobody a man dare trust. You, for instance, don’t trust me—obviously not. And I, just as naturally, don’t trust you. Yet, once granting the initial untrustworthiness of both of us, we shall probably get on quite well together.”

“We learn by experience how necessary it is to be cautious,” said A.J.

“Oh, precisely. Don’t think I’m blaming you in the least.”

Then Daly, who had not so far spoken, interposed: “Still less are we blaming you, Captain Poushkoff. On the contrary, we owe you far more than we can ever repay.” A.J. nodded emphatically.

“Not at all,” Poushkoff courteously replied. “Yet even that, now you mention it, is a case in point—it could not have happened without hard lying.”

Daly smiled. “On our part, Captain?”

“Well, no—I was rather thinking of Tamirsky. He lies so marvellously—it is a pure art with him. And so faithfully, too—his lies are almost more steadfast than the truth. You certainly owe your life to him, Madame.”

“And why not also to you, Captain, who told him what lie to tell?”

“Oh no, no—you must not look at it in that way. My own little lie was only a very poor and unsuccessful one compared with Tamirsky’s.”

“What was your lie, Captain?”

He answered, rather slowly, and with his eyes, implacable yet curiously tender, fixed upon her: “I said, Madame, that in my opinion the photograph bore only a slight resemblance to you. That was my lie. For the photograph, in fact, was of you beyond all question.”

She laughed. “Nevertheless, don’t suppose for one moment that I shall admit it.”